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kas-eddie-munson · 1 year

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(This is inspired by this fic by @withacapitalp ! ^^ I wanted to do my own take on Steve with OCD ^^)

Content warning for a panic attack, OCD, and intrusive thoughts involving gore!

~ ~ ~

Steve always hated knives.

Well, not ALWAYS.

He was about five or six, and his nanny was in the other room, talking on the phone. He asked her for a penut butter sandwich, but she told him to wait, that this was important. Maybe it had been five minutes, or maybe an hour. His child brain couldn't tell, could only tell that he was hungry.

So he started rooting through the cabinets. He knew where a lot of things were. He'd seen his nanny in here often enough. He managed to pull out a plate, bread, peanut butter, jelly. He grabbed a butter knife, the final instrument, and began to work.

Spreading peanut butter and jelly was harder than it looked. He got frustrated as the bread ripped, and the ingredients barely spread. Eventually, he decided it was good enough and closed the sandwich to take the crust off. He wasn't a big crust fan.

Cutting with a knife was difficult, too. He pressed hard and moved the knife back and forth, but it still didn't cut very well. It also made an obnoxiously loud scraping sound as he worked. He furrowed his brow in concentration.

Suddenly came the clack clack clack of his nanny's footsteps, and, well. She wasn't happy.

"Steve!"

Her eyes were bulging and she lurched forward, yanking the butter knife from his grip. His stomach dropped and he froze. She never talked to him like that.

"Be careful! Knives are too dangerous for boys your age to use without a grown-up! You could have hurt yourself," she set the knife far away on the table, as though its mere proximity was a threat, and crouched down to look at him at his level.

He still felt frozen as he nodded and mumbled apologies.

When Steve was a few years older, and another nanny taught him how to use a knife safely, he was always careful with it. He never cut towards his fingers, as instructed, and he turned the sharp part away from his plate when he set it down, just to be extra safe.

When puberty hit, he taught himself to shave. It was an ordeal, but a necessary one. He worked slowly and carefully. He made sure to push the razor to the very back of the shelf above the skink when he was done, so it was less likely to fall and cut his hands.

Then the upside down happened. He wouldn't notice until years later that his distaste for sharp objects was getting worse. He always made sure to grip the bat tightly when he held it. To be hyperaware of where it was, where it was pointing.

Then he was at work. It was a normal day, until it wasn't, and then he was in the boathouse. He was up against a wall. And there was glass. Sharp. Ragged.

Pressed into his neck.

Dangerous.

And his heart was pounding and he was pushing his head as hard against the wall as was humanly possible and his friends were talking in the background but he could hardly tell what they were even saying because, somewhere in the back of his mind, a dangerous voice whispered, move forward.

He blinked hard. Pushed even further away. What the hell was that? Did he have a death wish or something?

Then Eddie pulled back. And Steve had to shake it off and get back to business.

The next few days passed in a blur of adrenaline and fear. Vecna was dead, but Max was hurt so bad, and Eddie barely made it out alive, and Steve, wracked with guilt that maybe they'd be okay if he had done something different, guarded their hospital beds like he needed the air in those stuffy rooms to breathe.

He didn't sleep much, or eat much, or bathe much, for about four days, until Eddie woke up.

He hated it in there, as much as he knew he wouldn't want to be anywhere else in that moment. Too many sharp things. He often found his gaze drifting to the IV cords inserted into the crook of Max's elbow and the back of Eddie's hand respectively, and he'd clench his fists thinking about the needle.

It was day four when he was doing this, half-eaten cafeteria food to his right from Robin, that he found his gaze once again drawn to Eddie's IV.

Yank it out.

Steve wanted to leave the room. He shook his head a little. Blinked hard. Tried to dismiss the weird thought.

Why did he think that? What if he did that on accident? He didn't want to hurt Eddie. Never, even if he hadn't fought so hard to get him here, would he want to hurt him.

That's when Eddie finally blinked his eyes open and woke up.

They had a tearful reunion. Steve reassured him that the others were okay, that Vecna was gone. He walkied Dustin and the kids in Max's room to come over, and they crowded around him, with hugs and tears in their eyes.

Steve stood on the other side of the room to give them space. He smiled fondly as he watched them catch up. He almost bumped into a poll attached to Eddie's IV. His mind flashed with imagry of him pushing it to the ground and stomping on the cord.

He decided to wait in the hall until they were done.

