#arithmomania

[twistedlikeness1]

Your Peace of Mind

With Riddle, Leona, and Azul x Reader with OCD (Separate)

Established relationship, SFW (possible spelling/grammar errors)

I don't see a lot of these for the Twst Fandom, which makes me a bit sad bc I have OCD, so I thought I'd write one :)

Warning: The subtypes of OCD that will be shown/detailed include Arithmomania, Contamination, and Scrupulosity. These subtypes, along with any other kind of OCD, can affect people and show themselves differently, but I wrote these scenarios with how they've affected me and shown in my life. If you might find any of this triggering, please don't read. Your mental health matters. If you don't believe OCD exists, or that it's just "perfectionism on another level" please never interact with my blog again. Thank you :)

If you have any questions about OCD, feel free to comment here or DM me, or do some digging yourself :)

Riddle

He knows what it's like to have your life structured around rules that seem nonsensical. Though his rules come from a book, and yours come from the lack of gray matter in your brain, making you do things that a "normal" person wouldn't.

Before you two got together, he suspected something was a bit off about you. The way you tapped every table you touched 4 times, the way you scrubbed at your hands until they were red. Little things, but they were near constant occurrences.

But he never brought it up. You seemed embarrassed whenever you were caught doing any of these rituals, so he ignored them, until you two started dating.

The day after you started dating, you pulled him aside, explaining why you do those "odd" compulsions. By all accounts, you should have sounded crazy, but Riddle only met you with understanding. To be governed by odd rules and expectations, he knew all about that. Having a voice inside your head telling you to do things a specific way was his life, though your situation was much worse.

He would often reassure you when he saw you starting to spiral. When he saw you at the sink for half an hour, because you didn't feel like your hands were clean. When you kept asking him if you really didn't interrupt him.

He'd touch your shoulder, telling you that all the germs had come off.

Or, he'd say, "No, my dear. You didn't interrupt me."

He would do anything he could to help you, even if your own mind seemed like a prison most days. Taking a walk through the hedge maze, randomly inviting you to tea at Heartslabyual if he noticed you were stressed. Anything to get your mind off the intrusive thoughts, the compulsions you're mind was screaming at you to do.

This was one of the rare things that would never anger him. He could never be annoyed or irritated at you, even if you asked him the same thing 100 times to get the anxiety to stop. How could he get angry at his love being under such stress?

You felt blessed to have such an understanding boyfriend. Even if he was busy, one text or call from you would have him reassuring you, either through the phone or, if he wasn't busy, inviting you over or heading to Ramshackle.

Never would he be annoyed. Never at you and your mental strife.

Leona

Honestly at first he was just confused. Why's this herbivore touching each table they're in front of 4 times? Why do they always ask overly polite questions?

"Did I interrupt you?"

"Sorry, did I bump into you?"

You always smelled like soap, too. Honestly, he'd probably have been annoyed if he didn't like you. Though one day, a few weeks before you two started dating, he decided to do some research. You didn't act like you wanted yo do all these strange things, but no one seemed to be forcing you...

He spent that entire night reading artcke after article. "Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder" is what it was called, apparently. Those who have it different from intrusive thoughts, or "obsessions" that lead to them having to do compulsions.

Huh... Well, you probably had that. But there was no point in bringing it up.

At least, not until he started dating you. You didn't even have to initiate the conversation, thankfully. No, he had just gone over to you after you tapped your fingers together 16 times in a row after you passed the threshold into your dorm.

"You doin' one of your compulsions again?"

That startled you, ice settling in your gut. When you turned around, you expected disgust, or judgement.

All you got was a cocktail smile, like he'd finally confirmed something.

He sat you down, telling you his suspicions. There was no judgement, only curiosity.

From then on, whenever he saw you doing one of your compulsions, he'd get closer, waiting until you were done to put his hand in yours. It was comforting, being grounded like that by your boyfriend. If you needed reassurance, he'd give you that, too. Usually with a forced huff or sigh, but he was never actually annoyed.

It just hurt him to see your mind torturing you like this every damn day. If you had gotten to your breaking point, or were just really stressed, he'd hug you, settling you in his lap as he nuzzled into your neck or hair. You felt safe, like the disorder couldn't find you when you were being hd by Leona. It was a temporary freedom, but freedom nonetheless.

