Mike Driver
Monterey Bay Aquarium
hello vonnie
RMH
titsay
we're not kids anymore.
KIROKAZE
#extradirty
Discoholic 🪩
Cosimo Galluzzi
izzy's playlists!
❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
taylor price
tannertan36
todays bird
TVSTRANGERTHINGS
Sade Olutola
No title available
Andulka
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
seen from Canada
seen from Malaysia
seen from Russia
seen from Malaysia
seen from Saudi Arabia
seen from Kenya
seen from Malaysia
seen from Malaysia
seen from Italy
seen from Brazil
seen from Türkiye
seen from United States
seen from Australia
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Maldives
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Argentina
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Philippines
seen from Russia
@gggno
You do not have to be good. You do not have to walk on your knees / for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.
— mary oliver, wild geese. —
independent ROSARIA from GENSHIN IMPACT & other muses. plot-centric, crossover friendly. written by jan ( she / they ), 30+.
RULES. MUSES. CARRD. WISHLIST.
𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐦 𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐭𝐲. 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐢'𝐦 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞.
mr. rochester.
"OOOF—" Like being ripped away from a fever dream, all momentum came to a grinding halt. The wind having been so kindly and expertly excised from his lungs, Chip could only stare at her in sheer and profound confusion- which then curdled into a blind, white-hot rage. His grasp locked around her wrist reflexively; his other arm wound tight like a spring, primed to strike a backhand before a cold snap of sense stopped him in his tracks. Tying neatly into a fist instead, he pounded against his own air-locked chest. What the HELL is wrong with her? Chip clawed his way out of the bed, and stumbled, gasping like a drowning man and praying that he’d reach the ensuite before the retching won. The cool porcelain of the sink offered a twisted kind of mercy. Hijacked by unceremonious biology, Chip doubled over and purged—a bloody, violent and excruciating spew that at the very least carved out a swollen passage to finally inhale. And when the fire eventually subsided, leaving his throat scorched and his stomach a hollowed out crime scene, he straightened with a low groan, and wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist. She’s insane. Possibly clinically.. certifiably batshit. But the sentiment slipped away into another line of reason. She didn't move. Tried a shot, but she was enjoying her little throne for a minute... He dragged himself upright, leaning heavily against the fixture as he forced his eyes toward the mirror. Bloodied, battered, sallow, and slick with a cold sheen of sweat. What the hell am I doing? Chip scoffed to himself. A dry and gravely scoff. Then another. Until he erupted into a low, delirious rumble of laughter. I’m so unbelievably screwed. And now it’s her turn. A thin, private smile pulled at the corner of his mouth as the stream of water circled the remnants down the drain. He washed his hands, slapped a palmful of the freezing water against his flushed face, and reached for a swish of wintergreen. Round two, he thought, leaving his reflection behind in the dark.
He hung in the doorframe, and over crossed arms he watched her with a focus that punched through his physical exhaustion like a fresh shoot through concrete. Rest was a logistical reality, he decided, but Chip lumbered over to her exact position on the mattress. Looming overhead, his bloodshot vision traced every defiant little line on her face. With a heavy and deliberate sweep of his arm, Chip caught her torso and pulled her down with him, collapsing his head to the pillow. " You went easy, " he noted coarsely into the down, the quirk at his lips then on full display.
for a split second, his room becomes the stage to a potential murder. had saltonstall not halt his slap, the clinically insane woman in his bed would have shown him what it meant to be prepared. the spoilt man might not have the same training she had, but he packs inevitably more muscle; she would have to steel her will to withstand his hit, and the only way to ensure her survival would be to go for his throat—
yes, she always jumps straight to murder, because no mercy is the only winning route.
she expected him to hit, too; saltonstall had not given her any reason to believe otherwise. however, to her surprise, his fist turned towards his own chest. saltonstall is, in the end, an ordinary businessman, uber rich or not, and she is a professional criminal who specialises in violence; his passing rage is quickly overridden by a spasming diaphragm, which launches him towards the bathroom like a sprayed insect. it's kinda funny, to her, the insane woman who now sits on the edge of the mattress, wondering how long it would take him to recover from her measured punch.