---

Steve and Eddie start hanging out. A lot, actually. Steve can't shake the feeling that the alternate dimension stuff can't be over yet. When he's not at work, Eddie is over. When Eddie's not over, Robin is over. When they're both busy he's with the kids. He doesn't give his fear the time of day to seep in with how busy he makes himself scheduling movie nights and trips to the arcade.

He keeps getting scary thoughts. Some of them are... new, though.

Steve starts to wonder what it would be like to hold Eddie's hand.

Steve imagines putting Eddie's hand in his mouth and biting down, hard, as he screams.

Steve wants to nudge his foot under the table.

Images flash of kicking Eddie in the balls, him doubling over in pain.

Steve finds himself getting lost in his eyes.

His head is filled with visions of jamming his fingers down Eddie's eye sockets.

He tries not to examine the thoughts too closely. Just shakes them off. Still... he wonders. Where was all this coming from? And is he gay? He goes over old memories. He loves Robin, but it's still a scary thought. Among the other scary thoughts.

All the thoughts get more and more mixed up in his head. He can hardly tell which ones are real anymore.

One night Eddie's over, and they're watching a movie, alone. Steve doesn't even remember which. Mostly they watch long enough for something to happen that prompts further conversation, and they goof around, ignoring the movie until the topic runs its course.

Eddie is wearing a new shirt. The sides are cut open, further than most of his shirts. The angle he's sitting at has it falling open even more, and Steve keeps finding his gaze drawn there when Eddie's eyes are on the screen.

It isn't too dark in the room. They have a dim lamp on, and Steve's eyes have adjusted to the lighting. So he can see a lot of detail.

There are stitches.

Steve digs his nails into the palms of his hands as grotesque images flash through his mind, and the commands start.

Tear them out.

Use your fork like a seam ripper.

Jam your fingers inside and pry his skin apart.

Steve feels like he's about to vomit. He wants to cry. He just wants this to stop. He wants Eddie to leave and he wants Eddie to hold him and he doesn't want any of that but most of all he doesn't want to snap somehow and do any of those horrible things.

He clenches his fists harder and shoves everything down and focuses on the movie.

Steve wonders if the thoughts will ease up as Eddie's wounds heal, since a lot of them are about that.

They do not.

They leave for a walk in the woods. Eddie wants to gather a bunch of rocks. For what purpose, Steve does not know. Steve is charged with lugging the rock bag around, since his bites never went as deep and are much more healed now than Eddie's.

It's ridiculously hot outside. Steve is sure his hair looks like ass in the humidity. Eddie is sweating through his shirt. Steve doesn't mind that part.

They find an open clearing with what Eddie deems "an especially exquisite selection" of rocks. Steve doesn't think they look any different, but he just smiles. Unfortunately, the lack of tree coverage makes it even hotter.

"Hey big sports guy, catch," Eddie calls as Steve feels something hit his backpack. He looks behind him and sees black cloth lying on the ground. He leans down to pick it up, then looks up at Eddie a few yards away.

Eddie is flushed, chugging down water from a bottle, some of it dripping past his mouth and down his chin and torso. His bare chest is covered with tattoos and scar tissue. Most of the stitches have been removed, it seems. Steve feels his face heat up, and then he sees it.

One of the deeper bites is still stitched up, and he has a drain attached to it. No bag is hooked up right now, but the drain is there, under the skin, peeking out. Steve wonders how deep it goes. Flashing images of yanking it out start coming and he feels nauseous as Eddie clears his throat and Steve meets his eyes in horror.

"My eyes are up here, princess," Eddie says as he smirks.

Steve ducks his head and runs his fingers through his hair. God, he hopes Eddie can't tell what he's thinking. About either topic, really. Or maybe he doesn't mind too much, about the one.

He tries to look at him, but his eyes keep trying to snap to the drain, and he knows he needs that out of his sight, fast, before the thoughts get worse.

"Dude, that's not fair." He shakes his head, still ducked down and eyes anywhere but on Eddie, as he makes his way over.

Eddie laughs bright and loud, and he pulls at his curls. "What's not fair, exactly?"

He shoves the shirt back at Eddie's chest, fingers buzzing with something as they make contact briefly with the skin of his pec. Eddie stumbles back a step and his eyes are wide.

