I just saw your latest post I apologize it was prob me who wrote the same thing twice just worded differently, my tumblr is always glitching and sometimes it tells me my submissions didn’t submit when ig they did so I always rewrite them and resubmit so it was 100% prob me 🥲🥲 apologies!!
No worries anon! Wasn't an issue at all. Just if I get the same or similar requests I try to combine them into one prompt.
may I please request a ghoul x reader where the ghoul is always staring at the reader when the reader is not looking and the reader doesn’t notice until Lucy points it out :)
I've got two requests both asking for the same thing just in different words, so I'll only be responding to one of them. Sorry it took so long. I've had a lot going on in my life lately and it's been hard sitting myself down to write for more than a few minutes at a time.
Again, when it comes to requests I don't spend as much time proofreading so there may be some typos or mistakes. As always, comments are always appreciated.
WC: 2.4k
When You Aren't Looking
- Cooper Howard/The Ghoul x Gender Neutral Reader
Time had long since reclaimed the old Red Rocket station. Roof half collapsed inward, vines crawling through broken concrete and support beams, pumps standing as little more than skeletal frames, hoses stripped long ago, and advertisements faded and peeling away from the walls in brittle strips.
It wasn’t much, but places like this occasionally still held something worth taking. The Ghoul had already decided it wasn’t worth his effort.
Leaning one shoulder against a weathered telephone pole beside the road, arms folded across his chest, the Ghoul appears more interested in the empty stretch of highway than the two of you searching through the station. Whether he was actually keeping watch for danger or simply refusing to dig through two centuries of trash was anyone's guess.
Lucy keeps busy sifting through piles of overturned crates near the storefront, lifting warped lids and kicking aside broken bottles. Every once in a while she glances toward the road, something that is becoming more out of habit than concern. A muffled grunt makes her gaze snap to the left.
Somewhere along the line you have decided the dumpster is worth investigating. Only your legs are visible, boots kicking lazily as you stretch farther inside, hips balanced against the metal rim. For a second, Lucy pauses, watching as one of your boots gives an especially determined wiggle.
“...Finding anything?” Eventually Lucy calls out, unable to fight off a small smile. Vault-Tec never prepared her for the sight of someone voluntarily climbing into a dumpster.
A pause fills the space between you. “What?” Your muffled voice echoes uselessly from somewhere inside the metal frame.
“I said, are you finding anything?”
Silence stretches long enough for Lucy to understand you still couldn’t hear her. One hand briefly appears over the edge, waving dismissively before dropping from view again. A few seconds later something metallic clatters loudly from inside, followed by a few soft curses from you.
After a few seconds Lucy’s attention begins to drift, dragging back towards the road. The Ghoul hasn’t moved from the telephone pole. Still leaning with arms folded, one boot crossed lazily over the other. From a distance he looks every part the bored guard he’s been since arrival, eyes hidden beneath the brim of his hat.
Except... the Ghoul isn’t watching the road.
Lucy follows the line of his sight to the dumpster, finding your legs still comically sticking from the top, boots jiggling every few seconds as you shift deeper. There’s a few seconds of delay in understanding what she is looking at. Nothing about the Ghoul’s posture seems irritated, nothing about it sharp or assessing in the way he would usually size up a threat. He’s just... looking.
A quiet sort of stillness settles over the Ghoul, as though he’s forgotten about the cracked highway stretching out behind him altogether. Nothing in his expression gives anything away beneath the brim of his hat.
Inside the dumpster, the metallic scraping grows louder. After a few seconds your head pops back into view, dust and dirt clinging to your face and hair, grin triumphant as you clutch an item in one hand. Backing out, you nearly lose your footing before your boots hit the cracked pavement with a dull thud.
“Look what I-”
Before the words are finished, the Ghoul is already looking elsewhere. By the time you finish turning, there’s nothing left to catch. The Ghoul is already surveying the empty highway, leaving nothing to suggest he’d been watching you at all.
Oblivious to whatever had transpired, you hold your prize aloft, using the back of your sleeve to dust it off. “Still sealed,” you announce with pride, turning the faded Fancy Lads Snack Cakes over in your hands.
The Ghoul doesn’t so much as spare a glance. A noncommittal grunt is all the acknowledgement you receive. You shrug, entirely unbothered as you tuck the food into your pack with the quiet satisfaction of someone who considers the dive worthwhile regardless.
Meanwhile, Lucy finds her eyes drifting back toward the Ghoul. Since your emergence from the dumpster he hasn’t looked your way again. Hat tipped low, shoulders relaxed against the telephone pole, he appears every bit as disinterested as when you first arrived at the fuel station.