He'd also offered to pay for your therapy or treatment, which you were still undecided on. Nevertheless, you were thankful. Your OCD seemed like less of a burden whenever he was around.

Azul

He prides himself on knowing most everything about anybody he comes across. That includes you, even if you didn't have a past accessible to him before he started getting closer to you.

He observed your strange habits, noting the patterns shown with every one. The way you seemed to touch your color 8 times after you coughed, the way you purposefully ground your foot down when entering a room for exactly 4 seconds. The fact that your hands always looked dry, no doubt from all the times you'd wash your hands and put sanitizer on.

He thought it was odd; everyone had weird habits and superstitions, but yours were in excess. Honestly, he was surprised you never came to him begging for a way to stop the habits, since it seemed like you truly didn't want to do them.

Yet, he kept quiet. All good things come to those who wait.

He just didn't expect to start dating you before he got the definition of your issue.

He had asked offhandedly, not a week after you started dating him, about your odd habits. He had chuckled, but you just frowned.

It was then when you told him about your disorder, the obsessive and compulsive components of it that caused you to do those "odd" things.

He felt terrible, trying to apologize, only to feel even more guilty when you told him this wasn't the first time someone's called your compulsions odd. Honesty, you'd been called worse because of your OCD.

That day Friars, he made sure to reduce your triggers. Disinfecting things you said you couldn't touch due to germs, washing his hands even more thoroughly. He even distracted you when he could so your mind wouldn't force you to do another compulsion.

It was tiring, but worth it. And you couldn't have been more thankful for him and his kindness. You knew that this was one of the few things he truly did out of the kindness of his heart.

If, by the end of the day, you were stressed and frustrated, he would treat you out to dinner. He'd learned to pick up on your moods so he could plan accordingly, aiming to help ease your mind as much as he could.

Even if that meant answering 50 text messages in a row asking him if he'd cleaned your toothbrush; Even if it meant cooking all protein you two were to eat to the highest temperature to ensure no food born illnesses could come from the meal.

He was the model boyfriend, the model helper when it came to your disorder. You couldn't have felt luckier to have him as your partner.

He'd do anything for you and your peace of mind.

Thank y'all for reading, I hope you enjoyed! If you want more characters, or a different version of this with different subtypes, pls let me know or send a request in :)

Have a great day/night!!!

[yhancik]

placing poppy seeds, millet, or sand on the ground at the grave site of a presumed vampire; this was intended to keep the vampire occupied all night by counting the fallen grains, indicating an association of vampires with arithmomania

[themarginalthinker]

Saves Nine

(Marko can't find his sewing kit, so he and Paul look for it. They find Dwayne in a bit of a state. A look into how Dwayne's vampiric bane manifests sometimes)

-

"Ow, fuck," Paul hisses, shaking out his fingers as he works on his bass.

He eyes the red line between fingertips, knowing it will be gone by the end of the evening, but also knowing it's going to be majorly annoying. He's waited too long to get all the strings on his beloved instrument replaced and now he's paying the price.

From the other side of the quiet den, Marko wanders in. In his hands is a jacket.

Denim, sturdy. It's new, the actual fabric of the original article still the main base of the structure, but Marko has been steadily working on replacing that. Like the Ship of Theseus, transforming it bit by bit into something unique. Embroidered sections stood starkly contrasted with pre-constructed patches, buttons starting to dot one sleeve, real silk ribbons snaking their way through the shoulder and cuff of the other side. No one was ever quite sure what drove Marko's design choices for his art - interest, pique, maybe just sparkly - but it was always fun to watch the piece come together, themes and transitions between sections revealing themselves in unexpected ways.

Right now though, Marko was looking less than pleased with his project. Well. Not quite the project itself.

He looks up at Paul, tucked away in his window nook about ten feet off the ground, accessable only to someone able to defy conventional laws of gravity. He catches Paul's eye, who just raises a brow.

"Where is my sewing kit."

Paul's brow now furrows. He shrugs a little.

"I dunno. I'm not your stuff's keeper, dude."

