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[karmicagent-blog]

emmreth:

Gaze lowered, Emmreth watched Quade reach out and touch the location on the Globe she spoke of. There was just something about seeing him interact with it. There was finally someone in her life she felt she could truly share her interests with. 

She found so much fulfillment in sharing them with him, and it manifested itself in warmth permeating her chest. Far away lands were beginning to not look as appealing as they usually did when he was there. In Boston. Right next to her. An actual tangible dream.

She then watched as his finger drew an invisible line from the United Kingdom to Boston. It was an exciting thought — that she might one day actually be able to travel. Perhaps travel was more feasible than she thought. She sometimes forgot about the few people she had encountered from other countries, like the Bobrov brothers. Perhaps because even she found the sheer size of the world hard to grasp at times. “Maybe I will. That would be wonderful.” Her eyes finally lifted to look over at Quade once more, a brow softly raised. “But what about you? Would — would you go if you had the chance?”

It’s a question he should have anticipated, and yet it came to him with some surprise. Brown eyes flashed up to green ones, and in contemplation he stared for what was likely a moment too long before the uncomfortable crack of half a smile pulled back a corner of his lips and his head was bowed out of sight again. “Maybe- I don’t know.” It’s the best answer he can give her with such little known about him, regarding his occupation. How could he possibly consider leaving when he was so strongly tied to The Railroad? But she didn’t know that; it almost pained him, that fact. 

Where she felt warmth, he felt a strange breeze of coldness, the reminder that his world - the one he lived as soon as he left Diamond City - would keep him chained to the Commonwealth for what was bound to be many unforeseeable years. That he could, like so many other things, watch her go off to a better life would be a lonely but selfless decision; one that he would undoubtedly be regrettable.

Even if Quade’s suddenly dour composure were noticed, he’d abruptly dismiss it with another of those softer smiles after reminding himself of his company and this passion Emmreth generously shared with him. His realization would simply have to be logged with those many dreary realities, to be reconsidered if the need ever arose. After all, he deemed her an undeserved light in his perpetual darkness; it was paramount he showed her respect for that gift.

Quade found her gaze again, his face tilted with just a curve of the lips. “Imagine the kind of noodles they might have in other places.”

[karmicagent-blog]

@disguisd cont.

“Tom is also insane.”  One might say the same for Deacon. But where the   good Doctor finds him something of an annoyance,   Quade acknowledges charisma. It’s  - more or less   similar in regards to Tinker Tom. 

 And speaking of mysteries - The Lurk shifts a glance   toward the terminal, the faint spark of electricity still   present even as the darkness of a now inactive  screen begins to envelop it.  “Working late?”

[karmicagent-blog]

emmreth:

For a moment — just a moment — she was nearly swayed. Her heartbeat quickened beneath his warm and welcomed touch, while her soft hand held his in return. Yet, she also shook her head slowly after a moment.

“But I can risk your safety?” she questioned. Emmreth was finding that all he would have to do is say the word, and she would give him just about anything — anything but that. Quade meant too much to her to send him alone for her sake. For the sake of something she wanted. He was not the only one in the room who wanted to protect the other. She was so protective of him, and she would never forgive herself if something happened to him while he tried to retrieve it.

“Besides, I don’t know exactly what it looks like. I just know I’ll know it went I see it.” The artifact in question was a Medieval manuscript that had once been in the possession of a history professor before the war. It was the only one she had ever heard of in the Boston area. It was so rare a find and so precious an object that she could not let it go much longer without once more being in the care of someone who knew its value. And while she did not know what its cover looked like or what its title was, she was familiar enough with what Medieval books looked like.

A defeated sigh made his shoulders shrug and his lips flatten. His charm was simply no match for logic, he certainly couldn’t disagree with that. And even if he somehow had managed to convince her that sending him alone was the better, safer option- he couldn’t read. This item she was after would undoubtedly require literate knowledge, the likes of which he had little capability of identifying. Checkmate. 

With a hesitant smile, he finally nodded. The idea that she could be concerned for his well being was an odd one; though his fellow Agents often checked up on him, they were nearly always confident he would return from missions mostly unscathed. A task as simple as the recovery of a long-lost item among Gunner territory was little risk for him compared to the usual enemies - fully armed and armored Brotherhood soldiers. But this was not without its dangers, many with which were especially personal to him. 

