i love these bc there are so many in my inbox i can post them whenever i feel like ruining people's dashboards.
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i love these bc there are so many in my inbox i can post them whenever i feel like ruining people's dashboards.

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ridley @wthwolves said: âweâll cross that bridge when we burn it.â // (from here, accepting)
âTheyâre my family. Imagine if I said that about yours.â
Ridley/will
KISSES.Â
   ridley comes downstairs with a soft look on his face, storybook in hand, and will listens to him hum something quietly to himself for a little while before going back to stirring the sauce. itâs a chicken alfredo sort of thing that he found a recipe for online after meg in the office told him he should try it; itâs smells okay and itâs easy enough to make, but will has never really had the touch for this sort of thing. as much as people might joke heâs a carbon copy of his dad, now again his mom sneaks up on him. terrible cooking is his genetic cross to bear.Â
ridley appears next to him in the kitchen about fifteen minutes later and makes a face at the pot.  Â
   â what, you donât like chicken?  â   i like chicken thatâs cooked.   â god youâre such a princess.Â
will likes the way ridleyâs face changes when he laughs; thereâs a twist in his mouth that some might say was unkind if seen in the wrong light, but will knows better, and the dash of his eyes sheen over and crinkle at the edges, and the scar on his temple bends under the pressure until you almost canât see it at all. ridley looks younger. less like a man swallowed by responsibility at a tender age. less like somebody who carries burdens they shouldnât.Â
will watches him bend over the pot hesitantly and dip a finger into the sauce and try it with all the precaution of a man defusing a bomb. thereâs a tense moment â that ends with a smile. not bad, danvers, not bad.Â
will wants. it wasnât always like that. in fact, he isnât overly sure itâs like that now, but the balls of his feet rock under the praise and his shoulders keen forwards and one step is two and heâs closer for longer than he ever thinks he has been before. ridley, in front of him, warm and real and still smiling, though itâs dropped by a half-pace as confusion froths over.Â
     was it always like this between them or only in the last handful of seconds? is it the fact that ridley is here, in d.c., and they arenât in new york and they arenât thinking about their families and they arenât talking about sad shit or work or pressure or willow? is it just his smile thatâs started it or was it the faint smell of woodchips and paper? was it will who made the first move or was it ridley?
   his hand moves of itâs own accord. fingertips on the back of ridleyâs neck and a palm against his skin where his shoulder meets his throat, and will is just that bit taller so he has to dip just slightly, and when he kisses ridley itâs only short. a barely there press of his mouth to the other.Â
( it isnât like the movies. there is no sweet smile after, no sudden realisation to follow. no joyful passionate return. just a set of open eyes watching will retreat back in the moments after, going back to stir the pot. )
@withlwolves // ridley ( continued from here. )
âUm.â
She realizes that this is what she gets for lurking over Ridleyâs shoulder while he works in the kitchen. Sheâs always been fascinated by it, the domesticity here, treating it as a guilt pleasure. Roman has just always been too intimidating to follow closely.
A lifetime ago, sheâd play with Lila as a toddler, bouncing her on her bony knee or spinning her in circles or carrying her when Juniper got tired. Sheâs older now, and carrying a three-year-old is more practical. Willow is far less resistant to contact, too. Spirit still isnât. Her body tenses all over.Â
âDoes it--are--is there another parent.â
iâm just impressed you havenât needed a nap yet. /from ridley
fire fire starters // accepting
A younger Spirit would have literally hissed at Ridley. An older one one just whips her head in his direction and bares her teeth in a silent growl.Â
Itâs half past two; everything smells like coffee and has smelt like coffee for the past five hours. Harris, eyebrows furrowed and unaware of anyone else in the room, hunches over the Braginâs kitchen table. Heâs muttering to himself, pointing at maps and photographs. Everybody else has taken a break or given up for the night. The three of them alone--him, Ridley, Spirit--is nothing if not uncomfortable.
âIâm just impressed you havenât cried yet. Iâm sure your family still has some fucking--kidsâ stuff around here, if you need a stuffed animal.â Â

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â itâs okay, you put up a good fight. he kicked your ass, but you put up a good fight. â from Ridley
st.ranger things starters // acceptingÂ
âI think my nose is bleeding.â
Absentminded fingers brush against her cupidâs bow, where blood has already dried after dripping from her nose. It still throbs, pulses. She brushes her nostrils, tries not to obsess over the wound. Her gaze focuses on Ridley with an unnatural intensity (as she focuses everything on trying not to cry).
âDo your brothers ever hit you? Did Andrew? I wonder if youâve hit him. I wonder if youâve ever even though about it. I want to hit him all the time, personally.â She canât help it. She pinches her nostrils together and mutters nasally:Â âI bet Iâd stand a better chance against him.â