𝗵𝗲𝘆! 𝗻𝗼 𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗶𝗿𝘄𝗮𝘆.

[cahilled]

norahqs​.

@roswellstarters​​​ // location: et festival, main stage 

open to: the kids are back gang + anyone else! 

nora was stood at the main stage, watching the arctic monkeys, she’d always had a bit of a crush on alex turner. she was enjoying herself, dancing and singing along when she felt someone tug at her dress. nora looks down to see a small child, looking lost, of course her maternal instincts kicked in and she scooped up the kid, to stop them getting crushed by the crowd, “hey little one, have you got a name?” all the kid does is shake their head, nora sighs, she taps the shoulder of the person next to her, “do you think you could help me out? this isn’t my kid”. 

             he  doesn’t  really  know  why  he’s  here  —  probably  because  nico  seemed  so  excited  about  the  event  that  ian  really  didn’t  have  a  choice  unless  he  wanted  to  be  labeled  as  a  bore,  and  perhaps,  subconsciously,  as  a  tiny  act  of  rebellion  against  the  teenaged  ian  who  never  allowed  himself  to  have  fun.  so  steadfastly  focused  on  making  it  big  and  getting  out  of  roswell,  he  often  sidestepped  parties  and  all  the  mindless  luxuries  that  were  swiftly  pulled  away  when  he  became  a  young  father  and  husband.  so  he  gives  in,  submitting  to  the  energy  . . .  until  yet  again,  that  unyielding  sense  of  responsibility  kicks  in,  “my  god,  how’d  you  even  get  all  the  way  in  here?”  he  exhales,  more  so  out  of  concern  than  his  usual  frustration,  pushing  his  way  through  the  crowd  to  provide  a  path  for  both  the  woman  and  the  child.  freed  from  the  throng  of  adoring  fans,  he  turns  slowly  to  properly  asses  the  duo.  “are  you  alright?”  the  question  is  lofted  at  both  of  them,  scanning  the  femme’s  features  thoughtfully.  “well,  thank  god  you’ve  found  ‘em,  i’m  quite  sure  they  might’ve  gotten  crushed  otherwise.  should  we  . . .  get  some  water?”

[theosbournesgifs]

[cahilled]

@kaurhole: Happy Father's day to DILF @teachercahill! I don't know if I want to call you daddy or professor more!

@kaurhole: Shit, Happy Father's Day to my dad as well!

@teachercahill: Adiya, please.

@teachercahill: I’m fairly certain that the type of “father” I am and the type of “daddy” you want me to be are two very different things.

@teachercahill: Happy Father’s Day to your dad, tho

[cahilled]

meixuan​.

for: @roswellstarters​ location: the stalk market

With summer fast approaching Mei was going out of her way to cheer things up in the trailer she shared with her mom. Which meant her first port of call was the local florist, for as many flowers as she could physically carry back home again. She’d picked out a couple of random bouquets from the display outside the store but that was when she began to doubt her choices, so was quick to turn around to the closest person. “What do you think of these? Good? Or am I making a huge mistake?” she asked.

          despite  a  rigid  and  some  might  say  overwhelming  childhood,  ian  still  harbors  utmost  devotion  to  his  parents  —  over  time  they  had  warmed  up  to  the  realization  that  ian  wasn’t  going  to  give  up  being  a  father,  and  mrs.  cahill  took  it  upon  herself  to  happily  dote  upon  nico  in  all  the  ways  that  she  seemingly  couldn’t  with  her  own  son.  he  can’t  deny  the  slight  sting,  but  given  his  own  estranged  marriage,  he  can’t  deprive  the  kid  of  the  few  examples  of  stability  that  he’s  got.  in  honor  of  his  mother’s  birthday,  ian’s  taken  a  detour  to  the  stalk  market,  ambling  through  the  array  of  flowers  in  search  of  mrs.  cahill’s  beloved  orchids.  he  catches  a  small  voice  posing  an  inquiry,  provoking  a  sharply  snapped,  “how  should  i  know?”  it  unnerves  ian,  his  own  reflexive  iciness,  and  unlike  so  many  others  in  his  life,  this  young  woman  has  done  absolutely  nothing  to  earn  his  ire.  he  clears  his  throat,  correcting  his  tone,  “sorry,  er,  long  day.  those  look  nice,  but  i  can’t  really  speak  for  their  purpose.  are  you  .  .  .   apologizing  to  someone?”  probably  overstepping  there,  nodding  towards  the  sheer  amount  of  bouquets  in  her  grip,  “i  mean,  that’s  an  awful  lot,  isn’t  it?”