Marko growls, mouth setting into a line as he comes closer.

"I put it with your boxes of CDs. I know I did, because Thorn broke the shelf I normally keep it on and that was the next best place."

"I didn't touch your stitch kit, Marko," Paul sighs.

Marko throws his arms out, looking incredulous. "So, what, it just got up and walked away?"

Paul testily drops the little philip's head screwdriver he'd been working with into its own box of various other tools, snapping the lid shut decisively. He sets aside his bass, leaning it against the nook wall, and then jumps down.

He lands with a whisper on the ground, socked feet and joints of a predator built for taking much further falls swallowing whatever sound might have been made. Marko watches with a grouchy expression.

"I'll help you find it, huh?" Paul concedes. He was getting tired fingers from stretching strings anyway. "Mike probably moved it while looking for something."

Marko's mouth loosens a little, deal accepted.

"If he did, I'm taking it out on his ass - one for every minute it's gone."

Paul snickers, leaning into his mate's side as he rumbles like a displeased engine. "Easy, tiger. Babyteeth knows his place, you don't gotta go feral on him every chance you get."

Marko smirks, not letting up the growl, but letting it fade into something a little softer. "You like to watch when I do."

"Well, obviously."

They share a look at the possibility of potentially getting to do something more active and just as satisfying with their evening if they indeed found Michael as their wanted culprit, and start wandering the sprawling haven.

The old cabin had already been something of a small maze when they'd found (or, been directed, rather) to the abandoned building, and since hollowing it out and then making their inhuman additions, it had become somewhat labyrinthian. Doors leading to rooms stuffed with things, little nests tucked away, bookshelves filled or in the process of being so. Clothing in boxes, random bits and bobs shoved wherever the pack chose to drop them.

The room with Paul's current curated collection of music disks was thoroughly assessed, top to bottom. Marko looks over ever corner of the room, sure in his own memory, and not understanding why reality isn't matching.

Maybe someone needed something from it, and just didn't ask him? But they usually did, and it wasn't like they didn't usually have their own stashes to use...

Paul makes a noise, disgruntled. Yeah, same mood, Marko thinks.

Then across the bond, the why for that sound makes itself known. Not displeasure at Marko's quest having failed, but something of his having been disturbed. Marko blinks and looks up to Paul.

Paul has pulled a box down from a shelf and is pawing at the cases inside. Flipping through them, one by one, before looking up at Marko.

"Dude, they're not supposed to be like this."

"What?"

Paul lifts a lip, a hint of sharpness showing. "I put all the years together because it's how I want to find them - look," he tilts down the box to show Marko, who cocks his head. "Cassettes, LPs, and disks. Now it's. It's just CDs. What the fuck-"

He drops the box on the ground and starts yanking others off the shelves, and sure enough, almost all of them have been rearranged. It's going to take hours, nights even, to put it back how he'd had it before.

Marko and Paul look at the new mess, and then to each other.

An idea floats between their heads, finally catching the spark and illuminating.

Together, they extend the bond out, and find who they're now both looking for.

-

Dwayne is upstairs, a room just below the attic. He sits on the floor (covered with many different rugs of all kinds), and before his crossed legs, spans an array of things.

Another box of music. An ungodly array of pens and markers, all attempted to be lined up in some unknown way. All the shoes from various places they'd wound up in the den. A jar of rusted nails, screws, nuts and bolts, and yes, there in Dwayne's hands currently, Marko's sewing box.

Dwayne's fingers flicked over embroidery floss, spools of thread, the pincushion having been relieved of all its needles which had been lined up from smallest to largest on the damn floor.

Marko feels a flash of anger, sucking in a breath and starting to take a step forward...but when Dwayne's eyes flash up to him, connecting minds...

Thorn had been gone for a while - a week now, out on excursion. David and Michael had left a couple hours ago, wouldn't be back until almost dawn most likely. Dwayne had finished tuning up the bikes, making sure the van was functional. He'd wandered in the woods for a while, didn't find anything particularly interesting. In the middle of spring as it was, the animal activity had been so...loud. Nothing to distract him.

Paul sighs. "I'll get the jar."

