Please anything at all Rust x reader would legit heal my soul.
I need Rust with someone who is smart and capable but sweet and loving. PLEASE LET THAT AFFECTION-STARVED MAN GET CUDDLES. 😭😭😭😭
You Know Where You Are
A/N: Rated T ig, fluff for Rust, you are good for him, this will probably be inserted into the long form fic!
₊˚ ✧.* ೃ ₊˚ ✧.* ೃ ₊˚ ✧.* ೃ ₊˚ ✧.* ೃ
You've slept on less comfortable surfaces than Rust's mattress, though it's thin and the floor is hard and the blanket is scratchy. But it doesn't matter. Nothing matters to you but Rust's softening outline each time a car's headlights breached the slats of the blinds over his shoulder. Nothing but the way his breathing is even, soft, never held or heavy. His eyelids, always half-lidded, now seem so because of this rare pocket of peace and not because he's burdened with some horrific scenery.
Speaking of his eyes, they flutter occasionally, like he's trying to stay awake, but all he does it look at you. Which is fair, because all you do is look at him. It's all you do, but what you want more than anything is to follow the carved marble of his face. Your eyes trail from a muscle in his jaw that twitches, to the tendon it connects to, and then way the tendon disappears into his clavicle. And you laugh at your desired softness for him, and your stark nakedness, and the corners of your mouth lift despite exhaustion.
"What is it?" He asks through a small smile of his own, because your joy is sometimes the only thing that can save him from drowning.
"It's just ironic...you don't much like being touched."
He thinks carefully before responding. "Not unprompted, no."
Your hand, from where it rests between you two, flexes involuntarily.
"May I?"
He doesn't respond, but nods his head. Now, he holds his breath. He doesn't think you'll hurt him, far from it, but that your feather light touch on his volatile skin would shatter it. If that happens, you'd only get injured in the blast.
You raise a hesitant hand, one delicate finger out, and start by tracing a thin line from his brow to his cheekbone. From the first moment you met Rust, you yeared to touch this sharpest part of him, wondering if it could cut. It doesn't, of course. He relaxes almost instantly, the lines on his face fall away and he looks nearly ten years younger. He closes his eyes. He sighs.
Your thumb travels from his brow bone to his hairline, where you brush away a stray copper curl that has fallen onto his forehead. The tickling of his long eyelashes on the soft skin of your forearm proves to be too much so you pull away. But he catches your hand- swiftly, but still gently. Slowly, he raises your wrist to his mouth and plants a sort of half kiss there, mostly allowing parted lips to linger over the thin skin. His warm breath spreads in stark contrast to the chill of the night and your skin raises in goosebumps.
You dare. Lay your palm against the hollow of his cheek and stroke under his eye. His hand travels up and down your arm.
"Is this alright?" Your voice is barely above a whisper. His reply is no reply at all, only gentle breathing. When you eventually move again to pull your hand away, he instead moves it to his chest, right over his heart.
He wants to be felt. He needs to be known. Someone needs to look at him and know he's alive, he's human, he's here.
Your elbow grazes his scars. With his other arm, he draws you closer, now touching you with more care than ever before, and like this, you both drift off into a dreamless sleep.