[catalinabaylors]

The thing that has always appealed to me most about this career is getting to encounter and interact with the unexpected.

Happy Birthday REGE-JEAN PAGE (January 24, 1988)

[cahilled]

strikercannon​,

“ don’t you FUCKIN’ touch me , “ noses were barely an inch apart , faces together , close enough for ian to catch the stale cigarette scent of striker’s breath . bait had been taken , pounced upon like a wild animal — an unsolicited hand was a volcanic trigger , the flick of a switch from reasonable to feral . striker cannon could take a hit , that much was true from the mottling of purples , yellows and blues beneath hand-me-down clothing . muscle memory curled his fingertips into a fist ; fingers darted like the tongue of an amphibian after a fly to grasp the fabric of ian’s shirt , tugging him up and close , the only escape being tearing himself free from cowboy-caught cotton . “ you dare lay a fuckin’ finger on me . your son is better off without a varmint like you . sling your fuckin’ hook , buddy , or i’ll show you first hand who’s top dog ‘round these parts . this town ain’t big enough for the two of us , “ no longer did ian resemble nico’s father ; those unfamiliar features had moulded into those of his own , the man who had bought three boys into a world systemically against them , the bottom of the pile with broken rungs swinging above . instead of a man trying to protect both his honour and his son striker saw a father with flame behind his eyes , the same flame that had torn hair from roots , that had struck the cheek of both himself and his mother with merciless force , the same flame passed down to his own whiskey gaze ; hereditary evil . knuckles bloomed bone-white , clasped at the antagonist’s throat , fingers full of material that likely cost more than his , mickey’s and lance’s wardrobes combined . beloved . striker would vehemently argue that him and mona were friends , that companions of ten years would inevitably cross such lines as they had ; friends sported their names , etched in permanent ink , over their hearts , right ?? the more he stood , the focus of a raging bull caught like a crosshair at the bridge of ian’s nose , the more he wondered whether he was angry the man was coming for his throat or mona’s . “ — you keep her name out your fuckin’ mouth . she trusted me to come get nico — not you , not one of yer pearl-wearin’ friends neither — me . i’m there for that boy more than you ever were , “ low blows , strikes below the belt , flaming arrows pulled back and aimed at the heart , “ whatever you’re thinkin’ is gonna happen here , you really reckon you’re gonna get your boy’s respect by hittin’ me ?? go on . show ‘im what a gentleman you really are . “ 