the answer was no less than ten minutes. in this small eternity, rosaria has accomplished the following:
changed out of her dress into comfortable loungewear
checked her emails and replied to several requests
scheduled peanut's next beauty bath
grabbed her tickets for plays next month
if only he gave her more time. she might have founded herself a little shell corporation here in the cayman islands too.
eventually, the retching stops, and suddenly there is laughter. absolute hysterical laughter.
he is so weird.
rosaria puts her laptop by the bedside table, and for a second, looks at her wrist. she can't let him grab her wrist again. she won't. even though it was an attempt to constrain and overpower her, the warmth of his hand remains ghostly on her skin. nonetheless, a touch is a touch. a smile is a smile — that's how her brain is programmed.
distracted by her thoughts, saltonstall is already standing in front of her the next she looks up. his bloodshot eyes seize her attention, yet before she can grab her phone to check if that is an indicator of a serious concussion, he has dragged her down in bed once more. she pushes his arm and he doesn't budge; in fact, he tightens his hold like a chinese finger trap.
“ i still need you to pay me, ” is her explanation to his observation. whether this is about the kiss or the punch is up to his interpretation. simply put, his death does her no good; for now, she doesn't want to consider if she prefers him alive or not.
his arm weighs heavy over her middle, and somehow it feels... safe. safe is not a word she associates with him, not then, not now, and probably not ever; but a touch is a touch, and a kiss is a kiss. without turning her head, she peers at him from the corner of her eye. he is smirking at her with his cheek against the pillow. the sight is so dubiously confusing, almost suggesting they are something they are not. before her body can take over her brain, she glances away.
“ your eyes are all red. ” she blinks and stares at the ceiling fan. it is delightfully mesmerising. “ can i get up and work? ”
[ sms : rosaria ] sort of depends on how hard you landed it in the ditch [ sms : rosaria ] how fast were you going ? [ sms : rosaria ] actually nevermind dont answer that
he swipes his finger over the picture , she doesn't need to know how he zooms in on it , the way he squints at the screen to search for signs of injury . that he tries to see into the background behind her for an accident . and now he's nervous . now he's tapping his foot against the floor , his knee bouncing a frantic pattern . he can see the scratches , and he knows from personal experience how easy it is to have underlying injuries , even from a small crash . does she have whiplash ? a concussion ? fuck .
[ sms : rosaria ] not without a tow of some kind . the average car is like 4 thousand pounds [ sms : rosaria ] okay you know what send me your location
tap tap tap tap tap , his foot against the ground . furiously typing , asking dan if he can borrow equipment , types [ approximately enough to tow a reasonable sized car out of a ditch ? ] he's leaning and grabbing his jacket from its spot on the table next to him , shoving his heels back into his boots .
[ sms : rosaria ] any head or neck pain ?
she wants remote support, not on field, and especially not him in person; whoever's after her cannot identify colt seavers or his license plate in the range of this site. she looks around. it's dead silence and dark wilderness. there is no hint of approaching cars. not yet. standing on the side of the road, she considers her crashed vehicle once more; if there is no way for her to get this piece of crap moving in five minutes, she needs to skedaddle.
time is ticking. she needs to move, and he needs to see a reply.
[ text to : colt seavers ] no pain
no gain. she doesn't mention the time difference between the crash and her climbing out of it. maybe she should plan a visit to the hospital in the next forty-eight hours.
she pulls up the map and turns on her gps, working as fast as she can to locate the nearest gas station that closes the distance between her crash site and home, and, of course, puts her far away from her trespasses. the habit is second nature to her. nobody gets to drive or walk her home; her offered coordinates are always at least three blocks away from her actual location or destination.
[ text to : colt seavers ] you pick me up? [ text to : colt seavers ] forget th car
rosaria shared a location with you.
