#ridley.

[onetwothree-moved]

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

[metuere-now-exspiritment]

ridley @wthwolves said: “we’ll cross that bridge when we burn it.”  // (from here, accepting)

“They’re my family. Imagine if I said that about yours.”

[wristful]

Ridley/will

KISSES. 

     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. it’s a chicken alfredo sort of thing that he found a recipe for online after meg in the office told him he should try it; it’s smells okay and it’s easy enough to make, but will has never really had the touch for this sort of thing. as much as people might joke he’s a carbon copy of his dad, now again his mom sneaks up on him. terrible cooking is his genetic cross to bear. 

ridley appears next to him in the kitchen about fifteen minutes later and makes a face at the pot.    

      ‘  what, you don’t like chicken?  ‘     i like chicken that’s cooked.    ‘  god you’re such a princess. 

will likes the way ridley’s face changes when he laughs; there’s 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 can’t 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 shouldn’t. 

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. there’s a tense moment – that ends with a smile. not bad, danvers, not bad. 

will wants. it wasn’t always like that. in fact, he isn’t overly sure it’s like that now, but the balls of his feet rock under the praise and his shoulders keen forwards and one step is two and he’s closer for longer than he ever thinks he has been before. ridley, in front of him, warm and real and still smiling, though it’s dropped by a half-pace as confusion froths over. 

          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 aren’t in new york and they aren’t thinking about their families and they aren’t talking about sad shit or work or pressure or willow? is it just his smile that’s 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 it’s own accord. fingertips on the back of ridley’s 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 it’s only short. a barely there press of his mouth to the other. 

( it isn’t 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. )

[metuere-now-exspiritment]

@withlwolves // ridley ( continued from here. )

“Um.”

She realizes that this is what she gets for lurking over Ridley’s shoulder while he works in the kitchen. She’s 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, she’d play with Lila as a toddler, bouncing her on her bony knee or spinning her in circles or carrying her when Juniper got tired. She’s older now, and carrying a three-year-old is more practical. Willow is far less resistant to contact, too. Spirit still isn’t. Her body tenses all over. 

“Does it--are--is there another parent.”

[metuere-now-exspiritment]

i’m just impressed you haven’t 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. 

It’s 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 Bragin’s kitchen table. He’s 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.

“I’m just impressed you haven’t cried yet. I’m sure your family still has some fucking--kids’ stuff around here, if you need a stuffed animal.”  

[metuere-now-exspiritment]

‘  it’s okay, you put up a good fight. he kicked your ass, but you put up a good fight.  ’ from Ridley

st.ranger things starters // accepting 

“I think my nose is bleeding.”

Absentminded fingers brush against her cupid’s 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).

“Do your brothers ever hit you? Did Andrew? I wonder if you’ve hit him. I wonder if you’ve ever even though about it. I want to hit him all the time, personally.” She can’t help it. She pinches her nostrils together and mutters nasally: “I bet I’d stand a better chance against him.”