#disequilibrate

[70yearsofwinter]

《 That moment when threatening @us4gent and @disequilibrate with being paired with Alexei for interviews to counter their asshole tendencies works, but not the way you planned it.

Congrats, Alexei, you get to do all of them with the antisocial gremlin of the moment. You're only allowed to challenge Walker to one fight per quarter. 》

[agtwalker]

@disequilibrate asked: [ MOVIE ]: while watching a movie together (and possibly being so distracted by the film that they don't realize what they're doing) the sender settles back into the receiver's lap.

The   movie   flickered   in   dim   golden   light   across   the   screen,   something   vintage   and   noir   that   Ava   had   picked—though   John   couldn’t   remember   the   name   even   if   he   tried.   He’d   meant   to   pay   attention.   Honestly.   But   somewhere   between   a   sultry   monologue   and   a   cigarette-lit   hallway,   Ava   shifted   beside   him   and   eased   back   with   a   sigh—settling   squarely   into   his   lap.   It   was   fluid,   like   gravity   had   made   the   decision   for   her,   and   not   for   one   second   did   she   look   at   him   or   ask.   She   just…   moved.   Natural.   Like   it’d   happened   before.

John   froze   for   a   beat.   His   breath   caught   somewhere   in   his   throat,   his   fingers   twitching   slightly   against   the   cushion.   He   wasn’t   sure   if   he   was   supposed   to   say   something,   do   something.   But   she   didn’t   flinch   or   apologize,   didn’t   look   embarrassed.   She   just   leaned   her   weight   into   him   like   she   belonged   there.   His   arms,   instinctively,   came   to   rest   around   her   waist—not   tight,   just…   there.   Steady.   And   hell   if   it   didn’t   feel   right.   He   let   his   chin   dip   slightly   toward   her   shoulder,   catching   the   faint   scent   of   something   sharp   and   electric—Ava.   God,   what   was   this   movie   even   about   again?

Minutes   passed,   the   film   forgotten   entirely   now.   John’s   thumb   brushed   her   side   in   a   slow,   idle   motion,   a   habit   formed   in   silence.   The   comfort   between   them   was   loud   in   its   own   way.   He   could   feel   the   tension   he'd   carried   all   day   unspooling   beneath   her   presence.   He   didn’t   speak—not   yet—but   a   quiet   smirk   tugged   at   his   lips.   If   she   noticed   where   she’d   ended   up,   she   didn’t   seem   to   mind.   And   for   once,   neither   did   he.

[pamivie]

do you have any idea what it feels like to be in pain all day?

(   .  .  .  ) oh god , cry me a river . to live is to hurt , what happens when I am life and death . ❝ i'm not a shrink , lady . ❞ wrong kind of doctor . strapped to a table , shocked to life , injected over and over and over . . . ( now we're talking ) . ❝ look , I'm not really in the mood to clean up a mess , so get moving . ❞ this could get ugly.

sentence starters ( accepting ) . @disequilibrate .

[antipersonal]

✱ @disequilibrate asked:

» "when was the last time you slept?"

❱ [ send "when was the last time you slept?" for my muse's reaction ] ❰

John froze with the fridge door still open, caught like a kid sneaking snacks. He didn't turn right away, and his face flushed with embarrassment at how badly he'd jumped.

"Jesus Christ, don't sneak up on people," he mumbled, reaching for a bottle of water that definitely wasn't his and shutting the door with a soft thud. "We're sharing a building with a bunch of assassins, man." The crack of the seal was the only sound for a while.

"Define slept," he said finally, turning to lean against the counter. "If you mean a full eight hours, no nightmares, no waking up feeling like I got hit by a truck? A while, I guess."

He studied Ava for a moment, the shadows under her eyes, the way she held her body still like a coiled spring. It didn't occur to him that a normal person shouldn't be able to see in a room this dark.

"Guess we're both on the night shift, huh?" he added, voice a little softer.

[antipersonal]

✱ @disequilibrate asked:

» "i told you i had it handled. you didn't have to bother."

❱ [ prompts for people who aren't used to kindness ] ❰

John scoffed-- short, sharp, the kind of sound that usually preceded a swung fist. "Yeah? Look real handled to me." He hadn't meant to get this worked up, but his rabbit-fast pulse refused to slow. He stood stiffly, jaw clenched like he was bracing for impact.

"You keep relying on that phasing trick like it'll always work. Like nobody's already figured out how to counter it," he said, voice low and brittle. "I get that you're used to going solo. But maybe don't bet your life on powers that can be shut off with a goddamn dog whistle."

It came out harsher than intended. Or maybe exactly as harsh as he meant.

(He remembers the incenerator wall closing like a tomb. Remembers dragging her through broken safety glass while a sound he could feel in his bones locked her in place, terrifyingly solid in his hand.)

John ran a hand over his face, expression strange and unreadable, suddenly exhausted. “I’m just saying. Next time don’t act like you’re untouchable."

[rdgrdn]

@disequilibrate asked: “ take a seat, we’re gonna be here a while. ”

Alexei   arched   an   eyebrow,   his   broad   shoulders   stiff   beneath   the   faded   red   of   his   jacket.   He   glanced   down   at   the   chair   Ava   gestured   toward,   then   back   at   her,   his   expression   unreadable   for   a   beat   too   long.   “A   while,   huh?”   he   muttered,   more   to   himself   than   to   her,   the   weight   of   the   words   settling   into   his   spine.   With   a   grunt   that   was   half   reluctance,   half   theatrical   exhaustion,   he   lowered   himself   into   the   seat   like   a   soldier   preparing   for   interrogation,   legs   spread,   arms   crossing   over   his   chest.   "Fine.   But   if   we're   going   to   be   here   that   long,   I   want   snacks.   Or   vodka.   Or   at   least   better   lighting."