Marko stepped closer, hands reaching out for his kit, but as he does, Dwayne's lips lift, flashing long, white teeth. The faintest growl in his throat. A threat against anyone who dares to disrupt the order, the flow he's created in the arranged items. Woe befall the poor sod who fucks with them before he's finished.

There's an immediate apology in the bond.

Marko sighs through his nose. Not withdrawing his hand - it's his stuff - but not pushing it.

After a few minutes, Paul returns. He sets the large gallon tub down in front of Dwayne, who locks eyes on it immediately, predator focus zeroing in.

"Carpet or floor, bud?" Paul asks.

Dwayne's jaw flexes a few times, teeth unlocking from their tense clench.

"...Carpet."

Paul nods. He unsnaps the lid of the jar, and upends it.

Across the floor, hundreds of beads spill out. They range in every possible style, size, and material. Wood, plastic, metal, ones shaped like flowers, animal heads, chunky and clacking to minuscule and sinking into the folds of the rugs.

Dwayne's on them in a second. Fingers digging into the pile, spreading them out so he can see them all. One hand reaches over, almost absent-mindedly, and grabs up a needle from Marko's sewing box, and begins using it to start scooping up the smallest beads. Already they can hear him muttering under his breath in counting. Locked with supernatural concentration. It would take an act of Hell to move him now.

Marko just scoops up his sewing materials, placing them back how he wants into their container. Paul crouches by Dwayne, mindful of his activity. He lays a gentle hand on his shoulders.

"They'll be back, man. They always come back."

Dwayne knows. But the absence, the inability to line them all up where he can see them, feel them close, have them all in their proper places...

Across the bond, he sends his thanks to his packmates, for this small relief.

Paul pats him a couple times, before leaving with Marko.

[northropi]

WHO WAS GONNA TELL ME ARITHMOMANIA WAS well first off the formal name of that tick but also A VAMPIRE THING

I KNEW IT WAS A FAERIE THING BUT APPARENTLY IT'S A VAMPIRE THING TOO

HOLY SHIT

LITERALLY ME

[velocibeewords]

Your love is awake, you know my mind

Whumptober 2021 Prompt No.6: Touch Starved

Pairing: William Ironhead Miller x F!Reader, with a little hint of Soft!Dom Ironhead x F!Reader

Rating: Explicit. All my works are 18+ only regardless of rating. Minors do not interact please!

Words: 3.2k

Summary: Will's desperate to relinquish the iron grip he has on the hard parts of him- the ones that he's forced to adopt during missions- for your softness when he returns home.

Warnings: PTSD, OCD, Arithmomania, Angst, Swearing, Smut, Dom/ sub undertones, Nightmares

Tags: whumptober2021, no.6, touch starved, triple frontier, fic, ptsd, ocd, arithmomania, angst, swearing, smut, dom/sub undertones, nsfwhump, william ironhead miller, will miller x f!reader, smut, whump, triple frontier fanfiction, will miller smut, will miller x reader, will miller x you

A.N: The Will whump fuck that no one asked for! You're welcome :D

Taglist: @kesskirata @novemberrain221 @lorecraft @waywaychuck @rayslittlekitten @mssr-mcknickers

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When Will returns from the missions he doesn't behave like the Miller that you met and have come to know and love- he's still Ironhead. A trained weapon- a highly skilled and deadly extension of the American government and while you love Will in every way that he is- this is the Will that's hardest for you both to grapple with. Quite literally as he avoids your reach like your touch will make this part of him real in a way that he is keen to avoid.

It takes Will awhile to shake the shade of him that he adopts when he's not home with you and settle back into civilian life. No matter how many missions he returns from- too many at this point- you stopped counting but you know Will hasn't- it never gets easier. If anything it's only gotten worse- like every time Will leaves he returns more a stranger to you than the last.

Will barely eats even though you ensure the fridge is full of all his favorite foods. Will sleeps in fits that he resists like he's allergic to his eyes being closed. When he finally succumbs to the basic need it's restless- rife with nightmares and the explosion of Will beside you when he bolts upright in bed and breathes so hard it sounds like it hurts while he tries to remember his surroundings. The shadows and trauma that haunt his dreams dissolving from his mind but remains locked in his tense frame during his waking hours.