[ text to : colt seavers ] how long until.?
huh. her typing is getting funky. but first, to the gas station.
all i do is stay up and be insane about pilate
Of course, his skin needles. Someone who was bitterly aware that there were others in the room. He hadn’t been bluffing, but he was so unaccustomed to it, as privacy had always been one of those things he held far too tightly, as if someone might sniff out what was wrong with him and rebuke anyone’s decision to tolerate him. Not that he owed anyone an explanation. Will just was not big on PDA, his blue eyes narrowing in response. However, he was certain Jack’s eyes probably widened just as large as hers; something bugged behind his boss’s hues at the thought of Will in arm's length of anyone. Much less this — whatever this was. His neck flushed despite himself, enough sense for a tiny inkling of shame, swallowing the urge to tug her away entirely so there would be no audience to loom over his shoulder.
He does want to be chosen, does want to be claimed– he wouldn’t go so far as to say he would ever fully surrender to another person. It tended to come and go, fight wilting quick enough for the promise of honey, only returning when he got his wits again. What she did with her sacrifice was up to her. Will was merely curious.
Will draws away an inch, hand coming to her cheek, tilting her face towards his a little. He offers the smallest smile before he presses one chaste kiss to her mouth. He lingers before pulling away, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ears. It’s sweet almost, if not for his gaze. He is ready to devour her on the spot.
“You ought to be more careful, petal.” It’s a warning this time, voice eerily even. “Keep these,” He presses a finger to her lips, drawing it up just enough to touch an incisor. “Off me.” It felt far too much like a challenge he was going to chase no matter the result, into some destructive old habits.
she doesn't pull away from his kiss. never did.
something shifts in her eyes when he calls her that. is she a petal because she is soft with him, or because it's all that's left of her? either way, the pet name signals a mood, and it's not a mood to have in front of watchful eyes; were they elsewhere, even just a bar without acquaintances, she would be pulling him into herself until they are both out of breath.
before she can react, he puts a finger on her lips and pushes them open, running gently at a sharp tooth. she looks at him, confused, like a house cat trying to understand human behaviour.
but isn't it just natural to bite down when something is between your teeth? be it food, a cigarette or a hand. his warning sounds like an invitation, and they have always functioned like this: him making space, her invading it.
why is he making me hungry out here in the open?
dark eyes drop from his gaze to his hand. she tilts her head to kiss his finger, then draws it into her mouth with a swipe of tongue. if this is the game of chicken, she isn't going to lose.
if zeller wasn't dead then, he should be dead by now.
❝ Careful. I bite. ❞
enemies to lovers / accepting.
“ why would i care? as if you hadn't been fucking with my life in every possible manner already. ” the ballpoint pen almost cracks in her grip. she cannot hold it any less tighter; the tension is the only thing stopping her from passing out from blood loss and exhaustion. she has no idea which floor she is on; but then, from her time here, all she had gathered was a testing floor and the floor above it. she pushes him against the wall, leaving a bloody handprint on his collar, and presses the tip of her weapon against his neck. “ how do i get out of here? ”
ryland grace isn't a whole idiot . he notices when the entropy of the universe gets a little too chaotic . that's when he starts noticing things . like that they've changed the entire section labelled ' bowls ' with ' plates ' instead , and that the pictures have all been swapped out for different meals entirely . or that rosaria isn't talkative in here , in the same way she wasn't talkative on the walk over , like she's got something weighing heavily on her mind . he doesn't ask .
he's not too stupid to notice all these things when he's not exhausted . the ordeal was over , he'd thought . so why does it feel like her fright on the couch is stretching itself out into something bigger ? he shifts in his seat uncomfortably .
that being said , he's looking down at his spoon and the rest of the bowl , at the suspiciously pepper-shaped flakes . they're not actually pepper shaped , but they're red . those are indicative of spices he doesn't usually put in his food . or , you know , order at restaurants . he draws a breath through his teeth . bothering the workers ( actually , the singular worker at the front , since it seems the owner might be the only one working both the register and the back ) seems like a crappy idea . he doesn't want to seem ungrateful .
the first few bites aren't so bad . he heeds her warning at the very least and takes the smallest ones he can . but it's spicy . it's really spicy . his tall cup of water is already half-empty by the time he's six spoons in , and he's pretty sure the flakes are about to start bleeding out of his eyes . ❝ christmas eve . ❞ another element added to the day's lack of predictability . he shoots her a pained smile . ❝ i'm good . ❞ he can't even throw up , because that would mean the spice would come back up . oh my god .