For a brief second, Lucy wonders if maybe she has imagined the whole thing. Maybe the Ghoul had only been making sure you hadn’t gotten stuck in the dumpster. It would certainly explain it... probably.
Shaking the thought aside, Lucy stoops to rummage through another crate while you disappear towards the remains of the garage in search of anything else worth salvaging. Within a few more minutes, the station had given up everything it was willing to offer.
“Let’s move,” the Ghoul drawls, already pushing himself away from the telephone pole and setting off down the road without waiting to see if either of you follow.
Walking resumed the way it always does. The Ghoul settles into an easy pace several yards ahead without slowing while you and Lucy trail behind. Every so often you drift towards the shoulder, unable to resist poking through the occasional heap of half-buried debris that catches your eye.
“So...” Lucy casts you a sideways glance, half a grin on her face. “Was it worth climbing into the dumpster?”
Grinning, you pat your bag. “Absolutely.”
“For snack cakes?”
“Fancy Lad Snack Cakes! Not just regular snack cakes, Lucy. They are fancy,” you exclaim as if it truly makes a difference.
Lucy only laughs, giving a small shake of her head as the conversation dissolves and your attention turns back to the miles stretching ahead. Ahead, the Ghoul never looks back... at least not while either of you happen to be looking.
By the time you reach the next settlement the sun is sitting low in the sky, casting soft shadows along the ground. It isn’t much to look at. A handful of weathered buildings and market stalls behind a patchwork fence of rusted steel and old highway signs, barely large enough to call a town.
“We’ll be here fifteen minutes,” the Ghoul mutters over his shoulder, already veering toward the main stall at the center of town. “Try not to get yourselves shot.”
Without waiting for an answer from either of you, the Ghoul walks away, nearly disappearing into the crowd. Lucy’s gaze follows for a few seconds before glancing over your way. You are already looking back at her with a grin from ear to ear.
“Fifteen minutes.” Both of you say in unison before erupting into a fit of giggles.
Another stall near the center has already stolen your attention, shelves overflowing with the sort of pre-war odds and ends that rarely served much purpose anymore. Rust coated lunch boxes, cracked coffee mugs, faded postcards, old board games missing half their pieces, and enough chipped ceramic figurines to stock a museum.
“I don’t think any of this stuff even works,” Lucy comments, but smiles despite herself as she stands beside you.
“Doesn’t have to,” you hum, already picking up a battered snow globe. Holding it toward the dying sunlight, you give it an experimental shake before setting it carefully back where you found it. “It’s just neat.”
Lucy can’t really argue with that. Idly, she browses the next table while you continue rummaging, occasionally lifting something with genuine curiosity before putting it back exactly where it had been. A few stalls down, the Ghoul leans against a weathered counter while the merchant gathers supplies from behind it. Ammunition, stimpaks, and a few packages of food land on the wooden surface as the merchant begins counting out the total.
At first, Lucy doesn’t pay them much attention, already picking through another table of odds and ends. It is mostly absentmindedly when her gaze lifts toward the other store. The Ghoul isn’t watching the merchant. Not even looking at the pile of supplies on the counter.
Instead, beneath the shadow cast by the brim of his hat, the Ghoul’s attention has drifted across the market. Toward you. Completely oblivious, you crouch beside another crate, rifling through its contents before laughing quietly to yourself at something only you seem to find amusing.
The Ghoul doesn’t smile. Doesn’t move. He simply watches. Not with the alertness Lucy has grown familiar with whenever danger might be nearby, nor the detached impatience he usually regards strangers with. Just... watches.
For several long moments, the Ghoul’s gaze lingers where you crouch, following the idle movements of your hands as you find a particularly interesting comic and begin to flip through brittle pages. Then, almost as if sensing something, you glance up from the pages. Toward the Ghoul.
The change is immediate. Before your eyes can settle on him, the Ghoul’s attention is already back on the merchant. Reaching into one pocket, he pulls out the correct amount of caps and slides them across the counter without needing to count. You don’t think twice, shrugging your shoulders as your attention lowers back to the comic in your hands.
Lucy, however, doesn’t move. For a few seconds she watches the Ghoul, waiting to see if he will look back again. He doesn’t, at least not while you are facing his direction. Only after you have wandered farther down the row of market stalls, stopping to inspect another table of forgotten trinkets, do his eyes find you once more.
There’s no mistaking it this time. The Ghoul is making sure you aren’t looking.
By the time you leave the settlement behind, the last of daylight has begun to bleed from the sky. Orange fading into violet over distant hills, leaving the wasteland quieter than it had been all afternoon. The road stretches on in comfortable silence, broken only by the rhythmic crunch of boots on cracked pavement. Before long, the Ghoul veers off the roadside toward an old maintenance building that offers just enough shelter from the wind.