                for  a  moment,  all  ian  can  do  is  chuckle  —   it’s  void  of  all  humor,  strained,  simply  the  only  reaction  he  can  rationalize  with  how  laughably  surreal  this  entire  situation  is.  ian’s  not  violent,  it’s  never  been  in  his  nature;  callous  and  detached,  yes,  but  never  to  the  point  of  throwing  blows.  and  striker  makes  it  tempting  to  shatter  that  code  of  honor,  especially  when  dirty  hands  grip  at  freshly  pressed  linen,  but  once  he  takes  several  deep  breaths,  he  acknowledges  his  universal  truth:  this  man  is  not  worth  it.  not  worth  upsetting  nico,  not  worth  the  damage  that  could  unravel  in  court,  not  worth  giving  mona  any  ammunition  in  their  constant  war  with  one  another.  he  tugs  himself  sharply  out  of  striker’s  grasp,  shoulders  squared  and  eyes  narrowed.  “and  what’s  the  alternative  for  my  son?  because  you  fucking  know  so  much,  correct?  mona  also  trusted  you  to  give  her  a  car  so  she  could  runaway  with  my  kid,  and  that  doesn’t  strike  you  as  a  bit,  i  don’t  know,  batshit?”  of  course  it  wouldn’t,  not  to  striker  —  he’d  encourage  the  worst  in  her  while  believing  he  was  liberating  her,  willing  to  romanticize  chaos  instead  of  acknowledging  that  she’s  a  parent  with  responsibilities;  both  of  them  had  long  lost  the  right  to  frivolously  fuck  around  with  little  thought  to  consequence.  this  unyielding  fact  is  what  centers  ian,  compelling  him  to  step  backwards  and  accept  the  notion  that  he  can’t  do  shit  like  this.  striker  can  swing  and  spit  and  cause  a  ruckus  without  worrying  whether  or  not  it’ll  get  protective  services  called;  that’s  a  luxury  that’s  out  of  ian’s  reach.  “no,  you’re  not,”  ian  seethes,  though  pointedly  keeps  his  distance,  “you  picked  him  up  from  one  fuckin’  game?  cool,  striker,  i’m  taking  him  to  the  dentist  tomorrow.  i’m  doing  his  laundry.  i’m  checking  over  his  homework,  getting  him  to  school,  being  a  goddamn  father  every  single  night  because  his  mother  can’t  keep  her  shit  together.  you  think  this  is  fucking  fun  for  me?”  while  hideous  circumstances  ripped  away  any  romantic  possibility,  there’s  somewhere  deep  in  ian’s  cavernous  chest  that  compels  him  to  understand  that  he  does  love  mona,  enough  to  want  better  for  her  and  her  future  with  nico.  he’d  never  acknowledge  it,  but  he’s  quietly  surmised  that  striker  will  only  ever  hinder  his  family.  he  swallows  hard,  repulsed  by  the  sight of  him,  “you  stay  away  from  nico.  i  don’t  care  what  the  fuck   you  do  with  mona,  but  i  never  want  you  near  my  son  again.  he  can  hate  me  for  it  all  he  wants,  and  i  bet  you’ll  make  her  hate  me  for  it,  too,  but  you  don’t  give  a  fuck  about  what  it  takes  to  be  a  parent  —  hell,  to  be  a  functioning  adult.  you  hiss  and  snarl  and  piss  on  your  territory,  but  what  the  fuck  does  that  even  mean?”  his  hands  feel  hot,  like  they’re  supposed  to  collide  with  striker’s  jaw,  but  he  won’t  succumb,  not  now.  “do  what  you  want  with  mona,  but  my  son  stays  out  of  it.  is  that  understood,  cowboy?”

[cahilled]

when was the last time you cried?

                 “see,  this  is  a  complicated  question  because  there  are  different  reasons  to  cry  obviously  —  last  time  i  legitimately  cried?  probably  when  nico  took  his  first  steps,  nobody’s  immune  to  that  shit.  last  time  i  got  misty  over  something  silly?  dunno,  probably  watching  it’s  a  wonderful  life  at  christmas.  fuck  off,  it’s  a  classic.”

[buffysummers]

[cahilled]

I know you already have a kid but will you please be my daddy?

                                              “respectfully  . . .  no ❤️.”

          ask  away.

[cahilled]

What's your relationship like with Nico?

           “he’s  a  preteen  now,  so  i’m  forced  to  assume  that  i’m  probably  not  one  of  his  favorite  people  these  days  —   isn’t  it  always  some  strange  rite  of  passage  to  pull  away  from  your  parents  just  to  feel  a  little  older  sometimes?  as  a  whole  –   look,  i’m  well  aware  that  mona  gets  to  be  the  fun  parent.  circumstances  aside,  she’s  always  been  the  fun  one  even  before  we  had  him.  she’s  idealized  one  right  now,  because  once  sunset  comes  around,  i  pull  nico  back  to  reality.  dinner,  homework,  hygiene,  routine,  all  that  boring  shit.  i’m  sure  it’s  a  complete  nightmare  for  him,  and  he  probably  doesn’t  comprehend  it  all  yet  but  if  there’s  one  thing  i  hope  he  does  understand  is  that  i  really  would  die  for  the  kid.  whether  he  thinks  i  suck  or  he’d  much  rather  be  doing  a  million  other  things  instead  of  making  breakfast  with  me,  i’m  still  devoted  to  giving  him  what  i  never  had . . . even  if  the  results  are  less  than  stellar  sometimes.  

              it’s  a  nightmare  between  myself  and  mona  —  that’s  well  documented  —  but  if  you  asked  me  to  do  it  a  million  times  over  and  it  meant  i  got  to  be  nico’s  dad  every  time?  yeah,  without  question.  little  pain  the  ass.”

[cahilled]

What’s a tough experience that you learned and grew from?

