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YURI GAGARIN X Reader = Fiction - SMUT Fulfilling my promise to publish this fiction, I wasn’t planning to complete this piece. However, due to high demand, Then it’s a must. This is my first completed fiction, I apologise in advance if my writing is not compressible since English is not my native language and this is also the first time I’ve written smut. !! Pay attention! This work consists of romantic and explicit themes, cease this page if you do not feel comfortable reading it. Once again it is fiction, do not perceive it literally !! Happy reading! Word count: 5k+ “They’re tightening the standards again,” Komarov prosed, taking another sip of his vodka, the glass catching the light in a way that made the statement feel less like news and more like something already accepted by everyone standing there, as if tightening standards had simply become another layer of the world they were all continuing to live inside without question. “Good thing I only had to go through it once!” Gagarin exclaimed, the corners of his mouth rising into a grin that arrived slightly faster than the thought behind it, as though humor had already decided it was necessary before the sentence had fully formed, and Komarov nodded in agreement, slow and almost tired in the way agreement sometimes becomes when repetition replaces surprise, while the air around them remained full of movement and glass and distant conversation that never quite stopped long enough to become silence. “It’s remarkable how quickly everything changed after the flight, no one expected it to happen so soon,” Komarov added, and the words hung for a moment in a way that felt heavier than the surrounding noise, as if time itself had briefly been referenced in a room that preferred not to look directly at it, before the soft scuff of shoes crossed the polished floor and cut through the sound in a faint, almost procedural interruption, Titov approaching and slipping easily into the circle as though he had always been part of that exact configuration of space and conversation, not arriving so much as continuing it. “Greetings, comrades!” Titov announced neatly, and a round of greetings followed, brief and overlapping and immediately dissolving back into the larger rhythm of discussion, as if recognition was only ever a pause rather than a shift, and the conversation resumed again without needing to decide where it had stopped. As the conversation continued, Gagarin couldn’t help stealing occasional glances in your direction, not sustained, not deliberate in the way intention would suggest, but fragmented and repeated, like attention itself was failing to remain fully obedient to where it had been placed, and yet enough that between words exchanged and glasses lifted and sentences half-finished, he kept returning to the same point in the room without fully admitting that he was doing it. He was mid-conversation when his gaze slipped to you for only a second, then returned like nothing had happened, and two sentences later it happened again, not identical, not exact, but close enough that it began to form a pattern that no one directly acknowledged but several people slowly became aware of anyway. “Are you even listening?” Komarov said with a grin that made the question less of a reprimand and more of an observation that had finally decided to speak aloud, “you always disappear mid-conversation,” and Gagarin laughed at something Komarov said but mid-laughter his eyes still flicked to you, breaking the continuity of the moment in a way that made it briefly visible that the laughter had been shared between two separate attentions. Komarov noticed immediately, “What was that?”and “Ничего,” came the answer too fast, too cleanly, as if speed itself could restore balance before anyone had time to examine what had just shifted, and yet even while answering Komarov properly, his eyes still drifted back to you halfway through the sentence, as if forgetting had become involuntary rather than chosen. Titov leaned in, “Nuh uh, continue, what was that look,” and he exhaled through his nose, attempting to brush it off, but when the conversation moved on again his gaze still found you anyway, returning without permission, and he tried to correct himself after that, forcing attention back into the circle, answering Komarov a little too quickly, a little too cleanly, as if precision could replace distraction, and for a moment it almost worked, almost held, almost created something stable enough to continue normally. He unconsciously searched for you, his gaze cutting away between sentences as if drawn by habit rather than intention, and “Yuri,” Titov said lightly, “you’re doing it again,” and a quiet laugh passed through the group, not unkind but observant, the kind of laughter that does not accuse but still notices, while he exhaled through his nose and straightened slightly as if resetting himself, overcorrecting now, keeping his eyes fixed forward longer than necessary, nodding at the wrong moment, missing half a joke before responding a beat too late, and the atmosphere shifted just enough for it to be noticeable without needing anyone to declare it. Before anything could settle back into normal rhythm, a staff member appeared at the edge of the group speaking briefly to