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

If asked, Vonn would tell the corsair how perfectly, how deeply he felt that revulsion — used to, but instead all he’d gotten was a quip and some sand scuffed at him. Primly, he blinked through the dry churn, promptly shook himself free of it, and surged to his paws when he saw Firefly stumble again.

He was at his side in a few moments, near and steadying whether the pirate wished it or not. Vonn offered his shoulder all the same, and simply mused, “Once, I wouldn’t have thought myself fine with this — bedding males, that is.” He spoke entirely without apology but with every regard in Firefly’s best interest  ( that he tried to discern and feel, of course. )

“Once, I thought that this was some curse set upon me by the tormentor of my past.” A past that he’d allowed Aurëwen to portent to others; a past that he himself seldom spoke about. “When I was a yearling, I had my first female, like most,” was the wry, lewd drawl, “and then, I decided to indulge in the masculine in half that time. I try to not be lengthy about it, but, I no longer feel ashamed of what I’ve become. Nor do I feel endlessly sullied.”

The crow halted, and appraised Fly with a patient, considering — and nonetheless smoldering — look. “There are many beautiful things in this world, mi amor. I told myself it would be a shame to not discover them.” He pursed scarred lips, the infuriating curl returning to them, “If you decide there is no appeal of it to you, then, by all means, return to your females. I certainly wouldn’t blame you.”