#Cw ocd

[gin-juice-tonic]

Something people might not know about OCD is everything is punishable by death.

Either you, or your loved ones, or your apartment building, or the local children's hospital are gonna die because you ate a potato with a strange spec on it. that you knew you shouldn't have eaten but you were hungry and it's just a potato with a spec on it, it's fine.

Except it isn't fine because now the children's hospital is going to explode. On account of the potato.

[dizzyyeti]

Bones with OCD headcanon (with Spones) because my own OCD has been kicking my ass again .

Bones having an OCD flare up and while Spock isn’t able to combat Bones’ intrusive thoughts with logic; because OCD isn’t logical, and can’t be solved with it— he resorts to simply sitting and being with him, and listening.

“I see, Doctor.”

“Frustrated you can’t use logic to magically cure me?”

“I do not feel frustration, as I do not experience emotion. However, you are experiencing a lot of different— negative— emotions right now, and there doesn’t appear to be a simple solution. As I’ve gathered from my research of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, simply… ‘being here’ can help alleviate some, though not all, anxiety.”

“… I hate to admit it, but I suppose you’re right.“

“I am here, Leonard. And I will be as long as you wish for me to stay.”

[asilentguardian]

Rituals

also on ao3

Gotham isn’t quiet when it rains.

Most cities slow down, become near empty, when rain is pouring from the sky. But Gotham continues, despite the rain mixing with the rot of the city and bathing the streets in the smell of mildew and seafood. Despite the streets that always flood, roads built on old rivers and inlets. People have jobs to do, families to protect. It becomes easier to hide, to exchange money and drugs and guns in the cover of rain clouds and the water rushing towards the sewers. 

Gotham isn’t quiet, so neither are the Bats.

They’re built for this. All of them live and breathe with the city, they’ve grown up here and the city has grown around them. Rain doesn’t deter them, and waterproof and insulated armor shields them against the rest of it.

The feeling of raindrops pelting his cowl keeps Bruce grounded as he stands over the city. The others–just Damian and Cass tonight–are already steadily making their way home, swinging across rooftops and dipping down to the streets when they spot someone in need. But Bruce stays here, standing and watching as the night creeps into dawn and the night shifts give way to the morning shifts. It��s become a ritual, of sorts.

Down on the streets, the city becomes a jagged, haphazard array of the various shades of horrible things people are capable of. Every block can feel like a new, solitary ecosystem of politics and gangs and survival. But up here, on a tall roof in the outer edges of Gotham, the city becomes the living, breathing thing that Bruce knows it to be. Sometimes, if he’s still enough, Bruce swears he can feel the pulse of it. He can feel the cars speeding down Murphy Avenue, he can feel the quick steps of morning runners in the Diamond District, the shuffling through Park Row, the fear, the anger, the sadness, the hope.

He tries not to examine this too closely.

The rain drowns out any hope of feeling it tonight, anyways. Street lights in the distance begin to flicker off, and Bruce takes that as his queue to follow his kids home. He slides down the ladder on the side of the building, down the stairs, and off the shortest ledge into the alley where he left his bike. The rain has begun to let up, but he still fits his goggles over his eyes.

The ride back to the manor is always quiet at this hour, no one braving the empty roads before the sun peeks over the horizon. Bruce doesn’t pass Damian or Cass on the way there, quiet check-ins on the comms telling him they’re already home, probably eagerly peeling off their armor and racing towards Alfred’s hot chocolate. On nights like tonight, where the rain is constant and cold, even Bruce doesn’t bother with proper reports or storing his gear. Sweating in the cold rain of Gotham is a different kind of hell, and a warm bed is all that’s on all of their minds.

Bruce rumbles into a predictably empty cave, quickly parking his bike next to Cass’ and shutting it off. He pushes back his cowl and sits for a moment. This, too, is a ritual. The cave is never really quiet. The hum of computers and machines, the roar of a waterfall, the chittering of bats. The background noise never changes. It’s too far underground for the sound of rain or thunder or footsteps to reach. There could be a full house upstairs, and you’d never know. 

