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

All it took was one bated breath, one dry gulp of the thinning on his tongue, and Vonn barely heard what amor had to say through the dim of his blood roaring through every irrevocably sensual sliver of his body. The shit-eating grin faltered in favor of leaving the pursed, marred lips ‘o’-ing dumbly.

When he returned the silver of his eyes to the corsair’s— “My sweet sister was pregnant, actually, and elected what remained of the kru to move south.” Silver musculature listed beneath the heft of thigh and hip and stomach; rather tense, quite tense, hard to speak— “Along with that somber swain of hers, I’ll have you know.”

The crow lifted his chin, plainly baring his throat to the taller, more wiry male; hard to blink, to see him through this dizzying, heady veil of want. Fuck, when’d he’d lost his style? The suaveness that’s practically been so innate?—