#blessdunrest

When that hand encloses on yours, you startle, but then it clamps you down, a signal, a warning not to jump from your seat. You refuse to turn around and see what Sylus's expression is—or what he's masking.

After a few moments, once you've settled back and made no further motion, the thumb over your hand begins to travel down the prominent bone of your wrist. Then the fingers: reorienting themselves so that they nestle in the seams of yours, ready to press down.

“Enjoying the performance?” Sylus asks. The lilt in his voice makes you question which subject he is talking about: the ballet or his hand. Either applies; they're both similar—except they diverge on the how.

You hum in response, because there's no other way to answer him, not with that hand that's already bearing down the spaces between your fingers.

You're still not looking at him.

He hums in return, and his fingers entwine with yours, clasping tightly.

On the stage the dancers congregate for the climax.

Your hand is turned over, palm up, exposed, and for a second Sylus's hand leaves you and then returns, middle finger tapping lightly at the base—then tracing your fate line slowly, a whisper of a caress. The sensation begets a murmur down your spine.

Then his index finger goes next: along your life line, drawing an attentive circle once it reaches the apex. It tickles, and you jerk, but Sylus immediately flattens his palm over yours, stopping you from snatching your hand back.

Then he starts over: this time, from the tips of your fingers, his own weightlessly sliding down until they stop at the center, where his thumb takes over, one firm press before tracing geometries on your now-sensitive palm.

You take a deep, heavy breath.

He does this the entire duration of the climactic scene. On your palm indecipherable shapes coalesce invisibly from the heat left by his thumb—and when the music crescendoes to its peak Sylus brings your hand to his face and mouths the remnants of sensations lingering on your palm. You can hear the wetness of his kiss and you lean back and shut your eyes.

The music bursts to a stop.

Applause thunders throughout the hall. You want to join in the adulation, but Sylus keeps a stubborn grip on your hand. When you finally direct your gaze to him and find that his is on yours, you realize that his attention has been on you all this time.

“What do you think?” he asks into your palm; you tamp down a shiver.

Biting your lip, you exhale through your nose. Sylus does not relinquish both his grip and his focus on you.

“Electrifying,” you answer. You don't specify which.

A smirk, cocky and satisfied, graces his lips. He finally lets go of your hand, and you clench it into a fist, willing your body to take back control.

“There's more of that tonight,” he says. “We are not done yet.”

He leans over and traces the outline of your lips with his ring finger. Then he gets up and offers his hand to you.

2. Go to your AO3 “Works” page, to the sidebar with all the filters, and click the drop-down arrow for “Additional Tags.” What are your top 3-5 most used tags? Do you think they accurately represent your writing habits?

Established relationship (fair)

Verbal humiliation (teehee)

Vaginal fingering (alrightalright)

Cunnilingus/fluff/choking/daddy kink are all tied for fourth (i aM whO i am oK)

Honestly this reads like a list of: author's kinks, thinly veiled. It's a fairly accurate representation of what I like I suppose haha-- the daddy kink is only present in one (1) of my LaDs fics and I honestly haven't written any since (that was more of a pre-2021 me). I will say I am honestly surprised blowjobs and face-fucking didn't make it up there author has oral fixations news at 10

23. What’s a trope, AU, or concept you’ve never written, but would like to?

Journey to the West, but space opera!!!!!!! That's more of an original work thing though (aka I will continue to fantasize but never write it). For LaDs specifically... male!mc... yuri!StarFish with tentacles. Actually wait, it's tentacles. I have never written a tentacle fic. WHO AM I!? HOW DID I WRITE WEREWOLF BEFORE TENTACLE..?!?

24. Are there any Easter eggs in the astronaut's wife and if so, what are they?

Uuuuu ty for asking about this fic!! The one Easter egg I can recall is:

On the counter, a small note lay waiting. “I saved a bit of warmth for you,” it said, in her delicate script.

He didn’t need to read it twice; he felt the meaning in the way she always left little sanctuaries for him: a cup made perfectly, a favorite song humming in the background, the quiet patience in her gestures. 

These weren’t grand declarations, but they were theirs and in them, the world fell away.

He stepped closer, careful not to disturb the bubble she existed in. She sensed him then, tilting her head with a smile that reached her eyes. He reached for her hand, tracing the familiar warmth of her fingers, and for a heartbeat, time slowed.

He poured himself a cup of tea she had already made, a ritual perfected over countless evenings. They settled together on the couch, shoulders brushing, knees touching, sharing a space that had become a kind of sanctuary. Outside, the hum of the city softened into a distant murmur, and inside, there was only the quiet, weightless peace between them.

Each glance, each brush of hands, each shared silence carried a depth that words could never reach. He thought of all the small ways they had given pieces of themselves to each other. The tiny sacrifices, simple joys, gestures unnoticed by the world but sacred to them.

In that moment, he knew that nothing beyond this room mattered.

Here, they had everything.

A flicker of worry stirred in him, a whisper of fear he didn’t voice. What if he couldn’t always be here for her? What if the demands of the world pulled him away, leaving her to face its weight alone? He pressed a hand to her back, a subtle, grounding gesture, and felt the tension ease in both of them. Sometimes, love wasn’t grand or spoken; it was being present, even when it was hard, even when the world begged him to be elsewhere.

He rose quietly and returned with a blanket, draping it over her shoulders with the care of someone handling a fragile treasure. She leaned into him, letting him wrap her in warmth, and he felt a swell of quiet pride, a soft triumph in the simple act of giving her comfort. There was no ceremony, no need for words, only the understanding that he would stay, that he would choose her, every day, through every small hardship, through every quiet evening.

They sank back into the couch, a shared rhythm of breath and heartbeats, a devotion expressed in glances and lingering touches. Time stretched and bent around them, each moment full, each second heavy with a love that was patient, steady, and unshakable. Zayne rested his head against her shoulder, letting the peace of her presence fill the spaces he didn’t know were empty. And in that quiet, sacred hour, he understood that this was the depth of love: not in grand gestures or declarations, but in choosing, always, to stay.

Zayne remained there, his forehead resting lightly against her temple, the warmth of her shoulder grounding him in a way nothing else could. Outside, the city murmured on, but inside, time seemed suspended, folding in on itself, as if the world had finally recognized that nothing outside these walls mattered more than this: them.

She shifted slightly, leaning back into him, and he felt her breath even out. It was a small, effortless motion, yet it carried the weight of everything they had shared — every unspoken promise, every quiet sacrifice, every gesture meant only for the other’s happiness. He could feel the rhythm of her heartbeat beneath his ear, a steady echo of his own, and he knew, without doubt, that they had built something fragile and unbreakable all at once.

The room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of the lamp, but it seemed to shimmer with the life between them. He let his fingers brush hers again, tracing the familiar contours of her hand, committing each line, each warmth, each small detail to memory. 

No words were necessary; there was nothing left to say. Every action, every touch, spoke volumes, a devotion deeper than anything he could name.

For a long while, they simply existed together, a quiet universe spinning in the space between them. He pressed a kiss to the crown of her head, a soft affirmation of the truth he carried in every fiber of himself: that he would stay, that he would always choose her, in the mundane and in the extraordinary, through every ordinary day and every quiet night.