tidelines and beginnings

i’m saf (she/they). 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

https://archiveofourown.org/works/63006373

scar goodtimes vs the permit office

6k • comedy

https://archiveofourown.org/works/63498931

looking for group

10k • d&d AU

https://archiveofourown.org/works/63344272

victory condition

4k • watcher AU / existential horror

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

Always, Again, You (complete)

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.

i built a shrine out of bottlecaps and starlight. called it adulthood, but left the door open for wonder to wander in.

somewhere between paycheck and prophecy, i learned that joy has claws -- it leaves small crescent moons in the palms of anyone brave enough to hold it.

they told me to sand down my edges, to quiet the colors that refused to fade. but i was raised by constellations and loading screens, and the gods of my making still hum in pixel light.

i am the ache of nostalgia with new teeth, the echo of laughter that outgrew shame. there is moss on my logic, there are flowers in my code.

call it childish, but the moon still answers when i name her, and i am not afraid of being seen with my wonder showing.

they said she was lucky.

they said she lived.

they said many things, all of them wrong.

the blade caught halfway through the prayer -- split breath from voice, air from meaning. it left her open to the light for a heartbeat, long enough for the executioners to step back and murmur about omens. a woman who would not die was a bad sign; they left her to the doctor to make the problem disappear.

he smelled of clove and copper. his hands were clean and too careful. the walls were hung with drying herbs that had forgotten their purpose. when he sewed her back together, the stitches tugged unevenly; she could feel the thread tightening every time she tried to breathe.

later she would realize that was the point.

the wound closed, but not kindly. skin learned the shape of silence before it learned to knit. when she swallowed, something caught halfway down, as though a second mouth inside her was trying to open. the doctor called it a miracle that she could breathe at all.

the nights were longer in the clan compound. oil smoke clung to her hair; she could taste iron in the water. her scar itched when anyone spoke her name. once, she pressed her fingers to it and felt a faint pulse, like a small creature trapped beneath the surface, confused and alive.

they liked her quiet. it made the air around her behave. she learned to move like a shadow that had forgotten what cast it -- sleeves brushing the floor, no sound but the soft rasp of fabric. sometimes the servants crossed themselves when she passed. sometimes she saw her reflection and did not recognize the angle of her own jaw.

the doctor examined her every season, lifting her chin, tracing the seam he’d made.

he said, see how well you’ve healed.

she wondered what he meant by you.

when she slept, she dreamed of the moment before the blade slipped, the rush of air, the bright edge of nothing. she dreamed of what the voice must have looked like when it left her, how it might have escaped through the open wound, climbing into the air like smoke.

in the mornings, she woke to find her throat damp, though she hadn’t cried. the scar gleamed faintly, as if the skin still wept in its own small language.

she wrote instead of speaking. her script was narrow, fevered, beautiful. the ink bled through paper, ghosting the next page. she wrote the same sentence again and again until the meaning went thin: it hurts to stay here.

when it rains, the seam pulls tight. when it’s dry, it burns. sometimes she thinks the thread inside her is still there, winding deeper each year, anchoring her to the house.

the clan calls her a good omen now, a spirit kept in service. she carries tea, she cleans the shrine steps, she listens to the wind scrape against the tiles.

the air was thick with the scent of rain and old smoke. the storm had passed hours ago, but the damp still clung to everything -- the floorboards, the walls, the skin of the man sitting slumped against the bedframe.

his breathing came shallow. each exhale rasped, soft and wet, like something trying to escape. the blood on his shirt had gone dark around the edges, crusted into petals of rust. beneath it, faint light pulsed with every heartbeat, a rhythm too slow, too fragile.

the other knelt in front of him, sleeves rolled high, hands slick with water and antiseptic. his voice was low, almost hoarse. “keep still.”

the man laughed, but it caught halfway up his throat. “you say that like i have a choice.”

“you always have a choice,” came the reply. “you just never pick the one that keeps you alive.”

the sound he made could’ve been amusement or pain -- it was hard to tell. “then i’m consistent.”

the other pressed the cloth to his side, and the smell of iron bloomed sharp between them. his hands didn’t shake, but his breath did. “it’s getting worse,” he murmured.

“lie to me.”

“no.”

“you used to.”

“you used to listen.”

silence settled. the air was heavy enough to hum. outside, wind moved through wet leaves; inside, their world had shrunk to the pulse of blood and the faint scrape of linen against skin.

“does it hurt?”

“yes.”

“good,” the other said, and it almost sounded like a prayer.

he looked up through half-lidded eyes, pupils wide and glassy. “you’ll ruin your hands with all this,” he said. “stains don’t wash out easy.”

“neither do you.”

that got him to laugh -- quiet, breathless. the motion made the wound spill fresh red, warm enough to steam in the cool air.

the other caught the cloth again, pressing down, and the man arched forward with a hiss. his body shook once, twice, then went still. the contact left streaks of blood across the other’s wrist, thin as calligraphy.

“there,” he whispered. “that’s better.”

“for you, maybe.”

“don’t start.”

but the edge was gone from the words; what was left sounded like grief that had grown too tired to hide.

when the bleeding slowed, the other leaned back on his heels. rainlight filtered through the window -- thin, silver, trembling. the man against the bedframe let his head tip sideways until it rested against the other’s shoulder. his skin was fever-warm, his breath damp against fabric.

“you should sleep,” came the murmur.

“you’ll leave if i do.”

“no.”