“Just promise me you’ll stay out of sight if I ask. That area--” He paused. There was something about having this knowledge which seemed unnatural for even a traveler; she was getting a glimpse at the life he’d kept from her and, very soon, she would likely see in person. “--That- area- It’s occupied by Gunners.”

There’s no good sharks?

[karmicagent-blog]

synthmama:

War has a funny way of marking people. It bleeds in, staining them ; a mass of RED, something visceral, that weighs them down. She sees it in him. Even sees the pen marks by her own hand. But he will find no sympathy when he looks at her face; carved from marble, shaped into scripted neutrality. As Quinn peers down at the Hound THE SYNTH, she feels nothing. Tells herself to – to focus on the blanks, on the priorities. This is just another step on the path to better things. He is just another stone to walk across. Isn’t that right?

Her hands tighten, then release. Focus.

“You were instrumental in training our latest line of Coursers. Rooting out the weak ones, letting them learn your methods of evasion & tracking.” Quinn sits herself across from him, one leg sloped over the other; hands folded across her lap. An outsider may find her in conversation with an old friend – were it not for the synths that held her ‘friend’ down. They’re an odd juxtaposition to her usual preference for RESTRAINTS. An illusion of freedom, a pinprick of light in the darkness. The dangled bait before an angler fish’s jaws.

“I could say thanks are in order, but I’m sure neither of us are here to salt the wound.” Quinn’s suit is pristine; a cold offset to warm, dusky skin. She bleeds into the white walls and tile floors. Quade is a contrast to the design and order of the room; with rumpled and torn clothes, with a battered face and tired eyes. 

But my, did those eyes BURN. Burned a hole right into her, if they could. If they had the chance. Quinn sees the recklessness, the violence and rage. He wavers between being caught like a rabid animal, and seeing this as his one opportunity to try and balance the board. It would be a mistake. They aren’t even IN the Institute, here; instead, an undisclosed location; a convenient masquerade for when the Institute needs to play the BOGEYMAN that the Commonwealth so (needlessly) fears.

“But where are my manners? Would you like any water, Quade? Tea? Coffee?” A delay. A distraction from his thoughts. “At least, before we begin.”

If an ever-ringing chime is the sound of silence, then a screeching tune is the noise that for a moment drowns out the words of his enemy. An experiment, nothing more, meant to live as long as he could continue to thrive in his murderous rampage, results drawn to a close only when he could finally be subdued. That was their explanation, something he regarded as a ruse to distract from years of massacring their strongest numbers - they were merely trainees, he heard her say. It was sick, strangely reminiscent of memories he had yet to realize weren't actually his own.

The ex-Agent tilted his head and urged an expression of disinterest, but the clenching of his fists and the tension he built against the whining leather of his captors' gloved grip said otherwise.

They'd been allies, once. One might even have called them friends - family, perhaps, among The Railroad. But whatever empathy the man may have once held for a woman who lost her son, he no longer endured while the feeling had been replaced by the images of that family's bodies scattered like limp, bloodied dolls across the dusty floor of the headquarters, buried underneath overturned tables and burnt files. It was these images he saw when he looked across the sterile room at her; Quinn, in her pristine attire, accompanied by her overpowered goons. She was the perfect semblance of the nightmare The Institute had plagued the Commonwealth with.

Very slowly, his head straightens and his shoulders press back against the grip of the Coursers. With as much as he can force against them, he leans forward with those clenched fists nearly drawing blood, shaking. "I would sooner drink your blood," he utters, tone raising gradually in volume and ferocious intensity, "than accept your POISONED COURTESY."

His captors yank him back into his seat, but his body is stiff as his back meets the chair, and his eyes remain fixated on her. A man with nothing, he's certain whatever torments are to follow are nothing worse than his lingering existence. And given the chance - something he had been testing since the moment he had been dragged into this particular room - he would end hers.

Carry On.

[karmicagent-blog]

darlinglilithstarling:

     Those slender fingers, the ones so stained in the blood of another man when they had met, curl around Quade’s thumb against her palm, her small hand fitting neatly within his. She allowed her other hand to be taken into his, her pale eyes shifting slowly along his features, looking for some trace of something to hint at his thoughts, but finding nothing…his poker face was better than hers, even. 