one of the officials, the tone low but urgent enough to cut through conversation, and a second interruption followed almost immediately, someone calling for him to step in for a photograph, voices rising from across the hall, movement gathering near the reception area, while downstairs the sound of the villa rose again in waves music and announcements and the constant churn of celebration threading through everything without pause. He paused, for the first time, the decision was visible. Stay in the conversation, or disengage again, briefly. His eyes flicked once, just once, toward you again, like he was checking something he already knew the answer to, and Komarov spoke then, half amused, half observing, “Stay where I can see you,” lighter now, almost teasing, while Titov followed the glance and smirked faintly, “Or at least tell us what’s suddenly so interesting in the room,” and a few chuckles rippled through the group as someone added, amused, “Something’s clearly more interesting in the room than we are.” Yuri Gagarin stood slightly apart from the circle, the glass still in his hand though he wasn’t really drinking anymore, only holding it out of habit more than anything else, listening with half an ear as Komarov spoke about something he probably would have cared about more if his attention had stayed where it was supposed to stay, but it didn’t, not fully, not tonight. Not clearly at first, just a shift in the crowd, a movement between shoulders and light and someone stepping aside, and then there you were again like you had been there the entire time and he had only been forgetting to notice until the exact wrong moment when noticing became unavoidable. “Excuse me,” he said suddenly, and it didn’t match the flow of the conversation, not cleanly, not in a way that felt planned, cutting through Komarov’s sentence halfway so that even he paused slightly, unsure whether to continue or wait or let it pass, and “I’ll just- excuse me for a moment,” Yuri added, already moving before the words fully settled, already stepping back as if the decision had happened slightly before language caught up to it, while brief polite acknowledgments followed behind him and quickly dissolved as he turned away from the group entirely. The air in the corridor was cooler, quieter, but not peaceful, not really, because the sound of the villa still followed in waves through walls and open space, and he could still feel the weight of the room he had just left pressing at his back like it expected him to return without question. He walked a few steps before stopping, not because he needed to, but because movement itself seemed to slow down on its own without instruction, and he looked ahead first before looking anywhere else, as if confirming something already known rather than discovering anything new. And then he saw you again, properly this time, not through gaps or broken sightlines, but fully present in the corner, where the noise behind him suddenly felt less important than the space in front of him, and the decision to speak did not arrive immediately because for a moment nothing needed to be said at all. Room 412 was not a room that belonged to anyone in particular, or at least it did not announce itself as belonging to anything at all, only existing as part of the villa’s upper floor structure with a number on the door that suggested order, classification, sequence, though inside it felt less like a numbered space and more like a pause that had been built into the building on purpose without anyone admitting it. The door closed behind them with a soft finality that did not sound final at all, only temporarily decisive, as if even the sound itself understood it might need to be reversed later if circumstances required it, and the silence that followed was not immediate peace but a delayed arrival of quiet, carrying still the echo of downstairs music that now felt distant enough to be almost imagined rather than heard. Yuri Gagarin remained near the entrance for a moment longer than necessary, not fully stepping away from the door at first, as if the act of closing it had not yet been mentally confirmed, his hand lowering slowly from the handle only after a pause that extended just slightly beyond comfort, just slightly beyond habit, and when he finally did move further inside it was without urgency, without clear direction, only a gradual acceptance that the room was now the present environment whether he had chosen it fully or not. “Room 412,” someone might have written later in a report that no one would officially circulate, “was quiet at the time of entry,” though that would not fully capture the quality of the quiet, because it was not absence of sound but compression of it, sound reduced and stretched and folded into itself through curtains half-drawn and walls too thick to allow clarity, leaving only fragments of celebration from below that no longer formed anything coherent, remaining closer to the door than to the center of the room, like proximity to exit still mattered even after entering. There was a chair, or something that qualified as one in a general sense of furniture arrangement, placed slightly off-center near a small table that held nothing of importance, and the light from the window fell unevenly across it, creating angles that made the room feel