There’s no one around to hear the way Bruce grunts as he pushes himself off the bike. His bones creak, his muscles protest, and his back reminds him just how cold it was tonight. He’s getting old. Here, where there’s a myriad of evidence of his children, the thought doesn’t scare him as much as it used to.

His bed is just a few hundred feet away, but he’s still careful to put his armor in a vaguely neat pile, still starts uploading the night's footage before he makes his way to the elevator. Bruce pushes the grandfather clock aside to an empty, but warm, sitting room. The warmth of the house slowly begins to chase away the chill in his body, and Bruce gently replaces the clock and heads to his first stop of this third ritual; the kitchen.

The light is brighter in here, but still warm and easy on eyes that have spent hours in the shadows. Cass and Damian sit at the counter, their mugs in front of them. Damian is half asleep against Cass’s shoulder, and, despite the concern Bruce feels, there’s a burst of pride that makes its way through his chest. Damian has had a rough time adjusting, but he’s come so far with all of them. 

Cass’ eyes snap to Bruce as he enters, still alert and fully awake. Bruce knows that she usually doesn’t sleep after she patrols, that she can’t, most times. He used to worry about it, but she insists that the time to herself is helpful, that she uses it to recharge. He tries to trust her on that.

Bruce nods towards Damian. Is he okay?

Cass gives him a sheepish smile and nods.

“Raced to the bike,” she whispers. Bruce sighs. He has long since given up the battle of preventing his children from making a competition or game out of patrol. It always exhausts them, always causes squabbles. But it keeps them young, keeps laughter ringing through the comms, and brings smiles to their faces. It was never a battle he would win.

He still snatches a sip from Cass’ mug in retaliation. She glares at him after he returns it, wrapping a protective arm around her mug and Damian’s. Bruce chuckles, ruffles her hair and lightly touches Damian’s shoulder before moving to the next stop. Damian lets out a vague mumble. Cass will deposit him in his bed eventually, after their own post-patrol rituals. Present and accounted for.

The stairs to the second floor have always creaked and groaned, even when Bruce was young. The only difference now is the loose third step, evidence of a young and energetic Dick Grayson and a Bruce who didn’t know how to handle all of that energy. He carefully skips that step, making a note to fix it, which he will forget to do as always. He makes his way down an equally old hallway, deftly avoiding the noisy floorboards. He has less stops to make than usual tonight, the manor a little emptier, a little quieter. Closer and closer to an empty nest, as Alfred would say. 

Dick’s room is empty, and so is Jason’s. He still places his hand on their door frames, marking his progress. Tim’s door is cracked, his lights off–thank god–and his sheets a chaotic mess around him. He never stops moving, even in his sleep. Cass’ door is open, light spilling into the hallway. Her closet door flung aside and the Black Bat uniform on the floor amongst various other clothes. Bruce rolls his eyes and collects the pieces, tucking them away from view. Its displacement will be reprimand enough. He can never properly scold her for feeling comfortable enough to do it, anyways. 

Duke’s door is firmly closed, and he’s a light sleeper, so Bruce settles with pressing his ear against the door, waiting until he hears Duke’s light snores before he moves on. He’ll lay eyes on him in the afternoon, he reminds himself. Damian’s door is open, too, revealing a much neater chaos than Cass’ room. There are piles everywhere, books and sketch pads and games all in places that only make sense to Damian. Titus lifts his massive head and wags his tail as he spots Bruce, but remains curled up on Damian’s bed. Bruce gives him a scratch behind his ears before moving on to his last stop.