Will used to try working out and going a few rounds with Benny to try and knock a sense of normalcy back into his brain but Will ended up leaving those fighting sessions feeling like he'd only roughed the militarized part of himself back into form instead of letting it go. Chasing the punishing hits and punch of adrenaline through his veins like Will can make himself soft if he just gets hit hard enough. Eventually Benny catches on- curses him out and pulls his punches until Will gives up pursuing that shortcut.

Will wears the same clothes until you toss them in the wash while he showers- says they make him feel safe. That nothing except his old hoodie feels right. Treats the wash worn threads better than his tac vest. Will chews through endless packs of gum, the mint snapping between his teeth like he derives comfort- from the taste or the action he doesn't share. You always make sure to buy a few packs of his favorite when you’re out and about. When Will’s away on missions sometimes you find yourself delving into his stash- letting the minty scent keep you company when you miss him.

There's a harsh cut to Will's gaze- he sweeps all the rooms he enters, never let's his back face the exits. He'll smile and converse but the warmth you know lays behind his cold exterior is occluded with distance- his gaze never settles on one spot for long- his spine never fully meets the couch cushions. Tensed like a coiled spring- ready to jump into action at a moment's notice. Will startles when the phone rings, when someone at the gym drops their weights, when the wind slams the screen door against the frame.

That's what pulls him from your bed- the storm outside rousing the one inside in him. The latch on the screen door is something Will meant to fix before he left. You don't even stir when the door strikes the frame but Will's up like he's never known unconsciousness when the sound hits his eardrums. Body reacting before Will's mind can catch up- he reaches for his rifle and when his fingers curl around air he remembers where he is.

He's home.

This fact doesn't prevent the thoughts from turning obsessive. It's harder to ignore them when Will's trained to examine all the outcomes of seemingly innocuous things in his professional life. Danger real and imagined collides so fiercely in his head that Will can't sort them out while the adrenaline of the mission clings to him like a second skin. Stains all his thoughts red with THREAT.

Will has to check the locks. Or else. He can come up with endless reasons of what that means- what it could be. Tonight it's to keep intruders out. Tomorrow it will be to prevent a swarm of wasps. Both of these things aren't real threats. And while Will knows they're not rational he can't help how he moves before he can challenge the compulsion. The urge to control like a second heartbeat and it pounds in his skull. Demands all his attention, steals Will's focus in a way that he feels he can't afford.

He can't lose you. Can't let anything come to harm you.

You find Will pacing in the kitchen, the stove light illuminating his bare skin as he shuffles in only his sweats- slung low on his hips and you'd appreciate the view if you weren't so concerned for Will. His bare feet nearly silent where they tread on the tile as though Will's scared to make a sound. Terrified to cement all of his being in this moment like his presence alone is enough to rip the world open and the jumbled mess in his head will fill it up. A tangled film reel of horror and fear spilling out and onto the floor. Gunfire and all the worst things Will’s mind can conjure bursting into your kitchen if he can't get a hold on it. Wrap his hand around the throat of the thought and choke it into nothing.

The shadows carve Will’s face hollow. The yellow of the bruising over his brow even deeper under the lone light source. Hands card through the short crop of his hair and Will rubs at his eyes while he tries to calm the onslaught of thoughts that tell him the back door isn't locked even though he's staring straight at it. Will knows it is. Has felt the mechanism snap under his fingers twenty fucking times. The distress carves lines into the corner of his eyes.

"What are you doing up, sweetheart? Go back to bed. I'm sorry if I woke you up." Will says when he hears you approach, blue eyes strained and exhausted upon your form- gaze swimming with his apologies as his hands urge you away from him. Afraid that he'll ruin you. Contaminate your peace with the war raging in his head.

"What's going on, Will? Talk to me. Please." You prompt, hands lifting to gently pull Will's from where they swipe at his face and he let's you pull them towards you. The warmth of his fingers sliding around yours, squeezing and holding as he sighs. Will's breath shakes out of him, tumbles into the space between you with force like he's been holding it in for ages.

"The latch-" Will releases one of your your hands to gesture at the back door, exasperation biting at his words but he collects your hand when he's done and it's encouraging.