“you always do.”

this time there was no answer. only the faint sound of their breathing syncing, slow, uneven, the kind of rhythm that would break if you looked at it too closely.

when he finally slipped under, the other stayed where he was.

his shoulder ached. his knees hurt. outside, the rain began again, quiet and deliberate, as if the world was trying to wash the blood from the night.

in the breathless trembling twilight where heaven brushed the edges of the world cassiel lingered at the precipice of eternity wings unfurled radiant shimmering each feather spun from dawn’s silk light woven of stardust & dream so delicate so impossibly beautiful they seemed fragile against the vast emptiness

the rustle was lullaby a hymn echoing love that defied time and yet in the hollow of his chest an ache throbbed a wound that refused to close

for millennia cassiel was grace & stillness an eternal witness walking among stars tracing comets across the dark dancing in the shimmer of auroras but none of it stirred him like the fragile creature below

a boy bound by the heavy chain of mortality moving through the world with unearthly grace his laughter piercing the silence of heaven wrapping around cassiel’s heart like a silken noose tightening tighter

the boy’s name a forbidden hymn a secret thrumming in cassiel’s blood whispered into winds like prayer seen in every fragile joy every sorrow a living flame against pale shadow to cassiel he was sun a beacon outshining all dim heavens a fleeting star whose every smile was promise

and so cassiel lingered hovering unseen dreams woven into his being convinced they were meant that no heaven could keep them apart

but heaven pressed cold & unyielding a cage of stars a purpose of silence how could he remain untouched when the boy below burned so briefly every heartbeat a reminder of mortal fire

his resolve broke he could not endure eternity without that warmth to stay aloft untouched was to wither he had to fall others had fallen in wrath in flame but his fall was love pure foolish doomed love that burned through reason that blinded him to pain to heartbreak looming like shadow

he tore his wings free feather by feather a scream shaking the fabric of the universe grace unraveling into motes of light stars dimming in mourning as his wings dissolved into rain of fire

still he clung to the thought of the boy the smile the laughter the warmth worth every agony

cassiel fell a broken star a streak of light across black expanse remnants of wings trailing like dream-ash until earth met him hard bone shattering breath gone mortal body trembling raw

and through haze of pain he saw him the boy

who are you storm-gray eyes wide with fear

i fell for you i gave it all up for you

i don’t know you

the words struck sharper than lightning cassiel staggered whispering no please i know you i’ve watched you i love you

you’ve watched me

i was always there i saw your joy your sorrow i loved you

how can you love me when i don’t know you

please just tell me you felt something

i never did

cassiel collapsed to the dirt weeping i gave up everything for you

i’m sorry

the boy turning away silhouette fading into dark

and cassiel alone so terribly alone lifted his voice into silence

i fell for you

bellamy doesn’t see her at first. she hears her. the sound is low, wet, caught between a gasp and a choke, tucked into the dark like it belongs there. when she rounds the corner, it takes a moment for her eyes to catch up to what her ears already knew.

aline is on the floor. knees pulled in, arms wrapped too tight around herself, head bowed as though the weight of it might split her neck. there’s blood down her chin, dark against the pale of her skin, staining the front of her shirt in an irregular bloom.

“aline.” bellamy’s voice comes out hoarse, broken in half between relief and horror.

aline’s head jerks up too quickly; she flinches at the light spilling in, and for a second there’s panic in her eyes, the kind that looks feral -- like an animal cornered, like someone who has forgotten what gentleness feels like.

“don’t,” aline rasps, and the word shreds her throat.

bellamy freezes in place. her hands twitch at her sides, aching to touch, to steady, to soothe, but she stays where she is. “don’t what?”

aline drags in a breath, shaky, uneven. “don’t -- don’t ask.”

“ask what? if you’re hurt?” bellamy takes a step closer. “you are hurt, aline. i can see it.”

aline turns her face away. the angle hides the worst of it, but not enough. there’s a bruise swelling across her cheekbone, purple-blue blooming like a storm under the skin. her lip is split, the corner of her mouth raw and tacky. and deeper still -- her silence is bleeding.

“aline.” her name again, softer this time, like maybe saying it gently will unravel the knots. “tell me what happened.”

nothing. aline’s hands tighten where they clutch at her knees, white-knuckled, nails carving half-moons into her own skin.

bellamy crouches down now, ignoring the way her heart claws at her ribs. “look at me.”

aline doesn’t.

so bellamy reaches out, slow, careful, fingers trembling as they find aline’s jaw. aline flinches but doesn’t pull away this time. her skin is hot, fevered under the bruises.

“please,” bellamy whispers. “please don’t make me guess. don’t make me watch you break yourself trying to keep it secret.”

aline’s eyes flick up finally, and the sight of them guts her. red-rimmed, glassy, pupils blown wide with pain and something that looks too much like fear. her mouth opens -- bellamy thinks this is it, thinks she’s won the truth -- but all aline does is shake her head, small and violent, lips pressing together until they pale.

“no,” aline breathes. “i can’t.”

“you can’t, or you won’t?”

aline’s silence is the answer.

rage sparks bright in bellamy’s chest, not at aline but at the shadow of whoever did this, at the cruelty that left her here bleeding and afraid and silent. she wants to demand it, wants to rip the name out of her throat, but the way aline’s shoulders are hunched makes her bite the words back.

instead, she lets her forehead drop gently against aline’s, their breaths tangling in the space between them. “it’s killing me,” she admits, voice breaking. “watching you like this. knowing someone hurt you and you won’t let me help. i don’t know how to carry it if you won’t share the weight.”

aline shudders, a full-body tremor that shakes her against her own arms. a sob claws up but dies behind clenched teeth.

bellamy wraps her arms around her then, consequences be damned. aline stiffens, resists for a heartbeat, then collapses into it, every line of her body giving way. the sound she makes -- ragged, torn -- is not confession, but it is surrender.

and maybe that’s all bellamy will get tonight. no names, no stories. just the bruises pressed against her chest, just the salt of tears soaking into her shoulder.