He passes the door to his room—still firmly closed—towards Alfred’s door. It’s wide open, as it usually is. Alfred is sitting upright in his bed, book open in his lap and glasses perched on his nose. The sheets are still the same ones from Bruce’s childhood, though they’ve since faded. Bruce still remembers how it feels to be cocooned within them, to have them and Alfred be the last and strongest defenses against the rest of the world. Alfred looks up, still able to sense the barest bit of movement in a way that eludes Bruce, and quietly shuts his novel. They’re both silent for a moment, taking the other in.

“Go to bed, Bruce,” Alfred says, as he always does. 

“Only after you do,” Bruce always replies. It used to be a longer conversation, and before that it was a heated argument. It used to grate on his nerves, the way Alfred would sit and wait for him in those first few years. He took it as silent judgement, or worse, distrust. Bruce would demand he just go to bed, would snap at him in a way that made him feel 16 years old again. Alfred never budged. And then Bruce became a father, and he understood. Still, in the back of his mind, a distant worry. If Bruce is getting old, what does that make Alfred? Alfred would not approve of that line of thinking, so he’s never voiced it aloud.

Bruce’s father smiles at him and Bruce nods back, softly shutting the door behind himself as he leaves. He retraces his steps to his own door and stops in front of it. Breathes in, and breathes out, tries to shed the worry and anxiety of empty rooms. It gets easier every night. It gets harder every year.

Bruce pushes his door open and stops. Shifts a few things around in his head. Takes a moment to rearrange his routine.

Hal Jordan, ever present wrench in his plans, is asleep in his bed. Home early, which could be a good thing or a bad thing, and curled up on the side furthest from the door. He came in through the window, if the trail of clothes is anything to go off of. Bruce picks them up and tosses them in the hamper, trying not to be overly annoyed about it.

He takes a moment to drink in the sight of Hal, safe here in his bed, before he slips into the bathroom. His clothes are shed quickly, pointedly tossed into a hamper. The walls are thick enough that the shower shouldn’t wake Hal, but Bruce still moves through the motions with brutal efficiency, scrubbing away mud and sweat and the last of the cold Gotham air clinging to his body.

The steady pelting of the shower grounds him in a way that the cold rain doesn’t. Here, it’s soft and warm. If Bruce stays here long enough, he’ll feel a different pulse underneath his feet and in his chest. Steady breathing in and out, the pitter-patter of four-legged creatures, the settling of a centuries-old house. This, too, Bruce doesn’t examine too closely.

Bruce shuts the water off and dries himself with a towel, continuing to move through the familiar rhythm of his routine. He exits the bathroom and blindly grabs a pair of sweatpants from the dresser, a lifetime of children at his door dissuading him from jumping straight under the sheets.

He carefully pulls on the pants, distantly registering the Ferris Air logo down the sides, before turning towards his bed. Hal is now facing him, brown eyes silently watching Bruce. Bruce doesn’t bother suppressing a soft smile as he makes his way over and crawls under the covers as Hal lifts them up. Bruce settles in, and Hal drops the covers.

“Hi,” Hal whispers. Bruce clings onto that single word, already picking it apart from every angle, trying to determine how Hal’s feeling, where his head is.

“Hi,” Bruce whispers back, still watching Hal’s face, still searching for any changes. Hal reaches out and rests his hand on Bruce’s face, his thumb tracing his brow, his cheekbone, his lips. Bruce catches his hand, presses a kiss to his palm, and intertwines their fingers.

“Okay?” Bruce asks. A single word, a compromise between silence and a veritable interrogation. Another product of well worn arguments. Hal’s answering smile is soft. Fond.

“Yeah. You?” Hal asks. An admission of the same fears. A lot can happen in just a few days.

“Yeah,” Bruce responds. Hal tugs on their joined hands, and Bruce shuffles closer, bodies slotting together. Their lips meet, and the last piece of Bruce shifts into place. His muscles relax, starting at every point of contact between him and Hal. Hal’s lips shift to his jaw, his cheek, his forehead, and Bruce’s eyes drift shut.

“Sleep, baby,” Hal whispers into his hair. Bruce hums an acknowledgement and lets the warmth of Hal pull him under, lets the hand caressing his neck lull him towards sleep. 

