#700celebration

[vellichorwrites]

Charlie Harrington — the boy who was born not for love but for the sake of it. the boy who was never loved by his parents. started learning about hacking and bombs at a really young age, probably too young for that. soft and rich.

OC edit for @delphwrites

[feargender]

🌹 but for your url?

700 follower celebration

Alec’s brain is about to drip out of his ears. His soul is about to claw its way out of him through his mouth. He swears he can feel the breath of every person he passes on his skin, every word uttered is too much. Too loud. Overwhelming. His clothes, which were comfortable that morning, are itching him all over. 

He gets inside the elevator of Magnus’ apartment building and clicks the button for the penthouse. He slides down the wall and presses both his hands over his ears tightly, trying to hold his brain in and keep the noise out. The sound of his pounding pulse fills his head, but it’s comforting. Familiar. Entirely his own. On the way up he rocks back and forth slightly, focusing on his breathing and the steady rhythm he’s tapping against his head with his fingers until the elevator dings open and he has to get up. 

For the first time in his life Alec hopes Magnus isn’t home when he opens the door. Speech is definitely beyond him right now, and being confronted with someone talking to him won’t go well. But the loft is quiet when he enters and he breathes out a silent breath of relief. 

He takes his shoes off and hangs up his jacket, slowly, methodically, before he goes straight to the shower, stripping all of his clothes off and making the water lukewarm. The shower washes away a million phantom touches, course fabric and the memory of every texture he’s come into contact that day. He uses the least fragrant soap available, but still uses Magnus’ shampoo, the smell comforting. 

Momentarily Alec mourns the fact that he doesn’t have his own favorite sweat clothes at the loft with him, but then settles on some of Magnus’. The joggers are a little too short and the henley baggy, but they’re soft and non restricting and smell like Magnus. 

Alec momentarily surveys Magnus’ room before coming to a decision, switching off the lights and drawing the curtains, protecting his aching head from the sunshine. The comforter on the bed isn’t nearly as heavy as Alec’s weighted blanket at Institute, but it will have to do. He slides all the way under it, leaving the lower half of his face exposed so he can breathe and shuts his eyes, the world muffled by the thick blanket.

He abandoned the Institute just after lunch. Some days are like this, where he can’t even think because he’s so overwhelmed. Like the entire world is heaving but he’s the only one that can feel it. 

There’s not much for it, even things that might be comforting are too much. Too loud, too stimulating, too complicated. So he briefly wonders what he’ll tell Magnus, and then succumbs to his brain urging him to stop thinking at all. 

[vellichorwrites]

OISÍN CARY — he flitted about the battlefield like an imp on the hunt for trouble, thriving off of violence like it was the one thing that made him feel alive.

OC edit for @ivonoris

[vellichorwrites]

Valeska Jelínková — “the perennial sadness of a girl who is both Death and the Maiden”

OC edit for @kowlazovdi! 

[vellichorwrites]

LONDON MARX — godhood is just like girlhood: a begging to be believed

OC edit for @ill-write-when-im-dead

[vellichorwrites]

CATERINA SFORZA — OC edit for @desperatlytryingtowriteabook

[vellichorwrites]

SCHEHERAZADE — they broke the wrong parts of me. they broke my wings and forgot i had claws

OC edit for @the-ichor-of-ruination

[vellichorwrites]

CALYPSO VLIET — death sits in the seat next to me. we make a lovely couple.

OC edit for @novelistcore