“We’re stoppin’,” is the only announcement you receive.
Within a few minutes the main lobby of the building begins to take shape into a small camp. Lucy kneels beside a small fire, coaxing reluctant flames from dry kindling while you volunteer to clear the rest of the rooms.
A short distance from the fire, the Ghoul rests on the ground, back pressed to the wall as he methodically cleans his revolver. Every movement is practiced, almost automatic, his attention seemingly entirely fixed on the weapon across his lap. For a long moment Lucy watches him.
“I saw you today,” Lucy eventually begins, watching for any reaction. But the Ghoul’s hands keep the same steady pace. “At the Red Rocket... and again at the market.”
The Ghoul doesn’t so much as glance up. Frowning slightly, Lucy begins to wonder if he intends to ignore her altogether.
“You keep watching them whenever you think they aren’t looking.”
Another few seconds pass with only the quiet metallic click of a cylinder rotating beneath practiced fingers filling the silence. Until...
“You’re mistaken.” The Ghoul’s voice is flat enough to end the conversation before it has truly begun. But Lucy doesn’t believe him.
“I don’t think I am.”
The cloth stops moving. It lasts no longer than a heartbeat before the Ghoul resumes cleaning as though nothing happened. Lucy catches it anyway.
“...Why?” Eventually Lucy asks when a few more seconds of silence pass.
At last, the Ghoul’s eyes lift. There isn’t anger behind them, not even embarrassment. Just something tired, lasting only a scarce few moments before drifting back to the revolver.
“Mind your own business,” the Ghoul’s words are low and rough, carrying none of the teasing bite Lucy might expect. Not an invitation to keep asking, but a wall to close her off.
For a moment longer, Lucy keeps her gaze on the Ghoul before quietly nodding. “...Okay.”
After a few minutes the silence is broken once more, footsteps echoing softly across the cracked tile. You wander back into the room with arms full of scavenged supplies. With a satisfied sigh, you spread them across an old desk.
“Found a few cans that aren’t entirely rusted through,” you announce, holding up one for the others to inspect. “And... I think this lighter still has a bit of fluid in it.”
Lucy blinks, the conversation with the Ghoul still fresh in her mind. After a few seconds she calls your name. You glance over with a small tilt of your head.
“Did you know he’s been watching you?” Lucy asks, making a vague gesture in the Ghoul’s direction. Your eyes follow, before turning back on Lucy.
“...Me?”
“All day,” Lucy says with a quick nod.
Heat rushes to your cheeks, eyes instinctively flicking towards the Ghoul once more. Still exactly where he has been, the Ghoul rests with his revolver across one knee as he continues to wipe it down with practiced motions. Not once does he acknowledge either of you.
Looking back at Lucy you give a small, awkward laugh. “Uh yeah, I don’t think so.”
“I’m serious,” Lucy insists, but your attention is already back on the supplies you have spread out.
You steal one more look, just in case. Still nothing. Not even a sideways glance. The Ghoul continues diligently cleaning his weapon as if he is the only one in the room. Rubbing the back of your neck, you still feel strangely warm.
“Maybe you just caught him staring into space,” you try giving an alternative explanation, hoping to change topics soon. “Maybe you’re reading into things too much.”
The corner of your mouth tugs into an embarrassed smile. Lucy doesn’t look entirely convinced, but neither do you. But with the Ghoul paying no attention whatsoever, it makes it harder and harder to believe Lucy had seen what she claims. Conversation drifts away as quickly as it started.
You kneel beside your pack, quietly sorting the day’s haul into neat little piles. Food with food. Medical supplies altogether. Junk worth keeping in its own stack. Faded comic books carefully placed between folded pieces of cloth to keep them from falling apart.
Across the room, the Ghoul finishes cleaning his revolver, holstering it once more. One forearm rests lazily across a raised knee while the fire casts shifting bands of orange over the brim of his hat. For a long while he simply sits there. Silent. Watching.
Your brow furrows in concentration as you try fitting one stubborn box of ammunition into an already overstuffed pack, completely unaware of the hazel eyes resting on you. Lucy notices. But this time she doesn’t say a word, only lets a small smile creep across her face before returning her attention to the fire. This is something, Lucy decides, you simply need to catch for yourself.
this genuinely makes me so mad. some of you really don’t deserve fanfics. at all.
comment like this, besides the ai witch hunt, is one of the reasons why fanfic writers don’t want to post their fics anymore.
we write for free. whenever we can. whenever we have time. whenever we’re not too exhausted by life and responsibilities. we write for our own enjoyment. as a hobby. not a job. we update whenever we can. whenever we want. we do not owe anybody anything.
one of my favorite fics was updated after literal 13 years. but the point is that fanfic writers do not owe you anything. whether a fic was abandoned forever or updated after a decade or two is not something you as a stranger has a say in.
stop being entitled. stop treating fanfic writer as a content farm or a machine that produces contents for your enjoyment.
we’re not your employees. we’re not your slaves. we’re kind enough to share what we write for our own enjoyment with you for free. so either respect and appreciate us or be quiet.
