x☠︎︎☠︎︎☠︎︎

𝚍𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚄 𝙽 𝙳 𝙴 𝚁 𝚂 𝚃 𝙰 𝙽 𝙳

𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚟 𝚒 𝚘 𝚕 𝚎 𝚗 𝚌 𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚔

𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚐 𝚎 𝚗 𝚝 𝚕 𝚎 ?

❝ but believe it or not,

there are things older in this world than

ᴄᴀᴘᴛᴀɪɴ ᴀ ᴍ ᴇ ʀ ɪ ᴄ ᴀ． you see,

they could kill a 𝑑 𝑟 𝑒 𝑎 𝑚 𝑒 𝑟．

but they could never 𝒌𝒊𝒍𝒍 the ᴅ ʀ ᴇ ᴀ ᴍ．

they could jail the 𝒓 𝒆 𝒗 𝒐 𝒍 𝒖 𝒕 𝒊 𝒐 𝒏 𝒂 𝒓 𝒚．

but they could never jail

the r e v o l u t i o n．❞

— ˢʰᵃʳᵒⁿ ᶜᵃʳᵗᵉʳ; ᶜᵃ [ᵛᵒˡ.¹⁰] #⁷

ᴍᴜʟᴛɪᴠᴇʀsᴇ • ɪɴᴅɪᴇ • ɴᴏᴠᴇʟʟᴀ • ᴍᴜʟᴛɪsʜɪᴘ • 21+ • 616 ʙᴀsᴇᴅ

𝐁𝐄𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐕𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐒 something entirely alien to Sharon, but when there was something she held close to the vest – this emotional unknown – her ability to gauge his reaction was decreased by well over half. The longer she waited, the more it felt like she was keeping something from him, and that was rarely ever her intention; even the times when she’s had to keep certain variables of a mission or set of directives as classified to him. Though this wasn’t the particulars of something handed down from Nick Fury that was sending them into some far flung place. This was the unpredictable chaos of the particulars of their lives, their hearts, their hopes. Those intimate details that often felt like a Herculean task to express, even more so trying to find the words to articulate those emotional intimacies. This much had been so painfully true for Sharon for the better part of ten months, and that wasn’t easy. For either of them. Steve doesn’t complain. When she felt too out of place in their bed, and would get up to plant herself in a fetal position on the floor, on his side of the bed, and when she woke in the morning to find him sleeping beside of her, on the floor, on his side of the bed — Steve Rogers didn’t complain. He didn’t complain about the time when she was so lost to a past horror, she forgot him and insisted he was someone else; at knife point. He took her in stride, all the ugliness that followed her from that specific place in hell. Steven Rogers didn’t complain. She wondered if she had the emotional right or agency to approach this with him – was it asking too much? Was it even fair? Though it would have been an exact lie if she said she didn’t have this want herself, and would be an even bigger lie to say Sharon hadn’t desperately wondered if he at least considered the same thing. Idly moving a piece of chicken through florets of broccoli, twisting up her courage enough to wrestle the words from her throat, “ – I’ve been meaning to bring up my appointment from last week.” The voice that spoke almost sounded foreign to her, a little higher pitched than what was normal for Sharon. “So it turns out that the intense cramping I had been having was the result of a very early miscarriage – but Dr. Mirza said everything is normal and I’m fine,” adding that last bit with indecent haste, because it was ostensibly true; she was entirely fine. “And I really am, on all levels –” that little coded way she referred to her lapses in stability in the last ten months. The flush of red in her cheeks that heralded the shame she felt having to reflect on that aspect of herself at all. Pushing rice around on the plate, her flimsy situational excuse to avoid seeing the look on his face, the imagined rejection or indignation she thought might be lingering at the corner of his stark blue gaze. “ – but it did get me to thinking,” tentatively she clears her throat, “. . . that we do have all this time right now, without the distraction of some threat or assignment or mission. All this time, to sort of situate ourselves, and who really knows when we’d have something like this again.” Somewhere right there at the end her voice wavers, almost cracks. The brittle piece of courage stinging her throat, muscling itself around the swollen feeling of guilt. “I just thought –” the words came soft, a bit ragged. She starts again. “I just thought, what if we tried? You know – add another member to the band?” The laugh at the end was breathless and almost a whisper, halfhearted in her attempt at humor, and still unable to draw her eyes away from her plate and to the man across from her; a wild flourish of fear searing through her, almost unrecognizable to her in the ways she’s experienced fear. “𝐼 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑦 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑑𝑜 𝑖𝑡, 𝑆𝑡𝑒𝑣𝑒.” But the words were so quiet, she wondered if she’d said them aloud at all.

