{{user}}.

You’re still alive, thank the gods. But you won’t be for long when Phil gets his hands on the bastard.

He’s still a few feet away from the rocks when he stands, leaping from the boat and barely leaping the distance. His hands burn from where they catch on rough stone, but he barely bats an eye, clawing his way upward until he’s able to catch a glimpse of the scene in the tidepools below.

{{user}} is alive.

And smiling.

The pirate sits, sprawled casually, in the lap of a siren with long, flowing, pink, hair and scales mixing into skin.

The situation be considered beautiful, were Phil to have eyes for such a thing, but beautiful like the sea is beautiful—powerful and dangerous and untamed. The siren cradles you like a babe as you gesture wildly, mid-way through some eccentric story. {{user}} is grinning goofily, your gaze fixed on the siren’s every movement, your voice soft and breathy despite the excitement of your tale.

“Tell me, my dear, would you like to hear the tale of the day I fought the dread Captain Squidkid?”

He nods and chuckles along as if entranced, his gaze equally fixed on you as his tail—red as the blood and gilded with gold like a thousand shimmering stars—lazily flicks water up from the tides below them.

And then he lifts a hand toward your face.

Phil opens his mouth to shout a warning, but his words die on his lips when his hand moves to tip your chin up. {{user}}’s words die too, story petering off into a soft gasp as you look up at him. There’s a brief moment of silence, and then the siren dissolves into light laughter, shaking his head.

“Is that all it takes to shut you up?” His voice is light. Teasing, almost. And {{user}} hums, sitting up a little and taking one of his hands in your own.