After probably a solid month of working on it, I have finally finished my Cooper Howard blanket!!! It's absolutely massive as well! To think it started as just a silly idea in my head... The plushies and art are not by me will provide links to the sources(except the Deathclaw).
Things just transpired in my house hold that are equal parts offensive and hilarious… Here goes.
So my roommate, Dale, has a gf who does not live with us, but she’s here all the time. So Sunday when my gf was her we were on the couch and we kissed (scandalous, I know) and she saw it, and I’m pretty sure that’s the first time she’s seen us be affectionate, that’s neither here nor there.
So today she tells Dale she’s “uncomfortable” here and wants him to move out because she thinks me and my lady are going to hit on her or something, she doesn’t like living with lesbians, cause it’s not “normal”, so now I’m pissed. Then, Dale goes, “well you don’t live here, so it shouldn’t be a problem, just stop coming over”…things escalated and Dale is trying to break up with her, but she won’t leave our house….she locked herself in Dales room.
So, Dale barges in my room wearing a bathrobe and goes, “call every lesbian you know, we’re smoking this bitch out!” Then turns around and whips his robe like a cape…
And that’s the story of how there are 8 lesbians climbing through the window of Dales room…
Pairing: Travis Miles (FO4) x Female Original Fallout Character ("Quill")
Word Count: 4,423
Warnings: smut (18+), terrible awkward flirtation, masturbation (male and female), sexual fantasies, premature ejaculation, mild cum play, very mild angst.
Summary: Quill's grown rather attached to Diamond City Radio and its DJ, Travis Miles, ever since she was run out of her home Vault. Her admiration has moved her to start writing him fan letters, which he treasures and fixates on. When the two accidentally meet face-to-face, they can't stop thinking about one another.
Notes: Big thanks to @strawberrymilkcan for giving me a chance to take a longer look at Travis as a character! I love an awkward, pent-up little homebody man, and he really fits the profile.
"Socrates, open the window. It is just sweltering in here."
Quill was trying to cool herself with a makeshift fan she'd fashioned from the side of a Sugar Bombs box, but the small draft it generated left her sweating through her shirt.
"Right away, ma'am. These Boston summers are quite trying." the Mister Handy agreed, hovering quickly to crack open the mostly-boarded window to let in some of the breeze that rattled trash across the alley below. Immediately, she sighed with relief.
"Thank you." the former Vault-dweller reminded herself to say, though a moment or two too late. As she finished wiping down the dining table, she reached out to turn up the volume on the radio that sat on it, a boisterous, jazzy tune filling the house. Her hips moved with the beat as she discarded the rag she'd been using and fetched the broom. The place hadn't been properly sealed against the wind since long before she'd moved in, and every day felt like a constant battle against accumulating dust that seemed to come out of nowhere. Sweeping with only one full arm took much longer, but a clean home made her happy.
"Hope you all, ah, enjoyed that new jazz piece I found. I broke what I was originally gonna play." he said, sheepish-sounding as ever. The sound of it made her smile, and she let herself settle down into one of the dining chairs to listen to him speak.
"And, uhm now for a little segment I've been...doing lately." he went on after a slightly-too-long pause. "A very nice fan has been sending me some letters. Well, I guess it might be, uh, a bit much to presume she's a fan."
Ever since Quill had left her Vault, she'd been more than a bit enamored with the Diamond City Radio station and its disc jockey, Travis Miles. He was quiet, awkward, and seemed almost painfully shy, and she thought it was sweet. The music itself had proven to be a great source of both comfort and entertainment for her.
"Anyway," he went on, "I'm gonna read her latest one. If you guys don't want me to, I guess you can speak up."
She laughed.
"Dear Travis," he began. "I hope this most recent letter finds you well. I enjoyed Monday's show even more than usual. You are so right about Nat King Cole. He truly is an amazing talent, one of the best, and I get really excited any time you play something of his. I grew—oh, whoops, hold on. I dropped it."
There was a short break and the sound of some scrambling, some things knocking together. A thump.