Steve leans close and makes eye contact. "If I'm not allowed to be shirtless, neither are you, big boy." He gives his chest two quick pats before turning around and walking back the direction they came. He calls "for your modesty!" over his shoulder. It takes a few seconds before he hears Eddie's footsteps start up behind him to follow.

Eddie tells him he supposes they collected enough rocks for the day, anyway. Steve notes that Eddie didn't put the shirt back on, but he has it draped over his shoulder, and it covers the drain that way too, so Steve doesn't bring it up again. As they chat and walk home, Steve thinks Eddie looks redder than he did before. He looks cute flustered.

Is he flustered? Steve hopes so. Why does he hope so? Steve thinks he knows if he's honest with himself, but he's also scared, so he continues to try not to think about it.

---

"Alright alright! Settle down! I'll be back with snacks in less than five minutes. If you nerds haven't made a decision by then, we're putting on my pick."

Steve rolls his eyes as he leaves the room and the kids' voices raise even higher in pitch, whining that his movies are always boring. The other "adults" chatter behind them on the sofa, as the kids crouch around Steve's VHS collection.

When Steve comes back, The Goonies' cover is flipped open on the floor, and the ads are starting up as the kids flip the lights and fight over the remote, messing with the volume and arguing about whether or not there was a skip button for the ads or if they just had to fast forward through them. He looks around, and his heart skips a beat as he realizes that the only seating choice left is to squish himself right next to Eddie.

Or Mike, but he was absolutely not sitting between him and Byers for two hours, or however long The Goonies was. He doubted they'd stay apart like that for long, anyway.

Eddie smirks at him from behind his hand as he sits down, their thighs pressing together, and Steve is glad it's dark in here because he's pretty sure he's blushing.

That's when he realizes what side he's sitting on. And he freezes.

Oh God.

Oh no.

This is the side with the drain.

It was touching him. It was touching him. It was right there. It was right there and if he moves the wrong way he'll hurt him. It'll catch on Eddie's shirt and he'll rip it out and blood will be everywhere.

Oh my God. He can't move, now. It would be weird. Where would he even go? He can't just sit on the floor.

Oh my God. What if he moves to leave and that's what does it. He's stuck here. He's stuck here indirectly touching the thing under Eddie's skin and his lungs feel smaller than they should and oh God he does NOT want to freak out in front of everyone.

He has to leave. He has to get out of here. How the hell can he leave???

Steve presses as hard as he can into the armrest and away from Eddie, scooting out of his seat, and looking back at Eddie's side to make sure it hasn't started to bleed. His eyes catch Eddie's and the man still on the sofa looks confused, still sitting comfortably against the back of the sofa with his arms crossed as Steve, as discreetly as possible, slips out of the room and up the stairs. He's suddenly grateful he's only wearing socks on his feet so his footsteps are quieter.

He gets upstairs and walks into his bedroom, shutting the door behind him, running his hands through his hair, and taking deep breaths. He runs through the last couple minutes in his head, when. Oh God.

Did he look closely enough? Was he sure Eddie wasn't bleeding? What if it started slow? What if he didn't notice until Steve left and now he's bleeding out? What if he's on some sort of numbing agent and he WON'T notice until he PASSES OUT because it's dark and Steve isn't 100% sure he didn't see blood and he knows he must look feral right now but he just has to go check just to be sure and

He opens his door again to a surprised Eddie, hand half held up like he was about to knock. Steve's eyes drop down to his side and back again.

"Hey, Steve. Are you alright? You looked a little woozy back there." Eddie asks, uncharicatistically softly. Steve realizes he must still look wild and tries to shake away the crazy eyes.

"Uh, yeah, yeah, no worries." He runs his hand through his hair again, realizes that makes him look more anxious, and drops it. His eyes flit back and forth between Eddie's eyes and his side, and then he keeps them steady on his eyes.

Eddie eyes him skeptically. "Mind if I join you for a minute?" He gestures in the room, and Steve steps aside. Eddie closes the door behind him.

"Steve, I'm not gonna lie. I'm worried about you, and I don't think I'm the only one." Eddie steps closer to him and places his hands on Steve's shoulders gently.

Steve racks his brain. "How do you know something's wrong? Wait, what do you mean? I'm fine." Steve tries to shrug and Eddie levels him with a look. Steve feels his lungs shrinking again, and his eyes sting.

Eddie moves his hands up and down his arms a little. "Steve, you've been acting off for weeks. Flighty? You almost never sit next to me anymore. Basically the whole room conspired against you today. Is... did I do something? Did you," Eddie furrows his brows, and shakes his head, "did you, hear something about me?"