                       “well,  there’s  the  obvious  fucking  elephant  in  the  room,  though  i  don’t  know  if  i  can  necessarily  constitute  that  as  an  opportunity  to  grow  from   if  it’s  still  a  goddamn  mess  in  the  making.  i  suppose  there’s  a  life  lesson  tucked  neatly  somewhere  in  there  about  being  wise  about  your  choices  and  letting  go,  but  . . .  well,  all  those  pleasantries  only  mattered  before  striker  cannon  got  in  my  face  about  screwing  my  ex  and  playing  house  with  my  son,  so  fuck  that.”

[cahilled]

honeybeefms​,

location: aurora apartments (ian’s place)

closed starter for: @cahilled

there was a bundle of freshly-cut lilacs dangling from her fingers as she leaned against the door to ian’s apartment. the blooms were a peace offering of sorts, something to cushion the blow of the emotional burden she was more than likely about to put on him. ian was a comfort for honey, someone she wasn’t scared to talk to about even the small things with, but that didn’t mean she liked taking advantage of that fact. a sigh escapes her, a hand lifting to lazily knock against the door as a smile works its way up and onto her features. “coming in hot with flowers for you, cahill. i swear these suckers bloomed yesterday and i made myself wait to bring them to you so i didn’t look needy.” honey laughs at her own comment, knuckles tapping against the door three more times, though this time it was quieter. “open the door for a sad soul? i promise not to be too whiny.”

               one  wouldn’t  expect  someone  like  ian  —   a  man  most  commonly  referred  to  as  an  emotionally  unavailable  dickhead  —  to  take  such  a  fondness  for  someone  as  darling  as  honey,  and  while  the  dickhead  in  question  can’t  even  rightly  explain  it,  he’s  always  happy  to  welcome  her.  for  all  his  pompous  asides  and  icy  nature,  ian  enjoys  feeling  needed,  strangely  compelled  to  situations  where  he  can  actually  make  things  right  –  even  if  all  that  means  is  lending  an  ear,  chivalry  with  minimal  effort.  half-smile  teases  at  his  mouth  as  he  rises  from  his  desk  at  her  arrival,  gracious  to  be  relieved  from  the  monotony  of  grading  essays.  “i  don’t  think  that  being  kind  enough  to  bring  me  flowers  makes  you  seem  needy  in  the  slightest,”  he  corrects  as  the  door  swings  open,  stepping  aside  to  beckon  her  entry.  not  many  people  would  think  to  bring  him  flowers,  after  all,  such  little  gestures  carrying  the  most  weight  for  him.  “you’re  gonna  have  to  tell  me  how  to  keep  these  things  alive,”  he  chuckles,  ushering  honey  into  the  kitchen  as  he  seeks  out  a  makeshift  vase  . . .  a  ceramic  mug  that  his  son  made  back  in  elementary  school  might  have  to  do  for  now.  “you  can  put  them  in  there,  fingers  crossed  they’re  not  wilted  by  morning.”  he  slinks  over  to  his  fridge,  wishing  he  had  more  of  a  selection  than  just,  “—  beer  or  red  wine?”

[evocatiio]

[mayorbetteporter]

[henricavyll]

REGÉ-JEAN PAGE  The Guardian | ph. Joseph Sinclair

[cahilled]

nikkaplays​  ,

starter: open to everyone! @roswellstarters​​​ location: go wild

“   sorry—- sorry!   actually —- do you mind standing here for a minute?    thanks, ”      she takes advantage of the collision, angling her lean body in such a way as to make it disappear behind the shape of them.   usually she’d be far more courteous, but desperate times…  the big guy heading this way still looks  pretty mad  .    “   you have a very nice back, you know?   ”

                   this  is  why  he  doesn’t  go  out  that  often.  ian  doesn’t  have  much  time  to  respond  –  or  escape  –   before  this  femme  is  tucked  behind  him,  insult  hanging  on  his  tongue  but  a  nurtured  ego  gets  the  best  of  him.  “so  i’ve  been  told,”  he  hums,  twisting  his  neck  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  her,  “i  can’t  even  see  you,  since  you’re  so  quick  to  make  strangers  into  human  shields  on  your  behalf.”  he  inhales,  rolling  his  shoulders  and  scanning  the  crowd.  “and  dare  i  ask  who  you’re  hiding  from?”

[yvvaine]

BRIDGERTON | Simon at the Ring