larger and smaller at the same time depending on where one chose to stand, though neither of them seemed to choose anything quickly. The air inside was different, not warmer or colder in any meaningful sense, but contained, as if the villa upstairs had decided to stop expanding its noise and instead begin compressing its attention into fewer points, and in that compression everything became more noticeable: the shift of fabric, the sound of breath, the small pauses between movements that downstairs would have been swallowed immediately. He finally stepped away from the door. Not toward you yet, not away from anything either, only into the room itself, as if establishing that he was now fully present within it was something that required confirmation through movement rather than declaration. His gaze moved briefly across the space before returning to you, and this time it did not immediately leave again, not as quickly as before, not as defensively, and that change, small as it was, altered the room’s internal balance in a way that was not visible but was absolutely present. Downstairs, faintly, a burst of laughter rose through the structure of the villa and faded again almost immediately, like a signal that had lost its receiver, and he glanced toward it out of instinct before stopping himself halfway through the motion, as if remembering too late that there was nothing to respond to from here. The way Yuri Gagarin runs his hand through his hair as they look at each other, then tucking his stray hair behind his ear like it’s an instinct, he can not hold it anymore as he is visibly red. You place a hand on his chest brushing the medals beneath your palm. He closes his eyes for a second, thinking whether he should take a step back or proceed with the risk, his eyes dropping to your lips and then backing up immediately, with effort. He takes your hand off his chest and immediately puts it onto his lips, giving them kisses. Could barely handle his feelings and he impulsively pulls you into a kiss, feeling his lips on yours and the way his palm squishes your face then pressing his forehead. Slowly breaking the kiss then gently tugging at his collar, out of breath you proceed to ask him a simple question “Did you want to stop?” He hurriedly says “Why not do the opposite?” He kisses you back as he guides you to bed, his hands tracing your curves as they nibble on your lower lip, his hands teasing every corner as you moan to the kiss. Breaking the kiss for once more, he cannot help as the corners of his mouth turn up, and you are barely able to resist that stupid face, “stop making that face. I cannot tell if you’re going to-” you yelped - feeling your cheeks burning “If you want me, you could have just said so. Поехали. My little star.” Yuri Gagarin assured, keeping his eyes on you then exhaling through his nose. He gently gathered the fabric of your dress in his hand, drawing the hem upward until it rested against your thighs, “May I? Promise that you will not make a sound?” he ventures to ask - you only nod in response then he excused himself to wash his hands before returning, then drew himself nearer and sat beside you. As he took your undergarment off then laying a hand gently upon your clitoris, a quiet sound of pleasure slipped out of you. The room had fallen into that peculiar kind of stillness which seems to belong to older objects,where even the air appears to hesitate before moving, and he stood near you in that quiet uncertainty, not quite speaking at once, as though the act of forming words required a kind of courage he was still gathering in silence. When he did move his hand upon your clitoris, still circling it, it was not sudden, nor was it bold in any unguarded sense, but rather slow and measured,”mmm-!” You quivered as though every inch he measured and his hand rose in that same careful manner, pausing briefly in the air between thought and action before it finally, almost gently, found yours. It was not at first any firm or possessive taking of you, nor anything that might have suggested certainty of claim, but rather something lighter, almost hesitant in its manner, as though he were feeling his way along the edge of an unspoken boundary neither of you had yet found words for, and yet neither of you drew away, so that what began in uncertainty slowly gathered substance until it became something quietly undeniable. He was no longer the uncertain man of moments before, but rather one who observed with a careful, almost scientific attentiveness, noting the subtle quickening of your breath and the faint widening of your gaze as though such signs spoke more plainly than speech itself, and with a measured movement to your clitoris with his thumb he tested that response again, holding your thigh, opening it wider, discovering in your reactions so immediately that they seemed to confirm his influence in a manner he had not previously understood. There came upon him a quiet change, not of manners but of awareness, for in witnessing the effect he had upon you, he found a new and wordless confidence settling within him, as though some private uncertainty had been replaced by a certainty that required no declaration at all. He drew nearer then, though still with a lingering respect for the space between you, as though he were mindful of how easily such distances, once crossed, could not be meaningfully restored, and the silence that followed was not empty at all but rather full in that restrained, almost unbearable way in which unspoken things tend to gather. At last he looked at you properly, as though all previous glances had been only rehearsals for this moment, and when he spoke, his voice carried that softened uncertainty which belongs to those who have already decided something within themselves but are still afraid of what the admission might do once it is spoken aloud, and he whispered, barely heard, “If I were to go on, would you have me stop?” You did not answer immediately, and when you finally did speak, it was with a simplicity that felt heavier than hesitation, “No.”