tidelines and beginnings

saf // they/she // 18+ profile image by lazylittledragon

[mrgrtvll]

🌸 welcome 🌸

i’m saf (they/she). archivist of half-finished thoughts, writer of too many worlds, collector of candles and quiet moments.

this blog is a shoreline: fragments of prose, worlds in progress, and the aesthetics that keep me breathing.

even the waves of fate can break upon the shores of will.

✦ my writing

scarian/life series

always, again, you

24k • angst / reincarnation

looking for group

10k • d&d AU

scar goodtimes vs the permit office

6k • comedy

[solarispasserineii]

Desert Duo!! ^^🏜️

Fully rendered the sketch eheh

[milodotjpg]

Locked in for this I LOVE MIDNIGHT STRANGERS RAAAH

[sconesalot]

am i my brother’s keeper?

[vampiressmpzine]

Contributor Spotlight: Saf [WRITING MOD]

Our next spotlight is our writing moderator, Saf!

"Saf is the Writing Mod for the Vampires SMP Zine and a longtime fandom writer, moderator, and organizer. They’re a firm believer that every project can be improved with a spreadsheet, a deadline, and at least one enthusiastic ramble about fictional characters. They’re thrilled to help bring this zine to life alongside such a talented group of contributors."

You can find Saf on tumblr ( @mrgrtvll ) and ao3.

[ID: Graphic in the style of the Vampires SMP inventory highlighting zine writing moderator Saf (they/she pronouns). It includes the above description about Saf. It also lists their tumblr - mrgrtvll and ao3 - mrgrtvll. End ID]

[mrgrtvll]

a perfectly normal workplace interaction

scar learns, four days into dating grian, that grian has absolutely no idea what to do with being liked.

not in a dramatic way. not in a tragic, carefully guarded heart sort of way. just in the very practical sense that scar walks into the permit office with a coffee, a lemon muffin, and a tiny ceramic giraffe wearing reading glasses, and grian looks at all three like they are evidence in a case against him.

“no,” grian says.

scar pauses with the giraffe halfway through the document slot. “you don’t even know what i’m doing.”

“you’re giving me that.”

“well, yes.”

“then no.”

“grian,” scar says, wounded. “she has a clipboard.”

“i can see that.”

“her name is gertrude.”

behind the counter, cub quietly lowers a stack of files.

grian closes his eyes for a long, pained second, which scar has learned usually means he is experiencing affection and deeply resents everyone involved. when he opens them again, his ears are pink.

“i am not putting gertrude on my desk.”

“of course not,” scar says, and sets her carefully beside the monitor.

grian does not move her.

this feels significant.

scar slides the coffee through next. “also, your usual.”

“i don’t have a usual.”

“you do. you said the office coffee tastes like wet cardboard and betrayal, then ordered an oat milk latte with two sugars and called it the least offensive option available.”

grian stares at him.

scar beams back, because this is the nice thing about grian: if you remember him on purpose, he looks like he might bite you, but only because he does not know where else to put being seen.

“thank you,” grian mutters eventually, so quietly scar almost misses it.

almost.

scar’s whole face goes soft.

“don’t,” grian says immediately.

“i’m not doing anything.”

“you’re looking at me like i’m a rescued animal and you’re about to build me an enclosure.”

scar considers this.

grian points at him. “do not answer that.”

“i wasn’t going to.”

“you were.”

“i was going to say enrichment is important in any habitat.”

cub makes a sound like a man losing a very private war.

grian puts his face in his hands.

gertrude remains proudly beside the monitor.

by closing time, she has acquired a tiny sticky-note badge that reads municipal services.

grian refuses to explain it.

scar takes this as a yes.

[buttercupp3r]

secret life scar save me from art block secret life scar

[mrgrtvll]

someone has to

scar has a bad habit of acting like nothing hurts him until it’s far too late to do anything about it.

grian used to think it was arrogance. then stupidity. now he thinks it’s something worse -- something gentler.

the kind of softness that survives by making itself easy to carry.

it’s infuriating.

because scar will laugh while bleeding. will smile through exhaustion. will insist he’s fine in that warm, easy voice right up until his hands start shaking around the coffee mug.

and every time, every single time, grian falls for it for at least a second.

long enough to hate himself afterward.

they’re sitting on the fire escape because scar said the apartment felt “too much like being inside a microwave dinner,” which means absolutely nothing and yet somehow made perfect sense at the time.

the city hums below them. neon reflecting in puddles six stories down. someone’s playing music badly through an open window.

scar’s shoulder presses against his.

not enough to mean anything.

enough to ruin him anyway.

“you’re brooding again,” scar says eventually.

“i’m thinking.”

“dangerous pastime.”

grian snorts despite himself. scar smiles like he’s won something.

that’s the problem with him.

he treats every tiny crack in grian’s armor like a gift instead of an accident.

scar tilts his head back against the brick wall, eyes half-lidded. there’s a bruise blooming dark beneath his jaw from earlier, ugly against warm skin.

grian keeps looking at it.

he hates that scar notices.