"I locked it. I know that I locked it. But my fucking head-" Will heaves frustration around the confession. "My fucking head." Will repeats with a derogatory growl, squeezes your hands so he won't contort his own into fists.

For the first time in days Will's shoulders drop, his gaze tears away from the door and finds you. Soft and sweet in front of him- holding onto him with your hands and what feels like your whole heart with the way you're looking at him. The warmth of his breath puffs out over your palm when you reach up and run your fingers over his brow, the stubble of his cheek scraping rough against your skin as you draw your hand down his face and Will closes his eyes. Let's your soft touch soothe and smooth the roughened parts of him. Allows himself a deep breath and before Will can finish the next one your lips ghost against his. Soft and light. An invitation he can't resist.

Touching Will when he's like this is like tracing the edges of the idea of him. It starts at the airport- your arms slide around him and he's impossibly solid in your hold. Stiffens in your arms, unable to accept your touch even though Will's desperate for it. The adrenaline always takes a few days to break and then he melts.

Will kisses you back- slots his mouth against yours like his next breath resides in you and he's about to pass out if he doesn't take it. So Will pulls you into his arms- hauls you against him like something inside of him has snapped and he's starved for you. There's only one goal for Will to work towards when he's got you in his hands. He doesn't have to think.

"Come here, sweetheart. Let me touch you. Need you." Will's words are edged with desperation- strained with need as he lifts you in his arms and sets you on the counter top. Fitting himself between your thighs, Will's touch his gentle where his kisses aren't. There's teeth at the end of every frantic press of his lips against yours. Nips that hurt just on the right side of pleasure. Will's warm calloused hands find the hem of the oversized shirt you sleep in- one of his that you've nicked for your own use- before his fingers find your skin beneath. Grasp and slide and pull you into him. Will doesn't bother removing the garment- doesn't want to stop kissing you like any second he isn't touching you is a waste of air. Will's touch is needy- he fills his hands with the feel of you like he's scared you'll disappear.

Your hands are as urgent on Will. Latching onto the solid expanse of his shoulders, clinging to the shifting muscles before you break the kiss to mouth at his neck. Will's breathing quickens when you find the spot he likes just beneath his jaw, he shudders underneath your hands and tongue- shivering with building tension and need. Will's fingers fall from where they've been playing with your nipples to scramble at your hips where your underwear rests. Will tugs- let's out a huff of disproval when you lift your hips to help him and you pull back to look at him- confused.

Will's eyes are blown out- jaw clenching as his hands meet over one of your hips and you're about to ask him if he's okay when there's a sharp pulling between your legs as Will wrenches the fabric apart with a satisfied grunt. Blue eyes flash to yours- a glint of something dark and devastating within them and then Will sinks to his knees.

You begin to protest- concerned for Will's joints against the hard tile floor but Will lets out a dismissive chuckle at your words.

"I spent a lot of time in shittier positions than this these last few weeks. I think I can handle this. Pope on the other hand-" Will jests with a grin that's meant for the barracks, ducking when you swipe at his head in a mock slap for Pope's sake before his face turns serious upon yours. It reminds you of when he's in uniform. When his friends call him Captain and there's an air of respect that settles even Benny's younger brother energy. Will straightens where he rests on his haunches, pulls his spine up tall and gives you a delicious view of his thighs splayed wide, the thick bulge between them outlined by his sweatpants. He waits while your eyes trail heat up the hard planes of his torso until you meet his gaze once more.

"Now are you going to let me enjoy my fucking meal? Or do I have to beg?" Will says and it's less a question than an order- the persona of Ironhead- the hard reflection of the man you know- still close to the surface. Glinting like a dangerous promise behind Will's gaze. Will doesn't give you time to argue before his strong hands push your legs apart, wide enough for his broad shoulders to slot between. Not that you want to- Will's tone reminding you that he's both a fucking Delta Force soldier that can handle his shit and also a man that doesn't have anything like you with him while he does it. Doesn't have the sweet taste of you or soft feel of you around him to help him through the worst of it. There's a plea buried beneath the stern command.

I need you. I need you always and I'll have you any way that you'll let me. Let me have you. Just like this.