— hey everyone !

i recently made some updates to my rules page. everything after the line about steve rogers blogs is new, so whenever you get a second if you can swing in there and give those a read — it would be greatly appreciated. additionally i’ve added two verses that i’ve been very keen on writing sharon in, but no one is under any pressure to write in them !

quick links :

rules of engagement

verses

thanks ! 💋

𝚅 𝙴 𝚁 𝚂 𝙴 𝚂 :

𝙴𝙰𝚁𝚃𝙷 - 𝟺𝟸 ; 𝙿𝙰𝙸𝙽𝚃 𝙸𝚃 𝙱𝙻𝙰𝙲𝙺 :

This verse was taken/inspired from Spider-Man: ATSV, wherein we have a reality where there was never a spider-man, but I’ve also expanded on this to encompass a more ‘villainous/desperate’ scenario. So Captain America was never found and taken off the ice, Peggy never made Shield, Tony never made the suit. It’s a world whose Age of Heroes either never arrived or was a blip in time long since forgotten. There are more vicious street vigilantes that are found in heroes like Frank Castle, Matt Murdock and The Moon Knight, while other would-be-heroes slated into more nefarious avenues and deeds. Sharon and Jasper Sitwell operate in a similar role/capacity as Wilson Fisk and James Wesley from Netflix’s Daredevil seasons specifically. Sharon Carter known only as Thirteen / The Cipher / The Spymaster.

This verse is designed for the virtuous characters to walk on the darker side of their paths or to even have villains reign down morality. It’s a bizarro-upside down verse. Also if you write any of the characters mentioned above, don’t be deterred, obviously if you’re interested in this verse, you’re not beholden to any outlines of your character, you’re encouraged to put your own unique mark on Earth 42, for what’s most entertaining and meaningful for you and your character.

𝙴𝙰𝚁𝚃𝙷 - 𝟽𝟷𝟽 ; 𝚂𝙻𝙴𝙴𝙿 𝙽𝙾𝚆 𝙸𝙽 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙵𝙸𝚁𝙴 :

This verse is a big one and is meant to exist as a setting that can bring a level of comic ‘Story Event’ excitement and danger, built in pockets to let your characters shine and take center stage in a perilous, all or nothing fight.

The story concept is that William Stryker, with the coordinated efforts of Sebastian Shaw’s Hellfire Club, Bolliver Trask’s wealth and influence, and the political power and protections of Doom and Latveria were able to dispatch the current American president’s administration and family. In point of fact something done in the dead of night in precisely 27 minutes — in the years to come it will be known as ‘The 27 Crash’. William Stryker seizes office and an all out attack on mutants, both on the ground and in legislation.

Steve Rogers and Tony Stark, prior to the fall, had worked long years and forged a cohesive hero community in the country, starting with their formation of the West Coast Avengers. After Stryker takes office and publicly executes one of the X-Men (who depends on how you want this verse to take shape). And for the first time, the hero community rises up and stands on business, ten toes out, for mutantkind. The world falls to war, Genosha burns with Erik and Wanda fending off Trask’s Sentinels and air and sea forces from Latveria, Wakanda makes an emergency treaty with Erik to assume Genosha as apart of the Wakandan Nation, thus Wakanda effectively declaring war against Latveria and America. The Avengers, X-Men, the remains of SHIELD hold a tenuous line through the middle of America, in a compound Stark and Richards built in the Rockies in Colorado, fending off Stryker’s forces from the East, ushering civilians over the mountains and toward the West.

Everything is at stake, the odds aren’t in anyone’s favor, and victories are hard won and slim.

𝐈𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐀 𝐂𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 in the Rockies while a bright, laughing moon hung high against an inky black night, leaving the snow to shine eerily white, almost an opalescent glisten. Sharon had grown to love these late hour target shoots. The hours where she wasn’t the captain’s grieving widow, an agent, a freedom fighter, a mother — she was, for a few short hours, Sharon Carter. Just Sharon. There was always a kind of star spangled guilt that stabbed out from the back of her heart when she was here, with @onlyathief , but it wasn’t anything Rogers shaped — and nothing but the specter of herself.

