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

He’d crooned and lilted the entire time; much quieter than it’d been the last time he’d lain someone of the coast. Vonn continued to do such, even after they’d unraveled from another and he’d slung himself out alongside the seafarer. His entire being shivered with exertion, just about spent, and he wished to go again all the same. Alas, he’d had to settle for cleaning his courtesan up, and then himself.

The pale rook was ravenous in a way he hadn’t been in quite some time, so Firefly’s discomfort didn’t immediately register; but then Vonn looked up from grooming a foreleg, and surrendered a crooked half-smile. “You were delicious, amor, if it’s any consolation,” he croaked, and then appraised him with half-moon eyes. “How are your legs?” Dios mio, he hadn’t ran him too ragged, had he?