Steve shakes his head, very confused. He wasn't even actively avoiding sitting next to Eddie. How did he not notice he was doing that??? What else is he doing without noticing?

Eddie rubs his shoulders again. "Hey, hey, it's okay. Breathe for me. Slowly. Try to breathe."

Steve does try to breathe slower, and sinks to the floor. Eddie follows him, and talks to him as he tries to calm down.

"Stevie, you need to tell somebody what's going on so we can help you."

Steve shakes his head vehemently.

"Why not? I'm not going to force you, but. I'm not gonna judge you or anything. You're my friend, Steve."

Steve looks into Eddie's eyes and sees nothing but sincerity. He isn't sure what he'd see if he told him the truth.

"I don't think you wanna know," Steve says softly.

Eddie bites his lips and looks away for a second. "Are you scared?" Steve nods. Eddie looks back, nods, and looks away again.

"Look, Steve, if it makes you feel better, if you tell me the scary thing, then I'll tell you something scary, too." Eddie looks back at him, lip still between his teeth.

Steve feels something warm inside, and he smiles the tiniest bit. "You don't have to do that, Eds. I. I just," Steve takes a big breath. "I don't want you to hate me. Or be scared."

Eddie shakes his head and looks off into space again. "I kinda doubt my thing is the same as your thing, but either way. Steve, I don't think you can do anything to make me hate you. You're one of my best friends, Steve."

Steve isn't sure that's true, but he leans his head back against the wall. His breathing is more even now, and the tears have slowed. He thinks for a minute.

"I -" he closes his eyes, "I get these. These..." He tries to come up with how to word it. Eddie looks at him with the kindest eyes Steve's maybe ever seen, and he braces himself. "I get these words in my head?" Eddie tilts his head slightly, looking confused, but no less kind and patient. "Like. Someone is telling me to do something I don't want to do?"

Eddie's eyes widen. "Oh. Oh Steve. I'm so sorry. I, I think my aunt had something like that. Do you, do you see things sometimes? Things that other people don't see?"

Steve shakes his head again. He actually laughs a little in surprise.

"No! No, not like that. Not like, halucinations. Like. The thoughts are me. But they're not me? Like, they're the things that I would least ever actually want to do, but they just get stuck there? And they won't shut up? They're like, opposite thoughts. Like I think the opposite of the thing I want to do, and then I don't want to do it so badly but it still is just like stuck there repeating because I don't want to do it so badly?"

He looks at Eddie, who seems contemplative.

"Can I ask what the thoughts are about, Steve?"

He shakes his head.

"No. It's bad, Eddie. It's so weird, and gross. Like," he takes a big breath and continues, "they're about people getting hurt, Eds. People I care about. I just," he starts to cry again, looks at Eddie. "What if I do it on accident? What if I like. What if I hurt you, Eds? I don't want to; I'd never want to, but what if I did? On accident?"

He starts sobbing again. Steve feels Eddie's hands cup his cheeks, brushing away tears with his thumbs. He's honestly kind of surprised Eddie's still here. He probably shouldn't have said that much.

"Steve. I trust you. So much, Steve. I know you would never hurt me. And I can't say I know what's going on in your head, but I know you. You're Steve! You save people! You don't hurt them. And you won't hurt me."

Steve melts into Eddie's hands. He isn't sure Eddie's right, but he knows one thing. He cares about this man, so much.

"Thank you." He puts his hands on top of Eddie's. "Thank you, Eds." Eddie smiles at him, but looks close to tears himself.

"Did you, did you want to talk about it? Your thing?"

Eddie's smile falters. "I don't want to make it about me, but I suppose I did say I would. Do you want to hear it?"

Steve nods. "If you want to tell me."

Eddie nods. "Okay. Well." He closes his eyes. Nods again. "I'm gay, Steve."

Steve's heart skips a beat. "Oh my God." He's suddenly aware that their hands are still on his face. "Eds. I think I'm gay too."

Eddie's eyes widen. His mouth opens, then closes.

Steve's not sure exactly what comes over him, but he leans forward and presses their lips together. Eddie kisses back.