. You did not step away, nor did you speak again, but instead your hand found his sleeve and held it there, quietly anchoring him as though to assure him that what had begun to unfold was not something imagined or easily undone, and he leaned in then, slowly, deliberately, giving you every possible chance to retreat if you had wished it so, yet you did not, and so the remaining distance between you dissolved not in haste but in the careful, inevitable manner of something long restrained finally allowed to be acknowledged - moved by a surge of audacity, you lock your hands on his shoulders and return the kisses, trying to dictate the pace. He relaxes his weight, allowing your exploration. When his lips found yours once more, the warmth between you seemed to settle into a stillness so complete it might have belonged to some older, quieter world, and he spoke against your mouth in a voice that never quite broke away from the closeness he refused to relinquish, as though even words were reluctant to exist apart from you. “I look upon you,” he murmured softly, “and I find myself as one who has been entrusted with something more precious and more delicate than I had ever thought the world might contain; you are so gentle, my little star, so…” And in that closeness, in that stillness where even thought seemed to pause, there was nothing else in the room that held any importance at all. He resumed the rhythm, moving with pure attentiveness even something that started slowly already made you quiver more than ever. “It’s… too much,” you admitted in a broken whisper, though your breath betrayed the steadiness you tried to keep. “Only… do not rush me.” He faltered then, the thought trailing away into a slow, heavy breath, as though what he wished to say could not be easily carried by language alone, and after a moment he continued, quieter still,“If I were truly to give in, I fear I should not know how to be gentle, nor how to be slow, and it is only the thought that I might harm you through the recklessness of my own feeling that keeps me, for the present, still myself.” He unbuttoned his trousers, and the room was filled with the clink of a belt and the sound of a zip being undone; he was left in nothing but his undershorts and socks, and his eyes betrayed an impatience bordering on despair a prominent bulge was clearly visible beneath the fabric. Has he done this before? What made him certain of all your secret spots and signals? It was as if he were piloting an aeroplane. Yuri Gagarin paused for a moment to take stock of the outcome; reddened cheeks and ragged breathing. You were clearly in a chaotic state. Your hips squirmed at the interruption, and a moan escaped you when he pressed his fingers against your wet clitoris. It was delightful to see how he’d soaked through his undershorts; the last piece of fabric between you. Your eyes shut, filled with a sense of vulnerability and despair. Yuri Gagarin’s gaze envelops you as he tears the fabric from himself, removing the final barrier. Any sense of shame vanished the moment he revealed his member before you. He finds your clitoris between his fingers as he begins to circle it gently and meticulously. The sensation encourages you to cease kissing and express your pleasure with a sound, however, shortly thereafter, you become engrossed once more within a deep, soulful kiss, your lips parted slightly whilst Yuri Gagarin’s tongue explores the depths of your mouth. “Oh, Yuri Alexeye- dear-” How can a respected Soviet hero be so bloody sexy and so skilled at this? The hand grasping your skirt reaches for your thigh. “Do not address me thus. Yura. Truly, just Yura.’ Your head bobbed in acknowledgement, teeth clenched against your lip, hips clenched tighter until two of his fingers inadvertently slipped inside. “Ah… Yurochka!” You begin to buck on his fingers, crushing your hip towards his hand, shoving it down further until it rests against his knees and your juicy wetness stains his ceremonial attire. Realizing what you were about to do was thrilling. Currently, kneeling on the bed, with him standing right in front of you, you grasped the shaft of his penis with your hand several times, gently stroking it to ensure that it was thoroughly aroused, before leaning forth and enveloping his penis in your mouth. “Aaah да, good girl- keep going my little star-” Yuri Gagarin groaned overhead as you passed your tongue along the underside, sucking him. The two of you locked eyes, which would have made you smile except your mouth was full. He looked terrific as you sucked, bobbing your head back and