-----

Awareness comes quicker than sleep, a habit Bruce doesn’t think he can ever get away from. It’s a trait that he foolishly hopes his children didn’t pick up. He knows better.

His mind is quick to catalog his surroundings. The bed beside him is empty, but warm, recently vacated. The light streaming through the window means it’s at least 11, six hours of sleep more than Bruce had expected. The rain has passed. The door is slightly ajar, and the laundry hamper is missing. Bruce huffs a laugh. Message received and heard.

Bruce lets himself be sluggish in his movements. He slides to the edge of the bed and checks his phone. No urgent notifications or alerts about the end of the world, so Bruce braves a glance at the perpetually-muted family group chat. A slew of incomprehensible jokes and minor arguments. A good morning dweebs from Dick, sent two hours ago. A middle finger emoji from Jason in response. Accounted for.

The most recent text is a picture from Tim of Alfred the Cat sitting on his laptop, captioned come get your spy dami. He taps out a quick reply.

Bruce: Good cat.

There's an onslaught of reactions and responses, and Bruce is quick to shut off his phone.

He finally gets up, finds a sweatshirt that he’s pretty sure is his, and exits his room. A glance at Alfred’s door, open and room empty as anticipated.

Damian’s room, empty of the boy and the dog. Duke’s room, also empty, but with a perfectly made bed. Cass’ room, empty with a closet door pointedly closed. Tim’s room, occupied.

Bruce pauses and taps on the door frame. Tim glances up from his desk, free of its feline occupant, who has made himself comfortable in Tim’s lap. Tim, present and accounted for, healthy and not obviously injured.

“Good morning,” Bruce says, his voice still gravely from sleep. Tim grunts in acknowledgement, turning back to whatever more interesting thing he’s working on. Bruce shakes his head. Teenagers.

Jason’s room, empty. Dick’s room, empty. The floor creaks. The third stair is loose. The kitchen lights are brighter, there’s soft voices in the dining room. Bruce follows the noise.

Hal sits with his back to the doorway, facing Cass. He has Cass’ full attention as he tells a–likely exaggerated–version of his recent stint in space. He’s always been a wonderful storyteller, complete with impressions and sound effects. Bruce makes a conscious effort to make his steps audible and deliberate, not wanting to interrupt the story and stop the wonderful sound of Hal’s voice.

He drops a kiss on top of Hal’s head, rolling his eyes at Cass as she scrunches her nose and sticks her tongue out at them. Hal barely pauses the story, reaching up and squeezing Bruce’s hand.

Bruce sees the coffee on the far end of the table and gently flicks Cass’ forehead as he passes by. He lets the rhythm of Hal’s voice and Cass’ answering questions wash over him as he pours his coffee and takes his spot next to Hal, shifting so their knees rest against each other. 

“But you made it? Everything is okay?” Cass is asking, voice serious despite Hal’s smile.

“As always, Miss Wayne,” Hal responds in an exaggerated voice vaguely reminiscent of Alfred’s accent.

“Hm,” Bruce responds. Hal sighs dramatically.

“I can’t catch a break with this guy,” Hal says to Cass, gesturing to Bruce. Cass giggles, a noise that will never fail to warm Bruce’s chest.

“I didn’t say anything,” Bruce responds, desperately hiding a smile behind a sip of coffee.

“You did though. That was your I disagree with you noise. I should know, I hear it often,” Hal insists. Bruce raises an eyebrow.

“Oh? And what other noises are you familiar with?” Bruce asks. Cass lets out a quiet ew, and Hal’s answering grin is wicked.

“This conversation is over now,” Duke says loudly as he enters from the kitchen, carrying a plate stacked with pancakes. Duke, present and accounted for, healthy and not obviously injured. Maybe a little bit stiff, but otherwise moving normally. 