    “I told you what I wanted,” Lilith says softly, her eyes lifting back to his when he speaks again. “To be your partner in this life. In all things.” Her own thumb traces along his, her lips pursing slightly. “What do I gain?” She almost laughs, a small breath of air between them. “I already have you, in a sense…so I don’t need to offer myself up for that. But I…would gain a more, well, satisfying companionship. As I said…we are alike, aren’t we? If you’ll tolerate my…needs, as I’ll tolerate your…duties,” she pauses, blinking slowly, watching him from beneath long lashes, “I don’t see why we couldn’t make a formidible pair…and beyond that, there’s the simple reality that I just–” The corner of those red-painted lips lifts ever so slightly, “–find you attractive.” 

     Pulling one of her hands free, she dares to lift it to the edge of The Hound’s jaw and run her fingertips along his face, her touch feather-light. “Lily is a nickname, by the way. It’s short for Lilith.” 

Lilith.  If only Quade was informed of ancient religious texts, this new fact may have been a salvation from the woman’s secret greed. But all he saw, staring down at her in the faint, flickering glow of the firelight behind him and cast so sharp on all her soft features, was another lonely soul. Where she could have picked up such an unhealthy habit which was bound to destroy her, he couldn’t know. But he could sympathize, easily, the unkind teachings of their wasted realm, and how survival shaped a mind - even if he didn’t like what she did, he understood what she was. 

     That dark-eyed stare strayed momentarily in consideration of her words and how it weighed against the morals he’d only years ago begun to construct. The Railroad...THE RAILROAD...always back to them, Desdemona,- what would they think of him? Did he even have an identity outside of his loyalty to their cause? Quade’s eyes squinted and his chest expanded with the slow intake of toxic, smoky air. The escape of one of her hands to relocate to his face with a barely felt touch, appeared to redraw his attention back to the present, stare snapped back to find her own. 

     After a slow sigh from flaring nostrils, the Agent tugged the hand still gripped by his own, pulling her abruptly into his chest. Then a pause, a subtle furrow of the brow as though the gesture was unexpected to him despite his own body performing it. A cautious motion followed, free hand slipped under the loose waves of her dark hair and wrapped firmly around the side of her soft neck. “Lilith,” he repeated, though spoken so softly she may not have heard it were they not within such close quarters. With the tilt of his head, he teased to seal the deal with lingering lips and a warm breath against her own. 

[karmicagent-blog]

[karmicagent-blog]

|| updates      Finally completed some much needed updates,       which included a purge for anyone I didn’t interact       with, or hadn’t received replies from in a long while.      If you would like to interact and I unfollowed you,       don’t be afraid to send me a holler! 

     Biggest updates:      - Now SELECTIVE          Due to having less free time, I’ll be focusing on          quality over quantity, and primarily following long-         thread writers from this blog only.       - MULTI-VERSE OC          Though remaining a Fallout 4 main verse, Quade           will be promoted as a multi-verse OC. 

      I also made a new icon, and fixed up both layouts        so they’re up-to-date as well. Looking forward to new        interactions and creating new verses! |

[karmicagent-blog]

no offense but male protagonists whose strength comes from empathy, compassion and humanity will always be more interesting than snarky assholes who punch everything and treat everyone around them like shit

[karmicagent-blog]

[karmicagent-blog]

karmicagent:

|| ooc       Apologies for the minimal activity.       Going back to work has been somewhat stressful,       but I’m slowly becoming adapted to the new store.       I intend to resume replies as early as tonight, and       continue gradually returning to activity as everything       balances back out.       I hope everyone is well, happy writing!      -- Okay, but forreal this time. |

[karmicagent-blog]

Aesthetics ; Werewolf

[karmicagent-blog]

|| ooc       Apologies for the minimal activity.       Going back to work has been somewhat stressful,       but I’m slowly becoming adapted to the new store.       I intend to resume replies as early as tonight, and       continue gradually returning to activity as everything       balances back out.       I hope everyone is well, happy writing! |

[karmicagent-blog]

Great men aren’t made great by politics. They aren’t made great by prudence or propriety. They are, every last one of them, made great by one thing and one thing only: the relentless pursuit of a better world. The great men don’t give up that pursuit. They don’t know how— and that’s what makes them invincible.

