𝘐 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘐'𝘷𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘪𝘭𝘮 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 . . .

{shardsofstark} — independent, highly selective, mutuals only original character blog for Nadia Stark of the Marvel Cinematic Universe. Blog is mostly based around canon events but takes some aspects and runs ten miles in every direction on five different tracks. (i.e. very chaotic). Lover of AU's, angst, chaos and heavily runs off ✨vibes ✨. Blog will contain faceclaims some people consider to be toxic. May also contain triggers regarding: emotional abuse, self harm (emotional), mental health issues, death, loss and grief, abandonment, betrayal, violence and survivors guilt. Blog may also contain mentions of: alcoholism, smoking and may contain dark themes.

. . . 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘐 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨.

blog roll: @cag3dsong (multi) about: Jess, 28, she/her, gmt activity: low 001. carrd, 002. opens, 003. memes currently reading: tbd: open to suggestions currently watching: The Punisher: One Last Kill

Disclaimer: The events and relationships presented on this carrd represent the mun’s individual interpretation of Nadia’s narrative. It is understood that other muses may perceive these dynamics differently. The mun welcomes collaborative plotting to establish a shared canon that aligns authentically with both characters.

She  stood  in  the  open  doorway  of  the  dorm  room,  arms  crossed,  wearing  the  kind  of  neutral  expression  that  only  a  Stark  could  weaponise  into  both  affection  and  judgement  at  the  same  time.  Months  had  passed—  missions,  chaos,  and  the  family  tradition  of  pretending  that  sending  a  single  “u  alive?”  text  every  few  weeks  counted  as  meaningful  communication—  but  seeing  Nicolette  again  eased  something  in  her  chest  she’d  never  admit  existed.

“Knock,  knock,”  tone  flat  enough  to  pass  for  a  system  diagnostic.  “Figured  I  should  check  in  before  you  start  telling  people  I’ve  been  dead  for  six  months.”  The  faint  curve  at  the  corner  of  her  mouth  softened  the  jab,  just  enough  to  make  the  warmth  unmistakable.

There’s  a  beat  of  laughter,  an  unmistakable  fond  grin  tugging  at  the  corners  of  her  mouth  as  she  folds  herself  around  the  girl  in  a  quick,  practiced  hug.  “I  can’t  wait  to  get  the  tour—  sounds  like  you’re  actually  starting  to  call  this  place  home.” Her  arms  tighten  for  a  second,  the  closest  she’s  going  to  get  to  saying  I  missed  you  for  now.  She  pulls  back,  a  small  groan  escaping  at  the  mention  of  the  trip.

“The  journey  was  as  smooth  as  you  can  expect  from  Washington  in  the  middle  of  winter,”  she  drawls,  stepping  fully  out  of  the  driver’s  seat  after  having  been  only  half  out  when  Nicolette  bombarded  her. The  ’63  Mustang  Fastback  was  a  project  car  she  loved  to  pieces  —  and  also,  admittedly,  a  bit  of  a  deathtrap,  though  less  so  after  her  renovations.  It  had  not  appreciated  the  seven‑hour  haul.

The  warehouse  smells  like  gunpowder,  rainwater,  and  blood. 

Enough  to  mean  someone  has  made  a  mess  of  things  before  Nadia  even  got  there.  Typical.  Her  boots  crunch  over  broken  glass  as  she  steps  through  what  used  to  be  the  side  entrance,  one  hand  still  curled  around  the  grip  of  her  weapon,  the  other  flicking  two  fingers  toward  the  small  drone  hovering  near  her  shoulder. 

Its  light  dims  instantly,  obedient  and  silent,  as  the  scan  paints  the  room  in  muted  blue  across  the  inside  of  her  glasses.  Four  bodies.  Two  breathing.  One  barely.  And  one  man  standing  in  the  middle  of  it  all  like  the  violence  had  been  built  around  him.

 Frank  Castle.  Of  course. 

Nadia  exhales  through  her  nose,  slow  and  unimpressed,  though  her  pulse  kicks  once  at  the  sight  of  the  rifle  in  his  hands  and  the  blood  darkening  his  sleeve.  Not  all  his,  probably.  Maybe  some.  Hard  to  tell  with  him. 

“Castle,”  she  says,  voice  flat  as  she  steps  further  inside.  “I’d  say  this  is  a  surprise,  but  apparently  I  still  have  optimism  I  need  to  kill  off.” 

The  drone  shifts  slightly,  angling  toward  the  far  side  of  the  warehouse  where  crates  sit  stacked  beneath  a  torn  plastic  sheet.  Stark  Industries  markings  stare  back  at  her  from  the  stamped  metal  like  an  accusation. 

Her  jaw  tightens. 

“That,”  she  continues,  nodding  toward  the  crates,  “is  my  problem.” 

Then  her  gaze  cuts  back  to  him. 

“And  before  you  get  territorial  about  the  pile  of  unconscious  gunrunners,  I’m  not  here  for  your  hobby.  I’m  here  because  someone  is  moving  repurposed  Stark  tech  through  Hell’s  Kitchen,  and  I’d  rather  not  find  out  what  happens  when  one  of  your  charming  little  street  wars  gets  upgraded  with  repulsor  parts.”  A  beat.  Something  moves  near  the  back  office.  Barely  a  scrape.  Barely  anything  at  all.  Nadia’s  weapon  lifts  half  an  inch.  Her  eyes  stay  on  Frank.

 “Please  tell  me  you  left  one  conscious  enough  to  answer  questions.”

{  text  to:  Tony  Stark  }:  god  u  SUCK

{  text  to:  Tony  Stark  }:  you  are  a  PR  crisis  in  a  suit,  don't  come  for  me

{  text  to:  Tony  Stark  }:  who  says  it's  a  man?  👀

By modern standards— essentially a death trap.

Which, if you know Nadia, is very fitting for my muse. And by “drives,” I don’t mean it lives in a garage after being lovingly restored. I mean she drives this thing across the freaking country.

Forty-hour drive from Washington to Malibu? Bet. This car is her baby. The car that feels the most her.

She does also drive a modern SUV with all the tech, but that’s more of a work car. The only other car she owns is a 1996 Lotus Elise, but that mostly lives in a garage and only occasionally gets taken for a spin.

Also? You just KNOW Tony has an aneurysm the first time he sees her with the Mustang and truly that is so funny to me.

Palm

you give and give. you are a gentle heart, broken but still standing... always lending a hand for those who need it, expecting nothing in return. you deserve someone taking your hand and kissing your open palm, the hands which have selflessly helped so many others.

Tagged by: @intcthatgoodnight