“Babies,” Hal says gleefully. Duke just flips him off and sits down to start eating. Bruce’s stomach rumbles loudly. Hal laughs softly and presses his knee a bit more firmly against Bruce’s.

“Go get food, Sleeping Beauty. Cass and I already got some,” Hal says, turning to look at Bruce.

“Damian?” Bruce asks. Hal doesn’t laugh, or poke fun at him, but his smile does turn slightly amused.

“Yeah, baby, he ate before us. Went to take Titus for a walk. Tim already ate, too,” Hal says. Bruce is a little startled at the answer to a question he hadn’t asked yet, but nods jerkily anyways. He sets his coffee down and gives Duke another once over. Is he leaning more to his left? Hal nudges his knee harder, so Bruce gets up and heads for the kitchen.

“How’d the test go, Duke?” He hears Hal ask as he pushes through the door. He wasn’t aware Duke had a test, but his response seems positive so he lets it go.

Alfred is moving around the kitchen, cleaning and putting things away. A single, warm plate sits on the counter, pancakes made exactly like Bruce has always liked. Alfred glances over at him.

“Ah, you’re awake,” the finally is implied, “Eat your breakfast, Master Bruce,” Alfred says. Bruce’s lips twitch.

“Only after you do,” he responds. Alfred nods in acknowledgement, smiling. He finishes the tidying, grabbing his own plate from the oven. Bruce grabs his plate, but doesn’t head for the door yet. Alfred raises an eyebrow at him.

“Duke?” Bruce asks.

“Pulled a muscle, is all. Now quit worrying and go sit,” Alfred commands, no room for the follow up questions burning to get out. Bruce nods, resigned, and heads back to the dining room. He holds the door for Alfred and watches as he carefully lowers himself into his seat. Alfred notices his watching and glares at him.

“Sit,” Alfred says. It’s Bruce’s turn to sigh dramatically as he returns to his spot beside Hal, who smirks at him but wisely keeps the comment to himself. Their knees brush together again, and Hal rests a hand against his leg. A steady, grounding presence.

Bruce looks at Hal again, notes his relaxed posture, the laugh lines next to his eyes. He’s okay. He’s here. Present and accounted for, healthy and not obviously injured. Bruce nods to himself, reaches for his food.

“Plans for the day?” He asks Hal.

“Not a thing,” Hal responds. Bruce smiles.

[parodyofnature]

Every time I have an intrusive thought that scares or upsets me I repeat it to myself in his voice. Can't be scared of evil paper

[gin-juice-tonic]

fiddleford on being a bad person

https://tapas.io/episode/3400326

[dizzyyeti]

I’ve been asked about my headcanons for Spock with OCD. And so I am here to share because not only do I give a bunch of characters OCD, my favs are no exception.

I’m so sorry if this is a rambling mess, I just threw all my thoughts into this post without thought,,,

I feel like Spock would be very internal with his symptoms— he would likely try to hide any physical compulsions— most of his compulsions being mental, you wouldn’t be able to tell anything was ever wrong.

I’m also sure some of his obsessions are definitely about him expressing emotion. Internally, the idea of losing control of his emotions terrifies him, and he spends almost all his time ruminating on every interaction he has.

However, I’m sure Bones & Jim would definitely suspect something was wrong if he was having a particularly bad day, but Spock wouldn’t DARE let them know. OCD is incredibly illogical, and provokes anxiety— and Spock had worked so hard to manage & control his emotions as a Vulcan.

Though I think later on if he ever mentioned it to Bones, he’d do everything he can to try and help Spock manage his symptoms. Spock would likely be extremely reluctant and uncomfortable at first, maybe even avoiding the doctor, but Bones would genuinely feel for Spock and want to help.

I think, much like my last post, Kirk and McCoy would be there for Spock, for support. I don’t think Spock would want to talk about it, or how he feels regarding his obsessions, so they wouldn’t ask. But they would definitely understand to a certain extent.