“it’s not that bad,” scar says.

“i didn’t say anything.”

“you made the face.”

“What face?”

“the one where you look like you’re about to either kiss me or kill someone.”

grian goes very still.

scar laughs softly, like he hasn’t noticed what he’s done.

or maybe he has.

that’s worse.

“you should’ve let me help,” grian says after a moment.

scar shrugs one shoulder. “didn’t need it.”

“that’s not the point.”

scar glances at him then, really looks at him, amusement fading around the edges.

“you can’t keep acting like it’s your job to save everybody,” he says quietly.

grian almost laughs.

because that’s rich coming from him.

coming from the man who will hold broken things together with bleeding hands and call it practicality.

“someone has to,” grian mutters.

scar’s expression does something small and painful.

there and gone.

“you say that,” he says softly, “like you think you’re not included in everybody.”

and there it is.

the terrible thing about scar.

he says things like that in the gentlest voice imaginable, like he doesn’t realize he’s reaching directly into grian’s ribcage and wrapping a hand around something vital.

grian looks away first.

he always does.

[buttercupp3r]

a snippet of @mrgrtvll 's fic ! pls give it a read it was very funny :3 i am very fond of zookeeper scar idk if you can tell

[mrgrtvll]

aaaaaaa omg i love it so much thank you <3

[mrgrtvll]

hey! i loved your permit office comedy fic :DD would you mind if i made fanart based off of it? i will tag you of course

i would be so honored! i’m so glad you loved it. please go ahead, i can’t wait to see it <3

[mrgrtvll]

stay

it is not meant to be touched. that is not a rule anyone has spoken aloud, but it exists all the same -- buried beneath the others, deeper, quieter. observe. record. do not interfere. do not be felt.

the king does not seem to know this. or he knows, and does not care.

“hold still,” he says, soft with something that should not be directed at it.

his hand lifts, unhurried, as though this is a normal thing to do -- as though it is something that happens every day, something that belongs to the shape of the world. it does not move away. it does not understand why it does not move away.

fingers brush its cheek.

light. careful. as if it might break.

something in it goes very still -- not the practiced stillness, not the emptiness it was made for, but something else. something… waiting.

“there you are,” the king murmurs, like he has found something. like it was ever lost.

it does not know what he is looking at. it does not know what he thinks he sees.

but it leans into the touch. just slightly. just enough to make the contact undeniable.

something fractures.

not visibly. not completely. but enough.

his thumb lingers, warm and real and wrong.

“stay,” the king says, quieter now -- not a command, not quite a request.

it does not have a directive for this. it does not have language for this, or a classification, or anything that resembles permission.

it stays.

[mrgrtvll]

come closer

the forest does not like to be named. it tolerates it, sometimes. allows the shapes of things to be spoken aloud, lets meaning settle just long enough for mortals to pretend they understand where they are. but it does not belong to language. it does not belong to anyone.

he should not be here. this is the only thing that feels certain. not the path, which shifts when he tries to follow it. not the light, which fractures and reforms in ways that do not match the sky above it. not even his own footsteps, which sound too soft, too distant, like they are happening somewhere slightly to the side of him.

and yet -- he is here. bright with it. carrying something warm and stubborn through a place that does not keep warmth for long.

for a moment, something small slips through the edges of him -- soft fur, a flash of green eyes, the quiet, steady presence of something that once followed at his heels. it is gone before it can settle. it always is.

the clearing is not hidden. it is waiting.

the air tightens as he steps into it. not colder. not heavier. just closer.

and at the center of it -- a man.

no.

not a man.

he knows that before the thought finishes forming. knows it in the same way he knows to breathe, to move, to reach for light even when it isn’t there. something in him recognizes the shape of wrongness and calls it familiar.

the figure turns.

he does not look surprised.

that is the second thing that feels certain.

there is no crown. there does not need to be. something in the air arranges itself around him anyway, quiet and absolute. the light bends wrong at his shoulders. the space at his back refuses to settle.

“you shouldn’t be here,” he says.

it is not a warning. it is not a question. it is simply --

true.

he should leave. the thought arrives clean, immediate, untouched by hesitation. he does not move.

the king watches him.

his gaze is steady. curious, almost, but not in the way people are curious. in the way something old might look at something new and already know how it ends.

somewhere far above the canopy, in a place that does not quite exist unless you are looking for it, something leans closer.

it does not intervene.

it only observes.

“come closer,” the king says.

it is not a command. it lands like one anyway.

he takes a step.

error: instruction conflict.

the word means nothing to him. the feeling does. something in him pulls back, sharp and instinctive, like touching heat.

something else --

leans in.

the distance closes.

up close, the wrongness sharpens. not monstrous. not unnatural in any way that can be pointed to and named. just precise. too precise. like he has been placed here on purpose, and everything around him has agreed.