Will traces a path of kisses up your thighs while he waits for your nod and "Yes". He takes a long moment to regard the wetness between them as you breathe out a frantic "Fuck yes! Will, please-" before his mouth is on you. Licking a long, indulgent stripe from fluttering hole to where his thumb rubs firm circles on your clit. You're a gasping mess above Will and it doesn't take long for your hands to find his head- fingers digging into his scalp, trying to find purchase in the short crop of golden hair while he devours you. Licks and sucks at you like he could reach every part of you. Find the white liquid heat that gathers inside you just below where his lips wrap around you and pull it from you. Wants to consume that pooled pleasure like you could sustain him better than food and air. Will groans when your fingers tug his face further into you, the furious tilt of your hips against him limited by your position on the counter. Will's hands are firm on your thighs- keeping you from falling when you careen over the edge of your pleasure with a throaty gasp of his name.

Will loves the way it sounds on your lips- wrecked as you shudder beneath the last swipes of his tongue. Has had Ironhead barked at him for the last few weeks until he was sick of it. But he'll never get tired of the way you pant his name like he's a god.

Will watches with satisfied pride as you clench with the last remnants of your release. Licks his lips to capture the taste of your pleasure before he rises. Your thighs have gone slack beneath his grip but your hands have slipped from his hair to his hips where they now tug insistently- your sighs of pleasure turning into keens and Will knows you need him. Swipes two fingers between your folds- feels you wink around him as he gathers some of your slick before he tugs and shimmies his sweats down until his hard length springs free. Will drags his cock through his fist, enjoys the way you watch with blown out eyes as he coats himself in your release and lines himself up. Can't help the smirk when your legs wrap around his waist with an eagerness to match the way he thrusts into you. Will sheaths himself to the hilt in one thrust that has you both groaning deep.

"Fuck. That's it, sweetheart. This pretty pussy tastes so fucking good. Feels even better wrapped around my cock. Taking me so well." Will grits out before he begins to fuck you like it's the last time. Like he'll never have you again and Will wants to make it good. Ruts into you, fills you so brutally like Will could fit the entirety of himself inside you. Splits you open so you can hold him- safe and warm and yours.

All fucking yours.

Will pulls your pleasure alongside his own. Finds the fluttering pulse at the center of your core with an efficiency that steals your breath and Will punches it out even further with every thrust of his hips until you sob into his mouth. Will swallows it. Let's your ruining slide down his throat and wrap around his heart. Let's it pull him back together, clenched between your thighs so tight that when a groan rips from Will's throat it sounds absolutely wrecked. The sound bounces around your kitchen accented with the wet slide of him inside you and his murmuring of praise.

"Good girl. Clenching on my cock so fucking tight." Will growls when he feels you clamp down harder at his words. Knows that you need this just as badly as him. "Did you miss me? Were you fucking aching for me?" Feels himself grow impossibly harder when your answer is immediate- stutters over his question before he can finish- a tight string of yes, yes, yes's and please, Will's.

There's the scrape of your nails biting at Will's back, the dig of your heels in his ass drawing him deeper until you're lifting off the counter with his every thrust. Your breathy moans replace his thoughts. Your touch is pleasure and pain and Will wants it all. He takes you apart so thoroughly that the only thing you can do is cry out Will's name and he hoards it. Gathers it up until Will knows it like he knows the next angle of his hips will hit that spongy part inside of you. The one that makes your thighs shake. Makes you a mess on his cock and Will gathers that up too. Brings his fingers to his mouth and moans around the taste of you.

Will's fucking starving for you.

Pulls another release from you- and then one more- Will tells you he's lost count of how many times you've come with a playful smile that you recognize- before he's satisfied and chases his own. The pace of his thrusts increasing before they lose their form and his thighs and abs clench. Will's breath bursting out of his mouth through satisfied grunts while he pumps you full of his come. When Will's hips settle into long, languid thrusts, he presses his forehead against yours. Will doesn't move to disengage, keeps his arms locked around you like he doesn't want this moment to end. Doesn't want to lose the comfort of your touch, the heat of you wrapped around him, anchoring him.

"I missed you." You offer into Will's heated skin, feel the quirk of his lips beneath your own before he whispers back "I missed you too."