[crunchyapple33]

i am not afraid of bugs ..... bugs do not trigger my ocd ...... bugs never come anywhere near me ..... bugs aren't mean ..... there are not bugs crawling on me i am CALM i never see bugs i am safe there are not bugs inside my body bugs are afraid of me and i am not afraid of them . bugs are harmless i am not going insane over a fucking spider

[howlsofbloodhounds]

imagine Killer being both really touch starved and extremely touch averse especially if he has bad germaphobia.

Everytime Killer feels the brush of someone bones against his own it burns it reminds him of the story of Icarus flying too close to the sky his was wings burn and he drowns in the cold water below. Killer isn't sure if he would rather be burned or drown in the empty cold feeling. Going back and forth to wanting any form of touch and then immediately hating it and wanting them to stop. Its more then just that. He hasn't been touched by someone in so long that every touch feels like too much, it makes him feel vulnerable and weak, along with feelings of extreme disgust and even fear.

Also little extra blurb about Killer with germaphobia as someone who's a major germaphobe it can become more or less intense depending on emotions especially things like anxiety the more anxious I am the more germaphobic I get. Often having to repeat reassuring mantra to lower the anxiety of germs. I imagine it could go anywhere from freely touching things unless especially gross from being Unwilling to touch anything without a feeling if dudgust or fear abd feeling the need to wash anything that touched what was perched as germs which for me can be things like a house key, tables, door knobs, etc I really want some nice gloves to protect my hands cause I keep overwashing them.

Also Killer gives strong ocd vibes or im just projecting and germaphobia is common in those with ocd. I feel like his training and life with Chara would have him develop ocd. He wants things done a certain way or feels like something bad will happen or its just the obviously correct way to be done. Can also see him doing little rituals that he feels increases his luck or things that have to be done to not be cursed with bad luck. Turning the door knob to his room at least three times to ensure its locked, never walking on the opposite side of a pole as someone else, avoiding the first or last step, etc. (These are all things I do lol)

~Musical Anon

Stares at my Stage 4 Killer with OCPD adaptations headcanon. (Definitely not the same as OCD, but the need for order, control, things have to happen like this, you have to follow the rules and the routines, I have to be perfect to be safe/loved/accepted.

When in St4 the rules are the agreements of the Deal and the outlines of the Directive, but the traits would likely show up in other Stages such as 2.

The intense fear of something bad happening if it isn’t done or a rule isn’t followed is moreso from trauma and conditioning and likely indoctrination, although I can definitely see him having some type of compulsions and rituals alleviate fear/anxiety, ones tied to survival and the fear of failure perhaps—such as, in the context of my little directive headcanons—drawing little upside down hearts somewhere whenever subconsciously anxious or fearful (although 2 would deny feeling absolutely anything) or as a mindless automatic habit or whenever prevented from killing a target as if to appease some unseen watching force.

And in lower Stages, doing this absentmindedly when stressed or scared—such as whenever awaiting a punishment for failing a mission in some way (especially if he either accidentally slipped up and killed someone or was trigged into Stage 4, or simply to handle the dissonance of not killing a target) mindlessly drawing little upside down hearts on his arms with his fingers or in the air and not really understanding why. )

I can also see him absently checking and rechecking everything (such as rather obsessively checking up on the gang and that they’re still alive and attended to, not because he really cares too much about the outcome, but because the actions give him a sense of control and makes sure he’s adhering to his duties as Nightmares right hand), and probably forming rituals around the steps of caring for his weapons and tools, and arranging them in certain ways because it feels more familiar that way and he does it almost automatically now.

[gobstoppr]

the most important part of anthro characters is that they can stim and pick at shit in ways we can barely dream of.

fish anthros especially man. can you fucking imagine . all those scales to pick at . gills you can get your hands a little too close to. dorsal fin, something close to hair visually but in practice has nerves all throughout,, delicate but still hard and plenty of spots to pick at ,,

[wrathofrats]

Please please please elaborate on ifrit with OCD

My bait worked time to give ifrit problems

Small warning for descriptions of compulsive and obsessive behaviors, because I know that can trigger some of this stuff to happen. So be slightly cautious if you’re someone who is affected by this!