His   eyes   didn’t   leave   hers,   even   as   his   body   settled.   There   was   a   flicker   of   something   behind   his   gaze   —   not   quite   defiance,   but   not   surrender   either.   He   was   used   to   orders,   to   action,   not...   talking.   Not   sitting   still.   That   was   never   his   strength.   But   Ava   had   a   look   that   reminded   him   of   Natasha   when   she   was   being   especially   relentless   —   sharp,   calm,   unwavering.   And   like   then,   he   found   himself   begrudgingly   respecting   it.   "You   always   so   bossy?"   he   asked,   a   corner   of   his   mouth   twitching   upward   in   something   like   amusement.   "Or   is   this   special   treatment   just   for   me?"

He   leaned   back,   the   chair   creaking   beneath   his   weight,   one   foot   tapping   idly   as   he   let   the   silence   stretch   for   a   moment.   Despite   the   sarcasm,   the   bravado,   there   was   a   quiet   edge   in   the   way   his   eyes   flickered   toward   the   floor   and   back   up   again   —   as   if   he   was   bracing   for   something   real   beneath   the   conversation.   “Alright,”   he   said   finally,   voice   lower   now,   less   performative.   “I’m   sitting.   You   have   my   attention.   Let’s   see   what’s   so   important   it   needed   a   chair   and   a   warning.”

[agtwalker]

@disequilibrate asked: is this okay ? [ … ] tell me if that changes, alright ?

His    heart    was    pounding,    his    breath    shallow    as    Ava’s    lips    pressed    against    his,    soft    and    insistent.    They    had    been    dancing    around    this    for    weeks,    their    growing    closeness    impossible    to    ignore.    He    had    always    been    the    kind    of    man    who    needed    control,    but    with    Ava,    it    was    different.    She    was    different.    And    now,    here    they    were,    tangled    in    the    sheets    of    her    bed,    the    air    thick    with    anticipation.

Her    fingers    trailed    down    his    chest,    hesitating    at    the    waistband    of    his    pants.    Her    eyes    met    his,    searching,    uncertain.    “Is    this    okay?”    she    whispered,    her    voice    barely    audible    over    the    sound    of    their    breathing.    John    nodded,    his    throat    dry.    More    than    okay.    He    couldn’t    find    the    words,    but    his    body    responded    for    him,    leaning    into    her    touch    as    her    hand    slid    lower,    teasing    him    through    the    fabric.

He    nodded    again,    his    hands    moving    to    her    hips,    pulling    her    closer.    The    heat    between    them    was    undeniable,    and    he    could    feel    her    trembling    slightly    under    his    touch.    It    was    as    if    they    were    both    holding    on    to    something    fragile,    something    precious,    afraid    it    might    shatter    if    they    moved    too    fast.    A    grip    on    her    hips    to    pull    her    closer    and    one    leg    swung    over    his    own    so    she    would    straddle    him    and    he    let    his    lips    fall    to    the    curve    of    her    jawline,    following    it    through.

Her    hands    were    deft,    pulling    his    shirt    over    his    head,    her    fingers    tracing    the    lines    of    his    muscles    with    a    tenderness    that    made    his    breath    catch.    He    groaned    softly,    his    hands    moving    to    the    hem    of    her    shirt,    pulling    it    off    in    one    swift    motion.    Her    skin    was    warm    against    his,    her    breath    hitching    as    he    pressed    his    lips    to    her    collarbone,    then    lower,    to    the    curve    of    her    breast.    “Ava…”    he    breathed,    his    voice    strained,    and    she    smiled,    her    eyes    dark    with    desire.    “Yes?”    

[cipherova]

@disequilibrate asked: "I don't think you're any of the things you say you are."

Yelena's    mouth    twitched—not    quite    a    smile,    but    something    caught    between    amusement    and    irritation.    She    leaned    back    in    her    chair,    arms    crossed    loosely,    her    boots    propped    up    on    the    edge    of    the    table    like    she    owned    the    place.    “Oh?”    she    said,    voice    casual,    but    there    was    steel    beneath    the    surface.    Her    gaze    didn’t    waver    from    Ava’s.    “And    what    do    you    think    I    am,    then?”

She    stood    slowly,    brushing    nonexistent    dust    from    her    jacket,    her    eyes    narrowed    now,    studying    Ava—not    with    hostility,    but    with    a    kind    of    practiced    detachment.    Yelena    wasn’t    used    to    being    doubted.    Mistrusted,    yes.    Feared,    often.    But    to    have    someone    like    Ava    dismiss    her    own    self-definition    so    plainly—it    struck    a    nerve.    “You    think    I’m    pretending,”    she    said    at    last,    softer.    “Like    all    this—”    she    gestured    to    herself,    to    the    scars    half-hidden    under    sleeves,    to    the    edge    in    her    voice,    to    the    weight    she    carried    in    silence    “—is    just    some    costume    I    put    on?    That    I    wear    Black    Widow    like    a    mask?” 

  Her    jaw    clenched.    But    she    does.    She    is    not    Natasha,    and    never    will    be.    She    had    been    thinking    of    another    name    for    herself,    because    Black    Widow    was    Nat,    and    also,    a    shared    operative    name    for    her    past.    But    she    is    still    a    Widow,    and    always    will    be.