Wheeling Gull Isle my fondest memory is getting stabbed with a variety of knives. (mtr.)

CUE MUSICAL INTERLUDE!

Firefly couldn't have fathomed the experience no matter how many women he'd screwed in his lifetime, but this was different, and he had wanted it — maybe out of some desperate need, some self-deprecating, hateful, gloriously rotten entitlement. A way of punishing himself for being such a self-righteous asshole to all the people in his life that he'd used and tossed aside.

Firefly knew that he'd wanted this for even longer than that. The first inkling was when the spectre had pinned him to the dry sand—but here, slick from the sopping sand of the retreating tide with drag-marks on either side of his body. The ghost had been careful, diligent, even tender but it was still a new experience and Firefly couldn't help but struggle against it.

They were knotted together as an awkward, tilted inuksuk until the stronger man atop could extricate himself, and the pirate was left sucking air while the skin across his whole body hummed. A part of him was tired of the fight, lazy and groggy as if bespelled by some sinful incantation. Not right, he thought as he felt his body beginning to cool in the sea air. 

Not right — his body quaked from exhaustion and soon enough Firefly would feel tender in places he didn't know could be tender — wrong wrong wrong — and all he could do was lay there seething.