Will lifts his head when your grip on him turns into a hug, presses a kiss to your crown before he sighs in a way that's different from the previous days. It's long and deep, not tight and clipped with his restraint. This sounds like relief- another type of release. Like Will's finally stepped back into himself and although there's elements that frustrate him- he knows that he doesn't have to shut down all his basic human instincts when he's with you.

Not the ones that vie and beg for him to reach out. To take and touch and give. That plead of you to do the same of him. To know all of him- the messy parts included.

|||

[ileolai]

on the upside, i saved 3 worms from baking on the pavement today, which is a Good Number

[tappingtheclaret]

Counting is wonderful Counting is marvelous Counting's the best thing to do Counting is happiness Counting is ecstasy I love to count, don't you? You can count when you're happy 1 2 3 4 You can count when you're sad 1 2 3 4 5 Or count when you're frightened 1 2 3 4 5 6 Count when you're mad! 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 Arch!! Counting is wonderful Counting is marvelous Counting's terrific and how! I am pleased to announce you can add up amounts Put some bounce in your life and start counting now! Counting is wonderful Counting is marvelous Counting's the best thing to do                             Counting is happiness Counting is ecstasy I love to count, don't you? You can count when you're standing 1 2 3 4 You can count when you're stooped 1 2 3 4 5 Or count when you're sneezing 1 2 3 Achooo! Count when you're pooped 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 Yawn... Counting is wonderful Counting is marvelous Counting's terrific and how! I am pleased to announce you can add up amounts By the pound by the ounce It's the counting that counts Put some bounce in your life and start counting now!

And this, my friends, is arithmomania at it’s finest.

That whole, “Counting is happiness, counting is ecstasy” really gets me every time.....lol lol

[whatsupkien-blog]

Numbers

Let’s talk about math. I love math. I like seeing numbers and I would just find myself connecting anything and everything to numbers.

When I was a kid, I really thought that counting everything was normal until I had the subject Personal Development just this 11th grade and learned more about OCDs then I realized I got Arithmomania. It is hard to explain, but when you look at the examples on the internet, it is exactly what I am feeling since I was little. It is hard to understand when I was small, actually. I just enjoy counting my steps every time. What I always do is that when I climb up or go down the stairs, I would always count how many times I stepped until I reached the floor. I would sometimes count my steps when I walk (this used to be consistent like I sometimes counted up to 300+ when I walk to my school). Most of the time I count how many times I gulp, and how long I should press the water dispenser to fill my cup. Usually it would be 7. Once I finish counting up to 7 I should stop drinking or it means that my cup is full. It's insane. I have to meet my desired numbers. When I eat chocolate or snacks I have to only eat pieces in multiples of 3. (like 3 pcs, 6 pcs, 9pcs ...) When I turn the volume of the television it has to be in multiples of 4 or 7. These are what I'm usually feeling and I just do it in thought. When I was small I only counted aloud whenever I ran up or down the stairs in our home. Now that I know more about this, I try to remind myself not to count and just think about a lot of other things. When I'm constantly thinking a lot I forget about counting. 

After observing it for a few months, I realized I usually count when I hear sounds. Like when I gulp, when I step, when the water dispenser bubbles up water (I’m not sure what to call it) and so on, I can hear it so I count how many times I or it did. I also tend to count a lot when I wake up. There are a lot more examples that I could share and some are subconscious counting, but it would make it boring and harder to understand. It's been 10+ years already and I haven't really talked about this deeply until now (although we did wrote about it before on our personal development subject but I didn't get a feedback).

At first, I don't know if sharing this helps or if it would just give me anxieties. For the past months, I have been researching in the internet and I just want to talk about it with a person who knows how it feels as well. Thankfully, it stopped when I got to talk it out with my mom and friends. It feels better. Today, I have not been counting, although I still count how many gulps I take when I drink. It probably already became a habit. It’s somehow okay now since it’s not bothering me anymore. I just reassure myself that nothing will happen when I didn’t get the number that I wanted.

Bottom line: Having this kind of disorder lead me to stress and anxieties. I always find myself to be in order and find complexity in life. It makes me think a lot and miss out the simplicity I need to have a better life.