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤdie ? is he just going to die instead ? he'll just die halfway through the meal . it's all good .
oh no. she should've ordered him a milk-based drink.
“ water makes it worse, ” she notes in an unhelpful manner. why didn't she say that when he was gulping down his entire glass of h2o. what is wrong with her. but it's true. water spreads capsaicin, the stuff that makes peppers spicy, all over your mouth — it activates all your pain receptors like a wild fire.
she moves without thinking, finding the owner slash server slash chef, and they start talking in another language. soon after, she returns to their table — it's rather concerning how this little place is so empty during dinner time. she would be heartbroken if it closed down — and sits next to him, a scoop of ice cream in hand.
“ eat this, ” she aims the spoon at his mouth, but it's a challenge when he is rocking back and forth, busy choking on spice. after some struggle, she manages to hold his chin up and, from how it looks on the surface, force ice cream into his mouth. she didn't have time to check if he wanted coconut today; she needs him to survive this first.
dairy products contain a protein that attracts capsaicin, making them much more effective in soothing the pain. she keeps feeding him until he calms down. for a moment, she has forgotten her nerves; nothing overrides her pointless crisis faster than seeing ryland grace in distress. with each coming bite of ice cream, his breathing soothes. then, he looks at her with his tearful eyes, and the shimmering in those blues pulls her back to her fright instantly.
“ keep eating. ” she feels sick. seasick in his eyes. she shoves the bowl and spoon into his hands and makes a run for the bathroom. she makes it to the toilet before hurling up a disgusting amount of curry and stomach acid.
" damn , i mean i took some gymnastics lessons -- but i think i'd have to break some bones to get up there . " he sighs , and it's just as forlorn , he looks genuinely disappointed in himself for a second -- that he can't bend his shin in half like , apparently , a real proper stuntman should be able to . pain meds always make him think weird . his head feels fuzzy . maybe he shouldn't be out of bed after all .
he blinks , brows raising , and turns his head to follow her gaze down the series of halls around them . " yeah , okay . " did he mention his brain isn't really working right now ? because he almost immediately forgets what he's doing , and instead is staring at her while she works her arm behind the machine . he sways on his feet a little , sort of glances down the hallway , looks back at her . squints , scratches his forehead . " uh . . . broken rib , another one cracked , concussion -- just a small one this time , though . i flipped a car . but it was on purpose , so it's okay . " because that's helpful information right now , for sure . and he also forgot a handful of other things , like the pulled muscle in his shoulder , and the whiplash . he's sort of in a hospital gown for a reason .
“ you flipped a car? ” he says it like he flipped a burger. what's the spongebob name for a car flipper? anyways. “ oh, stunts. you're stunt guy, that makes sense. ”
his ledger of injuries prove to be an obstacle in their conquering of the disobedient machine. as vengeful as she is, rosaria cannot request a man with broken ribs to charge at the six-feet-tall metallic box with his entire body; as for herself, she is already held back by her wound and a broken hand, and without his muscle mass. she cannot break her arm for this. regroup and rethink. regroup and rethink.
for the next five minutes, she studies her enemy (the vending machine) like a hawk, as if she could find a weak spot to insert a knife and dismantle its front, and release his m&ms along with her mars bars. perhaps, in her head, that's what happens; in reality, a tired nurse walks past them, backtracks and sighs, “ what do you two want? ”
a minute later, they have their snacks. so the machine simply hates us, she thinks to herself, but the taste of caramel and nougat wrapped in milk chocolate is placating enough for her to shut up for as long as the bar lasts.
“ it feels like you shouldn't be walking around, ” she points out belatedly. then, a beat later, another thought hits. “ do you think the nurse realised that? ”
𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐳𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐲. 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐧𝐨𝐭, 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐫. 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐞.
independent 𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐚 from genshin impact, adapted for crossovers. plot-heavy. ✧.* oc friendly. ✧.* humour / horror.