"Ow. Heh, sorry folks." he said. "Where was I? Oh. I grew up in a Vault, and we had the same collection of one-hundred and forty-two records in the recreation room my whole life. Not to get too personal, but the first time I'd heard a new song since I was a child was when I stumbled upon your station. It was 'Orange Colored Sky', and there was something about it that was just so beautiful that I cried."
She could feel her face warm, crossing her arm under her and resting her chin in her palm.
"Thankfully, I can listen to it now without any tears...most of the time. It's still one of my most cherished memories, though, and I wanted to make sure I thanked you properly for it. Excited for new Silver Shroud. Until next time, Quinn."
She frowned, her brows knitting together in confusion. Who the hell was Quinn? Did he think her name was Quinn?
The man cleared his throat, audibly shifting in his chair.
"Well, Nat King Cole really is, um, the best. You know? Anyway, I hope you're listening out there, Quinn. I'm gonna dig 'Orange Colored Sky' out just for you, so keep, uh, listening. If you want, that is." Travis said. "In the meantime, Roy Brown did...well, he did two songs about Butcher Pete. Here's the second one."
She turned the volume back down as the next song started to play, a knot of tangled, excited snakes wriggling themselves into a ball in her stomach. Every time he read one of her letters, she got the same tingly thrill, and this time was no different...even if she found herself a touch annoyed that he’d read her name wrong.
"Bring me paper and a pen," she called to Socrates.
"Yes, ma'am," he replied, dropping the things in front of her almost instantaneously. The pen clattered across the tabletop, and she caught it easily.
"Be honest with me, Soc: do my L’s somehow look like N’s?" she fretted.
"Your penmanship is impeccable, ma'am. I can find no flaws with it," her robotic companion responded as he continued to hover beside her. "Perhaps Mister Travis just has bad eyes."
"Maybe. I guess we'll find out." she shrugged, giving the ballpoint a couple of shakes before putting the tip to the paper.
Dear Travis...
---
Travis' back was really starting to kill him. Day after day of sitting in this rickety chair, hunched over the microphone that sat at chin-level was starting to wear on him physically. He silently chastised himself about his posture as he straightened up, adjusting his jacket over his shoulders as his lips hovered over the faded old mic.
"Now let's, uhh...let's hear a really good song by Bob Crosby." he announced, fingers poised to hit the buttons to silence himself as the track began. As the horns began to blow, he rose to his feet and stretched his arms over his head. There was just barely enough room for him to do so. The tiny trailer he broadcast the show out of had no windows and was jammed half-full of the various equipment he needed, but it felt like more than enough to him.
After a deep breath of the stale air, he decided he'd pop outside and get his vitamin D dosage for the day while the small lineup he'd set played out. Shucking his outer layer, he draped the patched jacket over his chair before pushing the door open.
It was later in the day than he'd expected, past noon if the long shadows the few outbuildings around him cast were any indication. He needed to wind his clock, apparently. The thought immediately left his mind, however, when he caught sight of a Mister Handy unit floating down the final bit of the walkway that led from the ground up into his trailer. He turned his head and found another folded letter stuck beside the doorway.
"H-Hey!" he called, grabbing the thing up.
"Oh, Mister Travis! Splendid to meet you." the bot replied pleasantly, wheeling back around and heading straight for him. For a split second, he was nervous.
"Who are, uh...?" he fumbled, backing up until his back hit the door.
"Socrates at your service, sir." he greeted, miming a tip of a hat.
Travis rubbed at the back of his neck awkwardly, waving the letter.
"Who's...?" he began, but he didn't get a chance to get his full question out.
"Socrates, what is taking you so long? Let's go!"
The impatient-sounding words disappeared into the air as the young lady wound around the corner, shielding her face from the sun.
It took him a second longer than he'd like to admit to put two and two together, studying woman and robot together until he felt that bolt of realization strike him.
"Oh!" he said suddenly.
"Apologies for the delay, ma'am." Socrates said, moving to float beside her. "I was saying hello to Mister Travis. He came outside as I was leaving."
The young woman might have been his age or a few years younger, but it was difficult to tell with the way her warm chestnut hair partially obscured her face. What he could see was decorated in long, very old scars, one that ran from her hairline and just across the top of her brow bone, another that cut a wide arc from her sideburn down to her jaw. One hand rested on her hip, her opposite sleeve rolled up to the elbow to reveal that she was missing the lower portion of her other arm. There was apprehension in her face, but the shy sort that he could feel on his own.
"So, you're Quinn?" he asked to break the sudden silence, reducing the distance between them.
"Yes," she replied instantly, though she immediately corrected herself with a "Well, no. It's Quill, actually."
Travis could feel goosebumps of embarrassment immediately break out along his arms and legs.
"...huh?" he asked.