forth across its entirety, his relaxation deepening the further you engulfed it. The tip pressed firmly against the back of your throat, nearly causing him to tremble. You began sucking him more intensely, making prolonged, leisurely movements. His fingertips suddenly seized your hair and held your face in place whilst you sucked him. Yet that slight anguish only made you yearn to discern what he truly tasted like. With steady hands, he stripped away what little clothing remained. Before thrusting into you, he places himself in his proper position. His penis glides between your tight folds, as if gently tugging at strings, drawing soft moans from you, directing you towards him. He strokes the red tip up and down from your entrance to your clitoris,”Keep- um Yurochka- like that- p- perfect” coating it with your moisture in an instant. Biting your lip, your eyes lock on his; no additional words are spoken. He delicately thrusts into you, spreading you wide, without causing the pain one might expect. The voice is sticking in your throat, your claws digging into his shoulders, your eyes fixed on his face. When he finally enters you, gently and delicately, his face contorts into an expression that looks like he is hiding the way he feels. His blue eyes are part-closed, his lashes quivering as he attempts to maintain eye contact with you, watching intently for any sign of hesitancy. The sight of your yielding seems to cause him great worry, as indicated by those brows knitted in a frown and pursed lips that betray the considerable effort he is making to maintain his composure, when he penetrates you so unexpectedly, “Aaaaaah, Don’t stop. Please-” your voice leaks out in a stifled cry. He parts your wet lips with delicacy. After all, human nature is such; it’s challenging to maintain composure whilst gazing at his member. Your imagination has already conjured this scene, yet reality surpasses it. It is certainly more exquisite than you had anticipated. The Soviet man whom no one could ever have imagined capable of such a thing, the one and only Yuri Gagarin, moves with poignant sweetness until he has penetrated very, very deeply. His penis remains lodged within you, his gaze lingering only on you when beads of sweat glisten on some damp part of your body; as his fingers trace your swollen clitoris, he watches attentively, trying to catch the signal you’re conveying to indicate that you’re ready. However, he is surprisingly shy. Yuri Gagarin’s lips are parted, releasing short moans; his brows are knit together, and his eyes are wide open, seeking to consume every inch of your body. As his penis thrusts further within you. “There’s still something more you haven’t told me, my little star… What was that…?” he murmurs in your ear, teasing it with his teeth and pressing you against his chest. With your sides braced, push upwards, nearly to the very end, and subsequently downwards, exhibiting how his penis retracts and re-enters. The frequency accelerates, your hips smoothly swaying back and forth, his head tilts backward, eyes closing and popping open, his mouth slightly parted, moan after moan pouring out. “Боже мой! Моя маленькая звезда!” Heaven, practically; your gaze remains fixed on the man riding you, watching him savour you, come what may. That respectable Soviet man’s hips pound against yours, with neither of you paying any heed to whether anyone might possibly hear the racket. His palms are wandering everywhere, tracing your soft skin with his fingertips, fondling every single inch of accessible skin. As you feel him moving faster and faster, grasping his shoulder, drawing closer to climax and on the verge of completion; the sound of his uneven breathing echoes off the walls; unable to hold back, he rests his hand on your breast, caressing it whilst attempting to withstand the sensation; you distinctly hear him let out ragged moans before his lips locate yours, and experience that warm flutter in your lower abdomen, notwithstanding the fact that there was no contraception present. Everything was a whirlwind, and you could feel his penis slowly sliding out from inside you, with him already lying alongside you on the bedding, seemingly as if the preceding moment had not yet concluded. He rests his fingers on your face, running the thumb of his other side over your lips, whilst whisperingly stating: “You are truly exquisite, my little star.” The colour rises to your cheeks; with your fingers, gently brush the stray strands of hair away from his forehead and dab the beads of sweat from his complexion. Yuri Gagarin breathing in, not profoundly, not theatrically, merely enough to regulate his breathing. Leaning slightly towards you, he rests in a posture that is somewhat relaxed whilst remaining formally composed. It is possible that his demeanour is not yet fully settled; he seems to be contemplating which persona to adopt at this very moment. Without conscious thought, his hand rises, pausing momentarily by your wrist before dropping again. His touch appears to demand permission; however, this request has not been properly made. “Don’t watch me in that way,” he states softly, albeit without any real reproach in this remark. He merely recognises this moment has rapidly become excessively intimate, and you do not promptly respond given you are presently situated