@cseavers,
( continued from here. )
[ text to : colt seavers ] yea
she sends selfie as proof. it doesn't show her from the waist down, but she is doing a peace sign with minor scratches on her arm and face. that means good. this woman has trust issues, and is insanely stingy with information. if she only knew how worried her message made him, she would've never sent it in the first place. so why did she? she thought it was funny. she thought colt would laugh about it with her. and, yes, she also needs help.
[ text to : colt seavers ] do you think the car still works? [ text to : colt seavers ] and do you know how i can pull it out of the ditch [ text to : colt seavers ] kinda need it right now
she doesn't mention the deal that has brought her to this point and location at this time. too many complexities to explain over the phone to a kind-hearted civilian.
[ text to : colt seavers ] any youtube tutorial i can watch?
i really like when rosaria doesn't speak tbh 😔
Bishop’s Garden
Cathedral Heights, Washington D.C. 03.2026
keep pushing, and see what happens. / CHIP&ROSARIA
enemies to lovers / accepting.
it's been a week since returning from the cayman islands. as agreed, rosaria shows up at the trust on monday, then she dives into her own operations for the rest of the week, except for when saltonstall calls for her presence.
what had transpired on the islands have transformed the tension between them into a monster. staying in the same space with him becomes unbearable, and there are only so many excuses she can make to leave the room; the more she strives to remain professional, the harder he tries to break her resolve.
like a brat. arrogant. self-obsessed. childish. why?
but her resistance breaks him too, and she knows it full well.
“ keep pushing, and see what happens. ”
they are at a standoff again, this time in his office, another monday catch up that ends with her between him and his desk. she looks up at him, unwavering in front of his towering height. she can see the cracks in his eyes, something raw and real bleeding through. he is confusing, the way she hates him as much as she likes him. he is so very confusing.
taking on his challenge, she plants a hand flat on his chest. with full on eye contact, she pushes him once, just as she was told. then, taking a step forward, she pushes him again. and again. and again. each push packs enough force to make him stumble a few inches, until his shins hit the couch and force him to drop.
there is no fear in her eyes. there is no hesitation when she moves. she climbs above him, knees pressing down against the expensive upholstery, legs framing but not touching his hips; she pushes away his hands and pins them to either sides of his head, giving a silent squeeze for them to stay put.
cold hands find his jaw and hold it like a chalice, from which she drinks, mouth to mouth, the taste she's been thirsting after for days.
right at this moment , he's wishing he hadn't finished his food yet . his watch reads ten more minutes until he needs to skedaddle back to his classroom . he could've waited five more minutes to heat up his lean cuisine . this is a show deserving of food . but then he wouldn't have his fingers to type . ah , never mind ! he's smart for that .
[ text to : rosaria ] why are you trying to recreate 2-HEADED SHARK ATTACK [ text to : rosaria ] you're trying to do surgery on 2 shark toys aren't you ? [ text to : rosaria ] sometimes a kitchen can be a lab . you should just use the kitchen counter . it's so easy [ text to : rosaria ] i think we have a hot glue gun somewhere
the reason is simple: she's unemployed. unlike him, who has a full-time job and social responsibilities, rosaria has the currency of time and freedom in her hand. every day, if she so wishes, there are twenty-four hours at her disposal; being creative with unstructured time is one way to keep her busy mind at bay.
[ text to: ryland🍇 ] the surgery is tonight [ text to: ryland🍇 ] i need someone to wipe sweat off my forehead
because that's what surgeons do, obviously! and she would hate for him to miss the fun.
[ text to: ryland🍇 ] i want you to come up with a safe formula for sea foam [ text to: ryland🍇 ] bring back preferably the raw ingredients bc we're making them as we film [ text to: ryland🍇 ] is that doable?
her rapid fire messaging says one thing: she is in the middle of a boredom-induced mania. and she's still not finished. she sends another picture: a cardboard box full of toy sharks.
[ text to: ryland🍇 ] the sharks are sleeping for now [ text to: ryland🍇 ] they don't know what's coming
poor sharks. she has ordered spares in case the first operation fails.
Catherynne M. Valente, from her novel titled "Six-Gun Snow White," originally published in 2013
"i could fix him" good for you. im gonna join him in his insanity