"You know, like the fancy pen." she elaborated, scribbling nonsense in the air to further demonstrate her point.
He opened the newest letter already in his grip, eyes skipping straight down to the bottom of the page where he found that the flouncy, girly signature that would typically be there had been replaced by a blocky, fluid script that read "QUILL" very clearly in caps.
"Oh." he said, numb with embarrassment. He felt like such an idiot. "Sorry."
"It's no big deal!" she said, waving her hand dismissively. Her own cheeks seemed quite a bit pinker than they had been only a moment before. "Who knows, maybe we were supposed to run into each other today so that I could tell you."
Travis could feel himself relax incrementally at her words, her efforts to soothe him. The horrifying knowledge that he'd been calling the one person to ever refer to themselves as a real enjoyer of his work by the wrong name was still smotheringly present, but he could breathe easier, at least.
"Hm. Maybe." he replied, grasping for words to keep the conversation going. He was in no rush to see her leave. "So...do you come here often? You know, Diamond City, I mean."
She smiled that small, private smile again at his quick correction. Her little expressions were cute, he thought.
"I try to get out of the house regularly. A little afraid I'll go crazy if I don't. Still, sometimes Socrates has to drag me out, anyway."
He nodded, a quiet chuckle rumbling in his chest.
"I get that. I see the sun so little that sometimes I worry about bursting into flames when I step outside." he joked, looking at his pallid hands and arms.
She giggled playfully at that, and the sound was musical.
"Well, obviously I'm glad you spend so much time at the microphone," she said, fiddling with her bag and not quite looking at him. "Burn risk aside."
The squirming, nervous feeling in his gut only grew at her compliment, and he tried his best to not fidget in place.
"That's really nice to hear." he said.
She shrugged, sweeping her hair away from her face. It was longer than he'd thought upon first inspection, he thought, his gaze tracing the wave of it as it fell down her back.
"I'm sure you get lots of compliments." she said.
"Nah. Most of the time when people are, uh, talking to me about the show, they're complaining." he responded, both joking and a little serious. Not everyone had negative things to say, but many people did have constructive criticism about the way he did things. Very few people had ever outright told him to quit or told him he sucked, most very well-intentioned, but his new friend's kind words warmed his chest in an unexpected way anyway.
"Oh, I'm sure that's not true!" she shot back, her tone more incredulous than he'd expected. "I know so many people who depend on the radio to keep their sanity."
He shrugged in mostly-begrudging agreement.
Another moment passed, the three creatures all looking at one another.
"By the way." she added suddenly, breaking the silence. "If you don't mind, I've got my eye out for a tape of my favorite song from back home. Maybe you'd like it. You wouldn't have to play it on the show if you didn't or anything, obviously. I just have been wondering what your opinion would be on it for a while now."
"Oh." Travis replied dumbly, his brows disappearing up into his floppy, dark bangs. "Sure. I'd like to hear it. That'd be, uh, cool."
Hearing that seemed to please her, her eyes bright and excited as she beamed.
"Great!" she said. "Hopefully we find one soon. I'm excited."
"Yeah, for sure," he said with his own timid smile. "Me too."
After a flash of eye contact that was probably a second longer than intended, Quill let out a sigh and looked toward her shiny, hovering companion.
"Well, I guess we'd better get going, Soc. It'll be dinnertime soon." she announced, kicking at the exposed dirt with the toe of her shoe.
"You two get home safe." Travis said, projecting as much confidence as possible and still not hearing a change in his voice.
He stuck his hand out for her to shake, his heart jumping into his throat when he realized he'd offered her his hand on the side where she didn't have one to reciprocate. Mumbling an apology, he switched sides and gave her a shake. Thankfully, Quill seemed to take it in stride, her grip strong as she smiled warmly at him. It made his heart race. The grip they maintained on one another's hands lingered just like their eye contact had, but only for a split second.
"Thanks for being cool about the letters, by the way." she said, throwing it in casually as she pulled away.
He shrugged, stalling while he struggled to think of something cool-seeming to say.
"It feels a little egotistical to say 'keep 'em coming', but, y'know...keep 'em coming, I guess." was what he settled on, and he wanted to kick himself for it.
"No worries on that." she responded, miraculously.
Neither of them managed to come up with anything else to keep the conversation going, so they exchanged hesitant goodbyes before Quill and Socrates headed off. Travis paused at his door, leaning against it as he watched them go until they disappeared out of view. It was only after he took a deep breath that he noticed he was trembling excitedly.