in that peculiar space where it seems words might render this moment more tangible than he is prepared to accept. “Don’t move,” you whisper, almost absentmindedly. “It’s gone off the hinge.” His uniform is still slightly unbuttoned and rumpled from what came before. He remains still. It is the first tension to ease, because he does not stand still unless he wants to. Your fingers go to the first button of his shirt, careful, slower than necessary, and he watches you do it without interrupting, his gaze fixed somewhere between your face and your hands, like he is trying not to decide which one is more dangerous to focus on, and when you move to the second button, your voice comes out lower than before as you mutter, “They’ll notice if you go back like this,” and it sounds like a joke but it isn’t fully a joke. “They notice everything anyway,” he responded, and there was a barely perceptible, almost half-formed chuckle in his voice, but it didn’t quite come out; it simply faltered halfway and died away. And yet you carry on, pressing the fabric flat against his chest, smoothing it down, carefully straightening his collar again; your fingers brush his neck for a moment - not lingering on purpose, but not pulling away too quickly either - and it is here that the silence begins to change its tone once more. He raises his hand in a slow and measured way, not stopping you or interrupting, but simply moving closer to your face. There is a pause before he touches you, as if he is ensuring that this moment is still possible. Then, his fingers gently brush your cheek, not decisively or forcefully, but almost imperceptibly. He says quietly, “You’re trembling a little,” as if it were a fact he were stating, rather than something he were reacting to. You respond without hesitation, “You’re the one who should be concerned about that,” but your words come out softer than intended. This softness in your tone creates a change in the atmosphere, and he smiles slightly in response, his smile barely perceptible unless you’re attuned to it. His hand remains there for a moment longer than expected before he gently lets it return to its original position on his side. Then, in a manner that could be perceived as both rapid and gradual simultaneously, the occurrence takes place. It appears that you both stop at the same time, as if the room has suddenly stopped you mid-action. For a moment, neither of you moves, as if you are still in the midst of adjusting your clothing, fixing his collar, or resting your hand where it might not be appropriate if someone were to enter. He rises first, not abruptly or in a state of distress, but with an immediate sense of composure, as if he has rehearsed this gesture innumerable times without the need for any explanation. He turns slightly away from you, just enough to gather himself, without fully breaking the connection between you. You reach for his jacket instinctively, as if you are addressing a minor adjustment rather than a breach in intimacy, gently pulling it up onto his shoulders while he maintains its position. “Please stay here, my little star” he murmured, not to you exactly, more to the situation, and then softer, “do not move yet.” You help him into the ceremonial attire, making sure it is properly put on. You slide it into place, adjust the shoulders, and smooth the seams down. He does the buttons this time, one by one, at a slower pace than usual. He is not rushed, but is precise, and you find yourself watching his hands for a moment, before realizing that you have been doing it. He notices this, but says nothing about it. There is another knock, slightly closer this time. Someone outside says something, though it is difficult to make out due to the muffled sound of the door. It seems as though the voice may be from outside, though it is close enough to matter. He finishes the last button. You fix his collar again without thinking, and he lets you. He does not move toward the door. He also does not step away. He pauses for a moment, his gaze fixed on you as if the decision remains to be made, even though the circumstances around him suggest otherwise. Then, in a subdued manner, almost as if this is a continuation of the events that have unfolded since the corridor: “It would be better if you didn’t open it,” he suggests, though he doesn’t seem inclined to do so himself.. You straightened the collar of his uniform. He hadn’t yet regained his composure, but you took control of the situation. You had it under control, just like you always did in front of strangers. It was an ordinary gesture, but you did it right. Your fingers were smoothing the fabric where it had shifted, restoring his neat appearance before he went downstairs. But your hand lingered, having finished the adjustment, and remained there for no practical reason. Suddenly, the action ceased to seem practical and became something far more intimate, precisely because it looked so harmless. Yuri, who could have stepped back, could have made a joke of it, could have restored the distance that was supposed to exist between you, did none of these things. He remained motionless under your touch, as if those few seconds you spent fixing what was already fixed had become more important than either of you would have thought. Admit it. When you finally withdrew your hand, he