“what is your name,” the king asks.

the answer rises immediately. it always does. a reflex. a certainty. something bright and familiar, something that feels like it belongs to sunlight and open space and the sound of something laughing without reason.

it catches.

for a moment, it does not come.

the king smiles.

it is a small thing. barely there. but it shifts the shape of everything around it.

“that’s all right,” he says, voice soft with something that feels too much like understanding. “i can give you one.”

the forest stills.

and in the quiet, something settles into place. not a word. not a thought. something deeper. something that feels like it has always been waiting for this exact moment to exist.

he does not know what he is supposed to do.

he knows what he is going to do.

he steps closer.

[mrgrtvll]

hello to everyone who has been reading scar goodtimes vs the permit office lately -- thank you, this is delightful

i do need to know though: did the permit office approve a new influx of readers or did someone yell about this fic on twitter somewhere

either way if you found it recently please tell me where because i am very curious about the chain of events here

[mrgrtvll]

watcher

they say the first rule of watching is distance.

observe.

record.

do not interfere.

the rule is older than most stars. it is written into the bones of the universe, etched into the quiet places where time pools and gathers like water in stone basins. it is repeated to every new watcher in the same careful tone one might use to warn a child away from fire.

you will see many things, they say.

cities rising like coral from the sea.

empires collapsing beneath the weight of their own crowns.

the small, fragile miracle of mortal lives -- bright and brief and burning themselves out long before the watcher has even finished looking.

you must not grow attached.

it sounds easy enough in theory.

for a long time, it is.

watching becomes a habit the way breathing becomes a habit. the world spins and the watcher records it all with quiet patience. generations pass like the turning of pages. names bloom and fade. rivers change their course. mountains wear themselves into gentler shapes.

everything moves forward.

everything leaves.

this is simply how the world works.

but every system has a flaw, if you look long enough.

sometimes it is very small.

sometimes it is something as simple as a laugh.

not the polite sort, the kind people use in crowded rooms or careful conversations. not the restrained kind that lives behind hands or in the corners of smiles.

this one is bright and careless and alive in a way the watcher has not heard in centuries.

it rises up from the earth like birds startled from tall grass.

the watcher pauses.

below, in a field of wildflowers that have no business blooming so late in the season, a mortal man is laughing as though the world itself has just told him a joke.

the sound carries.

it climbs the air, slips through the quiet seams between moments, and reaches the place where watchers stand.

that should not be possible.

the watcher leans closer.

just a little.

just enough to see him properly.

the mortal is barefoot, which is impractical. his hair catches the light like scattered gold. he moves through the field as though he has forgotten that gravity exists, brushing his hands against the flowers and leaving a small wake of swaying color behind him.

he looks unbearably alive.

the watcher tells himself he is only observing.

after all, that is the purpose of watching.

but when the mortal glances upward -- not quite at the sky, not quite anywhere at all -- something tightens unexpectedly in the watcher’s chest.

for a moment, the watcher wonders what it might be like to step closer.

to see the world from the ground instead of the stars.

to hear that laughter from only a few feet away.

he does not move.

of course he does not.

rules exist for a reason.

but somewhere far below, the mortal laughs again, bright and reckless and impossible to ignore.

and the watcher, who has witnessed the birth and death of countless worlds without once feeling the need to reach for them,

leans closer.

just a little.

just enough to begin the slow, inevitable collapse of everything he was ever told not to want.

[vampiressmpzine]

Applications are now officially closed; please bear with us as we sift through them all! We got a whopping 214 of you apply to take part, so there's a bit for us to look over.

[mrgrtvll]

i've been possessed for like three days straight. wrote a 23k reincarnation multichapter scarian fic where grian spends literal centuries losing scar over and over. it has: - pirates - lighthouses - breakdowns! - references to third life if you squint - an epilogue that made me cry and i wrote the damn thing completed and posted! come suffer with me.

Always, Again, You (complete)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/74198771/chapters/193623966

[mrgrtvll]

pygmalion

i carved a thing from silence. from breath i hadn’t breathed yet, from a pulse i hadn’t named. stone remembers the hands that touch it -- i learned this early.

chisel, pressure, patience. the slow devotion of shaping something the world has never seen before.

people forget that pygmalion wasn’t trying to make a woman. he was trying to make understanding. something that felt like it saw him the way he saw the world.

but here’s the part the story leaves out:

before the gods ever breathed life into his ivory masterpiece, there were imitators.

there were those who watched him work and thought, oh. i can do that too.

they copied the curve of a cheek, the tilt of a smile, the delicate angle of the wrist without knowing why the line mattered.

their statues looked almost right -- almost alive -- but hollow in the way echoes are hollow, carrying sound but not the soul.

and when pygmalion walked among them, he felt something cruel twist tight: the ache of being seen, but not truly understood.

still, he kept carving. because the original pulse can’t be stolen. because imitation carries no heartbeat. because marble opens only for the first set of hands that ever loved it.

the gods, they say, brought his statue to life. i think it’s simpler. i think the creation woke because it knew his touch, and no other.

and when he whispered her name, the stone listened -- because it remembered who shaped it.