---
The two both left the interaction an equal mix of excited and utterly humiliated, each nervous they'd come across as too strange to be the sort of person you hang out with casually while still hopeful for the future. Back at home, Quill was lost in thought while she gave herself a bath with a rag and a bucket of water Socrates had warmed on the barely-working stove for her, each pass of the rough cloth over her skin removing more of the grime of the day's travels. Yet another thing she hated about Diamond City: it was filthy.
As she rinsed her hair, carefully leaning over the dry sink, her mind turned to Travis and their conversation. She passed the rag across her chest, and her nipples stood at attention.
Back in the city, Travis had set the station to play on its own for a longer stretch so he could get some rest, sprawled out across the rickety bed that sat up against the wall as he listened to Cole Porter lament the times. For the umpteenth time, he ran over what had happened in his mind, trying to determine just how much he'd ultimately embarrassed himself. Fretful, he worried that his strange behavior might have been too much, but he soothed himself by thinking about her reactions. If she'd found him repugnant in any way, she'd hidden it masterfully behind a dozen kind smiles and a warm laugh.
For the half-dozenth time, he turned his eyes to the letter laying on his chest.
Dear Travis,
Firstly, I want to say how much I enjoyed the most recent Silver Shroud, even if big cliffhangers really annoy me! I'm trying my best to become a more patient person, but it's difficult sometimes, you know? Waiting for good things is so hard most of the time. If there's anything living in the Commonwealth has taught me, though, it's how to deal with hard things.
If I'm honest, I'm not sure I'd have made it out here without the friends I've made and your show keeping my spirits up. I know you like to be a little hard on yourself for kicks sometimes, but I sincerely hope you never quit. You have so much potential, and your work means a lot to me. I know I'm not the only one, either. Keep your chin up!
Sincerely yours,
QUILL
P.S., Ella Fitzgerald outdoes Danny Kaye, hands-down. Sorry to have to disagree with you on that one!
Her name wasn't written quite as pretty as he was used to, but he still found himself captivated by each and every elegant swoop and curve on the page. He'd never had a fixation on another person's handwriting before, but, then again, he'd never received complimentary letters, either. A time for everything, he supposed.
Goosebumps decorated Quill's skin as she pulled on her well-worn sleep clothes, thin enough to breathe in the still-warm night air. After her nightly routine of double-checking the door to ensure it was locked, she settled herself into bed. The mattress smelled more than a bit like mildew, but it was one of the nicer ones she'd found in all her time exploring the world outside her Vault. It had been quite the sight to watch Socrates carry it all the way home. A smile spread across her face at the memory, but a frustrated huff followed right after.
Sleep was evading her.
She rolled over onto her side, staring at the little specks of moonlight that seeped through the boarded-up window and scattered themselves across the floor. With enough deep breaths and reassurances from her robotic companion, she'd managed to convince herself that the meeting with Travis had actually gone pretty well despite her nerves.
The relief she felt did nothing to soothe her nearly obsessive replaying of the events over and over again as she closed her eyes.
He was handsome. She'd always sort of expected that, she supposed, but him being as cute as he was had really thrown her for a loop on top of the surprise of meeting him face-to-face so unexpectedly. His tall, lean form was very clear in her imagination. She peeked an eye open and tuned her ears to see if she could hear Socrates moving around outside. He was prone to frequent security rounds, but by and large spent his nights in his power-saving mode near the front door. Though his movements made no sound on the floor, she couldn't hear the telltale sound of his exhaust fan.
Rolling onto her back again, she thought about those long, elegant fingers, how they'd felt gripping her own. Her teeth dug into her lower lip as she let her hand wander down her torso, ticking across the soft, faint hairs that ran from her navel to her mound. She took a slow, steadying breath in.
Travis, too, was fighting sleep. His mind refused to give his body any relief from thoughts about Quill, about her pretty face and the soft, feminine curves that filled her clothes so perfectly. Guilt tickled at the nape of his neck, raising goosebumps along his forearms and legs as he thought about the long, open way he'd stared at her as she walked away, tracing her hair as it danced in the breeze before moving down to lock onto her ass and hips.
He groaned in frustration as his cock started to throb. Since he'd settled in, he'd been fighting off an erection, but his inability to think about anything other than how the rest of her was probably even softer than her hand had been was only pulling his head further into the muck. There was a tension in his core that was slowly spreading to his back and neck, his limbs, and he flopped back and forth in discomfort, unable to settle.
Yawning, he pointed his toes toward the wall and arched his back, relieving none of the nagging stiffness. A few small holes had broken through the rustier spots in the roof, he noted as his eyes traced the spot. He'd have to get up on the roof and patch the thing, he thought with a frown. He was already none too keen on the height of the trailer itself, so the idea of going higher didn't exactly thrill him.
