Never Apologize - Tumblr Posts
"wildlife photographer"
...no I will not apologize
Say Cheese
He’s exactly like the stories: menacing, smart, dangerous. Fucking embarrassing as it is to die like this, like a damned idiot, at least she won’t have lost to some half-witted fuck who won on a stroke of luck.
With one brow he makes it obvious her strategy’s fallen flat. So much for knocking him off-balance. Vague plans of pretending to know someone co-opting his legend to sic him on their tail and off of hers evaporates before they can even really get started. She can’t blame him for reveling in a reputation like his, annoying as it is that she’s failed to raise his ire the way she wants.
She damned near opens her mouth to start arguing—it isn’t quite the same thing, is it?, comparing an identity chosen in adulthood to one pushed in early adolescence—when he turns back around and snaps about lying. There’s no sense in arguing even after he’s done. It’s enough to set Anne back on edge, grinding her teeth together to keep herself from digging her proverbial grave any deeper. Anne swallows back bile and ire in equal measure. Besides, if Anne’s caught the pattern correctly (and she’s near certain she has) she needs to start bracing: he’ll be aiming again for the gut soon.
The gut punch arrives as predicted, and expecting it does make it an easier blow to handle. The Shark is no fool; he isn’t human enough to be one. He knows things only Anne, Jack, and a ghost should, damning things: her past aliases might be explained away by knowing her father, but the burning estate was a secret she’d meant to take to her grave. She feels neither shame nor regret in what she’d done—and why should she?—but there are reasons she’s never sifted through the ashes herself.
Her silence is damning. She knows it. The Shark’s gotten his fucking blood, and now he’s circling for more. Is this why they call him the Shark? Not because he’s a predator, not because of his fucked up teeth or because you won’t know he’s there until he strikes, not even because he follows the scent of blood, but because he’s always circling? Her hair is plastered to her forehead with sweat, her shirt sticks to her back with it, and the rope at her wrists growing swollen with it and tighter as a result. She doesn’t try to follow his circling until he says the thing that finally makes some damned sense of this whole encounter. You did get away from me that one time.
Fucking hell. The Shark had been on her trail at one time. At two times counting this latest, and neither time she’d been aware of it. What had she done to end up on the boogeyman’s hit list? She starts to wrack her brains for the answer—maybe she’s a means to an end still, maybe his interest is her father, or the stupid bitch she’d done for just after losing the privilege of being Andy—when he touches on another nerve, red and raw and angry. Sloppy? Sloppy?! She’d been a fucking sheltered-arse teenager when she’d done most of that shite! Sloppy! Hah! For a pair of fledgling kills those had both been surprisingly neat, especially spur of the moment as they’d been! He tuts in her ear but doesn’t make the mistake of lingering again, meaning she doesn’t have the chance to split his skull on hers.
When she speaks this time, it’s without a plan. (The plan’s gone to shit already. There’s no plan now outside of “draw more blood before dying.”)
“Ye’ve got the fucking wretch. I watched the whole damned house go up in flame afore I left: he died trapped and alone, same as he tried to do t’me.” Well. More literally than he’d tried to do to her, but that’s an unimportant detail in the grand scheme of things. “Now, if ye’re done jerking yerself off: free me or fucking kill me. Tired of this idiot game already.”
Anne’s spent her life being the growling underdog, the bitch, protective and snappish. She doesn’t bark when she can bite. The second he feels comfortable enough to touch her again, a spark lights in her eyes that hasn’t been there since she was a pup herself, the last dying embers of the firestorm she’d been in her youth. It hadn’t been beaten all the way out, and this is the first gasp of air it’s had in years.
There’s blood dripping over the bastard’s mouth as he speaks; she’d managed to break his nose, all right, but he hardly seemed to feel it. She’ll make him feel the next one. His wrist is well within range of her teeth, and she’s just figuring how she’ll jerk in towards him again to free her face some before trying to rip through his wrist with her teeth, when he manages a second gut punch, this one worse than the first. That had only been strange, perhaps a mite frightening: this actually knocks the wind from her—and worse, a spike of fear drives it way through all of the anger, cracking through her rage and onto her face.
She hasn’t been Anne Cormac since she was sixteen, nor Andy since a year or two before.
For a moment it feels like she’s going to make sick; she doesn’t, though her head is spinning and her stomach is somewhere near her boots. Shit. She is so fucked. She really must be cursed to have managed to sneak aboard a ship already looking for her. The ship of someone who knew a past she’d left buried in South Carolina. Worse, the ship of someone who knew her father—and not just his name, clearly. William Cormac, esquire, would not have approved of its delivery, but the message sent is a lesson he no doubt would have wanted imparted to her: open your eyes, girl! She hadn’t even realized she had them closed until the pressure disappeared from her jaw and he stepped away.
A third gut punch, but one much easier to handle than the first two. (She’s worn down. Dull. This is a really shit time for her to be playing mind games, drawing on energy resources already badly drained from the events of the days before.) Maybe she’s getting the hang of this, though, catching the pattern already: he throws out what it takes to fuck with her, then backs off to see what sticks. If she can pull herself back together, she could go on the offensive here—really get her feet under her and get going. If she can knock him off-balance, even once…. She needs to buy time back first, though.
She doesn’t doubt for one moment he’s the fucking Shark. Didn’t even need to say it, not after a peek into what he knows about her. If she wasn’t so damned hot right now, there’d be no color in her face at all. How do you stop a shark? You punch it in the nose
—Fuck, she’s done that already! What’s next? They…generally don’t survive the tales she’s heard, the people in Anne’s position. Their death is usually the call to action for the hero to take arms and avenge their death: Patroclus at the mercy of Hector, Mercutio on Tybalt’s sword, nevermind the hushed names attached to the Shark’s own legends.
She digs her nails into her palm in an age-old gesture to help ground herself. She’ll be the first to survive or the next to set their name ablaze.
“The Shark’s a fucking saltwater boogeyman: a tale sailors tell to spook one another. Smart to co-opt his legend, though. We almost crossed paths once, did ye know? Back when he set that fire near Nassau.” That’s another lie and she knows it—but maybe he doesn’t. Off-balance. She’d set that fire, and she’d started the rumor that pirates had done it, and somewhere down the line someone connected it to the Shark’s whereabouts and assumptions were made and never dispelled. “I’d been there that morning. Decided that night to elope. Lucky me, aye?, escaping a fiery death by a few hours.”
AHHH RAIN YOUR BEAUTIFUL MIND <3
Kairos seems like the type to be so shaky too 🥰 thighs trembling, barely able to hold up his weight...
I want to steady him by digging my fingers into his thighs and leaving finger shaped bruises (◍>ᴗ<◍)🩷🩷
i’m actively sucking off kairos while he’s crossdressing 🩷 he’s so cute <3
i'm giggling... once again, hard agree with you (/▿＼ )
ooh... Imagining Kairos laying darling down on the bed before cutely lifting his dainty skirt to reveal his twitching cock. He places knees on each side of your head as he slowly thrusts his dick into your mouth, gradually increasing his pace...
And then at some point, the sucking just becomes full-on face fucking. His small thighs are pressing against your head as he's unable to control himself, and his shaking hands are harshly gripping the bed sheets.
All of that while beads of sweat trickle down his pale skin.. He thrusts so enthusiastically...! Whimpers your name and praises you like crazy...
Sigh...... (*ﾉωﾉ)
When he's cross-dressing, you can call him your "good girl" ღ