She leaned closer against him, positioned her leg between his and flush against the inside of his right, her arm laid out longways over his, fingers over fingers, right down to her index snaking over his to hug the trigger. When she turned her head to speak, the words were whisky warm and unfurling over his neck; “—𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒄𝒐𝒍𝒍𝒂𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖, 𝒄𝒂𝒈𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝑻𝒓𝒂𝒔𝒌’𝒔 𝒏𝒆𝒘 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅, 𝒊𝒏𝒋𝒆𝒄𝒕 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒑𝒐𝒊𝒔𝒐𝒏; 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒎𝒂𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒑𝒐𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒓𝒕.”

It was unclear whether she meant for the tip of her nose to brush just so against his neck. Something roiling under her skin that was vacillating between want and frenetic worry.

“—𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒏𝒆𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒌𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏, 𝒎𝒐𝒏 𝒂𝒎𝒊,” her mouth was against the ridge of his ear, “—𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒐𝒕 𝒂𝒎𝒊𝒅𝒔𝒕 𝒅𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏?”

𝚆𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝙱𝙾𝙳𝚈 𝙿𝙰𝚁𝚃 𝙰𝚁𝙴 𝚈𝙾𝚄 ?

𝙷 𝙰 𝙽 𝙳 𝚂:

Hands can do so much, they’re extremely versatile much like yourself. They can nourish, they can pray, they can comfort. But we both know that’s not what you use yours for is it? You know as well as I do how hands can maim, can strangle, can destroy. They are unthinking and unfeeling, and unlike the others they do not act off instinct but off of command. Every act you commit is purposeful, filled with an intent, sometimes to be cruel and sometimes to be kind. You know who is deserving of your hurt, who is deserving of your love. Always make sure you can tell them apart before you wrap those hands around them.

𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 : @nvrmiss

𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 : @c4ptainrogers , @etoilebleu , @onlyathief , @onlyarogue , @stickytm , @asgardianhammer , @agentsterling , @ogalactus , @usohno , @aston1sh1ng , @zimwy & you !

“Sitwell — status?” her voice cut through the open room like a scalpel, precise. Exacting. Eager.

“Murdock and Castle are headed northbound, toward Hell’s Kitchen,” the lower thrum of a man’s voice called back to the other.

Lightning flashed over New York’s skyline, rain smashed into glass windows that made up nearly every wall, floor to ceiling, on this floor. The place where The Cipher Premier, The Spymaster, the long hand clenched around the throat of the city; Thirteen. Not a name. Not a moniker.

Just a number.

13.

“Bring @zimwy .” Thirteen said to the room at large.

“Now?” a third voice enters the conversation. An edge to the woman’s voice, an edge that elicits an expression from Sitwell like he’s just smelled something foul — but after all; cowardice is a pungent perfume. “It’s just…if we wait—“

The Cipher doesn’t turn.

The words come from a body so still creates a disconnect so stark it projects an unsettling energy over the room, “ — if we wait? We’ve waited for months. We’ve waited while Castle and Murdock hold down twelve city blocks, that every vigilante rat in this CITY DECIDES TO RUN TO.” She turns, white hot in fury and indignation, beautiful and terrible all at once.

“I WANT THEIR HEADS AND I WANT THEM TONIGHT —“ the gun seemingly comes from nowhere, and with indecently cruel accuracy, without so much as looking at Maria Hill, the shot goes off and down the woman crumples silent and still to the ground. “NOW DOES ANYONE ELSE HAVE ANYTHING ELSE TO FUCKING SAY ON THE ISSUE?” If anything was more silent than the lifeless woman on the ground, was every other agent of Thirteen in the vast, dimly lit marble room.

The only thing to disturb the silence was another agent, standing with a figure much taller and looming, something that carried with it a promise of retribution, the extension of her wrath, her red star rhapsody, the fait accompli of her power in absolute — her hunter, her assassin.

The Winter Soldier.

A wildness flashed in her eyes, craven for the loyalty, the artistry of precision that was their death-craft — should they have uttered a desire for the moon, The Spymaster would cut it from the sky and slipped it softly under their heads, unbothered by the blood on their hands.

She’d smear it across heaven just to mock god.

“My best beloved,” she whispered, almost like a spell into the air between them. “Forgive me that ugliness,” her head gestures to the lump on the floor that was once one of her agents, “— and forgive me once more for asking of you more than I deserve,” there was a black, satin box in her long hands, equally longer fingers clutching it from above and below.

“I need you to show the Man Without Fear and The Punisher what true fear and punishment really is — that to spit in our eyes is to court death.” She stepped closer, close enough The Spy could feel the other agents tense and their minds linger on their weapons, but Thirteen was a very old flame of Death.

“Let me sweeten the request — with a gift. A gift for your hunt.” And with measured, even movements, slipped the satin box into both flesh and metal hands.