Thoughts of home maintenance were only able to occupy him for so long. Pondering how nice it would be to have Quill keep him company while he did the repair work rapidly devolved into wondering what sort of sounds she'd make if he grabbed her hips and pulled himself into her from behind, burying his face in her hair and grinding against her like he'd fantasized as she walked away. His fully-stiff erection nagged at him, trapped within the fitted thigh of his jeans.
He pulled his shabby little pillow over his face and sighed deeply into it.
Wriggling around in her sheets, Quill was ahead of the curve, but stalling out a bit. Her hand was buried between her thighs, tracing lazy circles around her bud, but she wasn't moving any closer to where she was trying to go. The motion felt good, but she was struggling to relax enough to fully enjoy herself. Exhaling bluntly, she ran her hand down her face, still thinking about Travis and his tall form, his long fingers. Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to imagine them in place of her own, touching her just the way she liked, petting her hair and rubbing at her slickened clit. She let a grunt slip, nearly a groan, and her whole face felt burning hot as she bit down on her lip to keep herself quiet. If Socrates found her like this, she'd die of embarrassment.
Travis lost his battle with temptation after a few more minutes of attempting to deny himself the release he so badly needed, running a hand over the jutting bulge in his trousers. He was burning from his core to the tip of his ears.
It felt dirty, perverted to pleasure himself while thinking explicitly about a real person—it always had to him, even when he'd had crushes before. But between the thoughtful, borderline romantic letters, her unique beauty, and having real physical contact with her, he could picture no one else as he fought with his belt buckle, whimpering when he tugged his cock free.
"Fuck." he whined quietly as he began to stroke himself. He moved lightly at first, but rapidly built up more and more pressure, leaving him throbbing and leaking into his own grip.
Quill, still threatening to chew a hole straight through her lower lip, was finally making progress towards her goal. Her hand took a break from strumming herself to tug and roll one of her straining nipples between her thumb and forefinger, which made her shudder. Her toes began to curl the tighter the knot in her gut became, her breathing labored. She wondered if he would feel heavy on top of her, pressing her down into the bed.
"Oh, Travis." she breathed.
The object of her fantasizing was blowing past her despite his early stalling. It wasn't terribly often that he allowed himself this sort of indulgence thanks to his guilt, so his stamina was nearly nonexistent. He lacked any ability to meter out the pleasure, to keep himself on the edge so he could enjoy himself longer. No, he was abusing himself harshly, fist working hard around his erection as his hips mirrored the rhythm he'd set.
His imagination was even less controlled than his hand, fully envisioning a naked Quill on top of him as his unoccupied hand gripped the edge of the metal bed frame for dear life. He wanted her there with him, to feel the heat coming off of her body as she rubbed her naked skin against his, to meld their lips together as she rode him. Envisioning the sway of her breasts as she did so was more than he could handle, and he shot his load all over his stomach and hand with a pitiful cry. The unexpected rush of pleasure made his whole body twitch and writhe, which was nearly enough to overwhelm the embarrassment at his sudden end.
Nearly.
As he went about cleaning himself up, Quill was balled up with tension, her knees toward the ceiling as she huffed and hissed. Her arm burned with the exertion, her eyes screwed completely shut as she pictured Travis burying his face in her throat while he touched her. For a split second, she could smell him again, that tang of cedar and old books that had ridden the breeze and tickled her nose as they'd shaken hands.
"Shit." she groaned as her orgasm broke over her, feet scrambling for purchase as her hand knotted in the sheets. Every hair on her body stood on end as she swallowed back more whimpers, arching her back high.
Suddenly she could hear the humming of an exhaust fan.
"Is everything alright, ma'am?" Socrates called from around the corner.
"Fine, Soc." she responded quickly, gripping the blanket to pull it up to her chin. "Go back to sleep."
"Yes, ma'am."
Both young people were trembling hard as they curled up in their respective beds, Quill's brow still decorated with beads of sweat as Travis tossed away the cloth he'd used to tidy his mess. They were red from the crown of their heads to the base of their necks, both still pricked with discomfort despite the relaxation that also washed over them. The spots beside them weren't any emptier than usual, but felt ice cold, regardless.
Travis held the newest letter to his chest, running his fingers over it as he let his eyes close. She did the same, fingers tapping as she listened quietly to the radio. Already, she had the itch to write more. The raven-haired young man was quick to fall into unconsciousness, his lids heavy and breathing slow. The former Vault-dweller mirrored his posture, curled up on her side and patting at the empty space absentmindedly.
As they drifted off, each wondered how long they'd be able to keep their thoughts and feelings to themselves.
"Goodnight, Travis." Quill whispered as sleep finally took her.