Miranda Barlow, Black Sails  (via onceuponamusing)

[karmicagent-blog]

|| munday       Munday vibes after my first day back to work       after a month of uh...recovery, which is still in       progress. Anyway, I survived. And yes, I wear       sunglasses over my glasses like a cool kid,      because I’m cheap as fuck. |

[karmicagent-blog]

emmreth:

It just did not make sense to her to let Quade pay for a room at the Dugout or something like that, when she had a perfectly good home she could offer him shelter in. She TRUSTED him so the offer was given easily. And though she did not like the idea of letting him sleep on the floor, she allowed it at his continued assurance that it was fine.

Her was home smelled nicer than the inn would have — the scent of books was in the air, the smell emanating from the books on the bookshelves that could be found on most of her walls. And where there was space on her walls, there were often pre-war advertisements and posters, most of which were Nuka-Cola or comic book related. Pre-war objects could be found scattered her home on various pieces of furniture and shelves. Most of them had been clean, and some of them had even been repainted or restored. Meanwhile, her bedroom was in up in a loft, where more books and pre-war relics could be found.

When she awoke that next morning, she got dressed and quietly descended from her loft. She froze when she found him shirtless, eyes widening slightly as blood rushed to her cheeks. She could not help but take in his shirtless form for a moment. God, he was so handsome. 

However, she soon looked away, eyes dropping to the ground as she began to feel creepy for staring and for feeling things she was not sure were requited. “Um, good morning, Quade. Would…would you like a Mirelurk egg omelette?”

Most of Quade’s youth consistently lacked privacy, from changing to often even the bathroom situations, you were lucky if there was a slab of plywood between yourself and the open barracks. Settling for the floor inside of a private abode was a privilege alone, but he was also unfazed by being discovered half dressed. What he did find peculiar, as he turned to face the sound of quiet but approaching footsteps, was the radiating hue of red in his host’s cheeks. 

Was that affection? He felt like one of those confused and naive Synths, new to the world and ignorant of most experiences minus what few their falsified memories offered them. If only he knew. Placing the towel back down on the sink beside him, he didn’t linger too long on the thought and most especially on staring at her in curious observation. 

“I would love one,” he answered. A warm meal, too? Even the inns and resurrected hotels didn’t offer such amenities He’d consider it a day in paradise if he wasn’t too concerned with it all coming undone - after all, Quade was the monster in disguise this time, invading the home of this pleasant woman he’d not too long ago met incidentally. Noodles; some things were simply meant to occur. 

Taking care not to move too close into her personal space, he stepped past her to grab his shirt where it had been neatly folded and for the most part, out of the way of walking space, along with his weapons - two switchblades, an extra in case the other broke, and a laser rifle - and his suit jacket. Pants and shoes had remained on all night. He left the jacket and weapons for now, settling to put the shirt back on as an act of respect, tugging it over his scarred skin, though his tattooed arms remained bare around the tank top. 

“Your place, by the way,” he added, his head raised while he surveyed her decorative room of books and refurbished antiques. “It’s beautiful.”

[karmicagent-blog]

lyoniiisms:

         “YOU’RE ACTUALLY insufferable-” She’d eye the garment, features twisting into a tight grimace. Such outfits would never find themselves in her wardrobe, they were useless, used only for AESTHETICS. His voice cut off her thoughts, steeled gaze shifting from the counter to meet his own. 

          “Is this some tactic to just me to sleep with you, or do you enjoy seeing me squirm over SIMPLE things like this?”

     A most unnatural look for his typically stoic face, shifted his  features into an expression of embarassment. That had to be   the purpose of such a garment, after all, but he hadn’t thought   Sarah would be so upfront about it - at his expense, in fact. 

     “That um- Well, I thought you might uh-” Nervously, he   licked his lips and tilted his head away. He certainly wouldn’t   be telling her how he’d obtained it. “See, it’s more like...” No   sensible words came to mind.

[karmicagent-blog]

      “In a hundred years, when I finally die, I only hope I go to Hell so I can kill you all over again, you piece of shit.” 

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