straightened up, not pulling away from you, but as if sinking into himself. It seemed as though he was soaking up the moment, rather than trying to escape it. His gaze drifted towards the door, as if some instinct kept reminding him that another life existed beyond it. That life consisted of officials, speeches, photographs and expectations. Those expectations never ceased to await him. Then he turned back to you, and his hesitation seemed to surprise even himself. The silence that fell grew heavier with every passing second, because neither of you wanted to break it. This allowed the distant sounds of the villa to gradually fill the space. Music drifted faintly upwards through the lower floors. From time to time, bursts of laughter rang out, softened by the distance, sounding more like memories than sounds. Meanwhile, the pale light of the White Night lingered stubbornly on the horizon. It refused to yield to darkness and closure, stretching the evening into something that seemed less like night and more like a final chapter, unwilling to reach its last page. You realised you had been looking at him for a little longer than you had intended: not at the medals neatly pinned to his uniform, nor at the public image that belongs to newspapers, crowds and history books, but at him. Perhaps it was precisely because you had stopped noticing everything else for a moment that the words slipped out before you had a chance to think them through properly; they sounded so quietly that they seemed almost accidental, and yet there was more truth in them than in everything you had both said all evening. “Yurochka,” you said quietly, and the mere mention of his name immediately changed the situation, drawing his full attention to you, making the continuation of the conversation both impossible and inevitable, “I think I’ll miss you for the rest of my life.” In the moment those words hung in the air, you wanted to take them back, not because they weren’t true, but because they were too true, for they held a confession neither of you was yet ready to voice aloud, and for several long seconds, neither of you moved, as the words settled between you with the quiet ending of something that could never be taken back, and the sounds from below continued unabated: people were laughing, glasses clinked, the music played as before, while inside the room everything seemed to boil down to a single realisation: that this was not the beginning of something, not a promise, not a future patiently waiting behind some temporary obstacle, but that all of this, as a whole, was a brief, impossible moment suspended between two lives that were already moving in different directions. Yuri Gagarin lowered his gaze for a moment, not out of shame or embarrassment, but with the calmness characteristic of someone who had received a blow so gentle it bypassed all defences-and when he finally spoke, There was no trace of the reproach his words were meant to convey in his voice. “You shouldn’t say that,” he whispered, though the sorrow behind the words made them sound less like a warning and more like an admission of his inability to object. “But it’s the truth,” you replied at once. The answer came so quickly it seemed as if he had been waiting for it long before the conversation began, and the faint smile that appeared at the corners of his lips only intensified the pain of the moment, for it was not happiness, but simply the realisation - the expression of a man who understands exactly what is being said and wishes that this understanding did not cause so much pain. “You speak as if I’m leaving for good.” “Isn’t that so?” The question went unanswered, for an answer was not needed: you both knew, anyway, that it was true in every respect, and Yuri Gagarin glanced towards the door before he turned to you, Wearing a weariness that seemed older than weariness itself, the expression of a man who had belonged to everyone else for so long and had finally found something he wanted to keep to himself. And then there was a knock at the door. Not loud enough to be frightening, not strong enough to cause panic, and yet the sound immediately shattered the moment, freezing everyone in place, for a single knock was enough to remind you both that the outside world had not disappeared just because you had stopped paying attention to it, and for a moment, neither of you moved, no one spoke, as if complete silence could somehow postpone what had to happen, until finally you took a step forward, until courage failed you, until pragmatism returned, until one of you regained enough self-control to end the evening on a civil note. The kiss lasted merely the blink of an eye. Your lips touched his cheek so gently that, had it not been for the faint trace of lipstick left behind, one might have thought it was merely a figment of the imagination. And when you pulled away, neither of you spoke at first. Yuri Gagarin simply gazed at you in silence, and then a quiet, low, gentle chuckle escaped from deep within his chest. There was not the slightest hint of joy in it, it was the laugh of a man faced with something both beautiful and desperate. “I truly shouldn’t have done that,” he finally said. “I understand,” came the reply, almost a whisper. Immediately afterwards, a second knock sounded - this time more resolute: “Knock, knock.” Yuri Gagarin closed his eyes for a moment. In that brief movement, you saw him regain his composure. His private self vanished, and the public figure emerged. First, the tension left his shoulders; then his expression softened; and finally, that familiar calm returned. That composure everyone downstairs had been waiting for, and finally, he reached for the door and stepped out into the corridor. His farewell began not with dramatic gestures, but with a simple movement that spanned the distance, returning him to where he belonged, with quiet inevitability. Whilst he strode confidently forward, you remained behind, and only after enough time had passed to make it look natural did you finally follow him. From where you stood, you watched as he walked towards the stairs and took a folded handkerchief from his pocket. You watched him wipe away the traces with the restrained skill of a man accustomed to unconsciously touching his face to correct any imperfections before appearing in public. Yet, even from a distance, it was clear that he had not managed to erase every trace. You could not tell whether this was due to carelessness or design, and for some reason, the faint remnants of that trace caused you greater pain than when it had vanished completely. For those traces lingered for just a few more moments as he descended, without looking back, towards the music and laughter, and the officials waiting below. As they gradually faded from view, and finally only the empty staircase remained, you found yourself staring blankly at the spot where he had stood long after he had gone, and realised with a pang that the tragedy of this evening lay not in the fact that it had ended, but in the fact that it had never even been allowed to begin properly. “If I was able to touch you in public, I would never let you go.” You will never believe, even yourself, that you’ve had an intercouse with the respected man, the Soviet hero, the one and only Yuri Gagarin.
Using the James Webb Space Telescope (JWST) and the Atacama Large Millimeter/submillimeter Array (ALMA), astronomers may have uncovered new clues about a longstanding mystery in galaxy evolution: why so many massive galaxies in the early universe appear to have died far sooner than expected. Galaxies are often considered “alive” when they are actively forming stars and “dead” when star formation has largely ceased. In today’s universe, dead galaxies are common. But astronomers have been surprised to find large numbers of them in the early universe, when galaxies were expected to be rapidly growing and churning out stars. Using ALMA and JWST observations of a distant galaxy , researchers have detected a “galaxy-killing” wind — an enormous, high-speed outflow of gas — that is powerful enough to strip a galaxy of the raw material needed to make new stars. The discovery could help explain the puzzling population of massive “dead” galaxies found throughout the young cosmos, according to a statement from the Royal Astronomical Society. “Dense regions of the universe are like very active cities,” Rebecca Davies, lead author of the study from Swinburne University of Technology in Melbourne, said in the statement . “Galaxies collide and undergo frenzied bursts of star formation. But when the biggest stars burn out, they explode as supernovas, launching powerful winds that blast away the very gas galaxies need to keep forming stars.” Davies and colleagues observed a galaxy called CRISTAL-02 as it appeared just one billion years after the Big Bang, catching it in the midst of a rapid growth spurt. The observations revealed that CRISTAL-02 is forming stars at roughly twice the rate of similar galaxies from the same era. At the same time, JWST and ALMA detected a vast plume of cold gas extending far from the galaxy — a telltale sign that material is being blown out into intergalactic space, according to the statement. “The galaxy has a powerful wind that is ejecting material twice as fast as the galaxy forms stars,” Davies added. “If this rapid blowout continues, the galaxy could be dead in less than 50 million years, explaining the origin of the mysterious massive dead galaxies in the early universe.”
Maybe growing up is realizing that being a partner and being included are not the same thing. A partner isn’t just someone you call when things get hard. They’re someone you include before they do. Because being included should never feel like a reward. And maybe that’s why some experiences change us…not because of what happened, but because of what they revealed. These days, I’m learning not to force my place at tables that never had a seat for me.
Aliens might exist, but there are three reasons why they’re not visiting us Extraterrestrial civilisations may exist but are unlikely to visit Earth due to three main constraints: immense interstellar distances and relativistic time dilation, prohibitive energy and radiation hazards at near–light speed, and Earth’s chemically specific, potentially toxic biosphere. Despite numerous exoplanets and active SETI efforts, no evidence of alien visitation or communication has been detected…so far!
About the #space tag
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Open the blog of any post you like via its link, then use Zoomblr's post viewer to download the image in full resolution.