It’s a big reason why he’s such a caregiver type.

A fair amount of his obsessions and rituals revolve around zephyr. The idea that he has to constantly be there to help them there will be one time he doesn’t and zephyr will be injured because of it. He has to check on them, thinks about their health constantly. Because sure zephyr says they’re fine but what if they’re lying? What if they are really sick and they just don’t know it? What if ifrit is the only one to notice the signs and if he doesn’t say something then something bad will happen to Zeph and it will be his fault?

It eats at him, the constant idea of zeph is in danger or needs him whenever he can’t be physically with him. And the idea that zephyr is annoyed by the constant attention, even if he can’t help it.

Zephyrs really patient with him though, lets him act out his compulsions to give him the peace of mind he needs. Always reassures him that he’s not being a bother to them, that zephyr knows why he dotes and does whatever they can to lessen then obsession. Whether that be with proving they’re ok or just the reassurance that if anything were to happen, it’s not his fault.

He does little things too. When he works out it has to be a certain number of reps or he won’t be able to stop thinking about it until he rights the “wrong”, constantly checks the weights on his bar to make sure he grabbed the right one, even if he saw it, he has to check again because what if he misread it?

He does it while baking too. He tries to have a partner with him so he doesn’t completely lose it trying to be certain he didn’t poison anyone with his batch of cookies. Because sure he read that he put in vanilla, but what if it wasn’t? What if he was lying to himself and now he’s going to hurt everyone?

There’s been a couple of batters that have been thrown away because he’s convinced himself he put something poisonous in there. That’s why he makes someone else stand there, just in case. Puts his mind at ease.

[shaykesqueer]

Whump Month '24 Day Six: Phobia

OCD!Mountain gets paralysed by 'what if's when trying to leave a room...

Thank you @cirrus-ghoulette for organising Whump Month! Prompts here <3

Instagram | Pillowfort | Tips | Patreon Coming Soon!

[ria-writes-stuff]

🌹🌹🌹 :3c

Woah!! I’m stacking these up!

This is from something I wrote last night, the start of a oneshot for a mental health awareness event I’m writing in currently, named “the fic where I project OCD onto Technoblade”

You get three guesses what’s it’s about and the first two don’t count

-0-0-0-0–0-

Did you know that by the time you’re twelve, like Techno is (it’s not the best number, sixteen would be much better, but at least there’s a four somewhere), you have all thirty two of your adult teeth? That’s twice sixteen, not quite as good as sixty four, but Techno thinks he might look a bit silly with sixty four teeth.

Thirty two will have to do.

He’s terrified he’s going to lose one somewhere. Because he knows if he did, he wouldn’t be able to lose just one. He’d have to lose four.

-0-0–0-0-0-

[dyk3pr1ncess]

trying to get an ocd diagnosis is crazy bc one day i’m sooooo sure i have ocd and i want to be diagnosed so bad so i can get help… but other days i completely convince myself im making it up and i must be a horrible person with disgusting thoughts .. like girl chill

[gin-juice-tonic]

To all the people who have moral-based OCD out there I'd just like to say that you are not a bad person if you try to give someone the benefit of the doubt or a chance to explain themselves.

Even if in the end they betray that gesture.

Trying to be understanding to someone is not a moral failure on your part.

[hermoonself]

having ocd is so weird because you would WISH it was just being extra clean but no my whole room is a complete utter mess and I have dishes from two days ago, but I smelled something weird and now everything smells like that and I must wash everything and even then they still smell like it and GOD WHY IS IT NOT GOING AWAY and my voice is too thin today for some reason is it not?

[dizzyyeti]

If I have to compulsively delete ONE more post or message of mine I’m gonna cry.