They talk more about it, later. About the thoughts. Steve isn't exactly sure why, but just knowing that Eddie knows, and doesn't hate him, helps. And there are times when the thoughts are better, and the thoughts are worse. But knowing Eddie's on his side makes it a bit better.

~~~

Thanks for reading this!!! If anyone doesn't know a lot about OCD but is curious about Steve's presentation, here's some more info:

(He has Harm OCD, so you can also just google that, but this is a p thorough intro ^^)

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van1llam1lkk · 7 months

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Little Lamb

[ sfw | TW ; Size difference, Erisa isn't a human, Sexual undertones, Descriptions of Violence, Power Imbalance, Cult implications, Brief mention of terrorism, general Yandere content]

Double post today cause I forgot to post yesterday

Female Yandere x GN reader

If Erisa were to be honest, she didn’t have a clue what humans were on about. With their constant talk and inconsistent morals— They just seemed so strange and confusing.

And so it just frustrates her when she has to deal with one, maybe if she were in their shoes their attitude towards her would make more sense. As she gets the sense that maybe not everyone is used to seeing a 12' giant adorned with four arms.

But that reason did little to ease her annoyance, not only were you people inconsistent, annoying, and chatty. But you were so unreasonably easy to persuade. In most cases, she didn't even have to do much, as her 'lovely' followers would willingly commit terrorism without the promises of wealth, motivated purely by the want to be acknowledged by their goddess.

So when she first met you, all wide-eyed and nervous, unsure if you should be grateful to be in her presence or scared — Like the many followers before you. She expected to be anything but infatuated with you. Finding your discomfort around her cute in a strange sense, like a sweet, little lamb.

So when you tried applying your insignificant little Human values onto her, a being who had literally witnessed the American Revolution she couldn't help but snicker.

Really, it wasn’t her fault that she found such a small being like yourself absurdly cute. So fragile and tiny that it would take practically no effort for her to hold you down, despite your constant struggles and cries.

Of course, She'd never do anything against your will— unless she wanted to, But that's gotta count for something!

The urge within her was undeniable—a longing to cradle your fragile being against her cool, divine skin, sheltered beneath the folds of her Yukata, where none but her hands could touch you. And the fact that you were unaware of her thoughts, both violent and provocative ones and the great amount of effort she puts in so she doesn't act on them drove her crazy. She felt more like a dog in heat than a divine being when it came to you.

She tilts her head in response as you talked about your day, her attention being feigned as she wasn't paying attention to a single word you were saying. Your hands work behind your back to tie the apron neatly around your waist, You were making something — A tiramisu if she remembered correctly, she never understood why humans were so delicate that they needed a consistent supply food to survive.

When she first made an impression on your species it definitely confused her how often her followers needed to eat. Often complaining when there isn't enough food despite eating five hours ago.

As she watched you work, her eyes trailed down from your face to your hands. They were so fragile, so easily breakable. It would be so easy to snap your fingers one by one, to see the look on your face as your pain muddled in with your rising fear.

She wanted to savor every inch of you, piece by piece, until there was nothing left but a memory of what once was. She could practically taste your fear from that one possibility, your heart racing faster and faster with each passing moment as human instinct pushed you to try to fight for your life.

But as much as she wanted to indulge in her fantasies, Erisa knew that she couldn't. Not yet, at least. It's been awhile since someone as pretty as you came into her grasp and she didn't want to so carelessly throw it away. And so she continued to sit there on the plush floor mats, listening to your meaningless chatter and enjoying the way your body moved as you worked.

Eventually, you finished your task and turned to face her, a smile on your face. Erisa returned it, though her mind was elsewhere. Setting the plate down onto the tray and taking your seat next to her she watches you eat with mild interest, absentmindedly nodding her head and agreeing with everything you were saying as you chatted.

Her gaze occasionally dropping towards your lips, a habit of hers she'll never truly understand. She wasn't sure if her way of releasing these pent-up thoughts was just by being a degenerate. Acting so filthy like the damned humans she herself detested, but the imagery of having you sitting atop her thigh— Whispering sweet nothings against your ears as large hands hold your waist steady, wasn't something she entirely hated the idea of.

Stretching out her arms — careful to not hit your head, she stands up, her second pair of arms dusting off her robe as she announced she'd be leaving to deal with some business.

It was a blatant lie, but you didn't need to know that. And as much as she doesn't wanna leave you, seeing the hint of disappointment in your eyes whenever she leaves you makes up for it. Doe eyes staring up at her with brows slightly furrowed in frustration at her insistence to work —If only you knew it was just an excuse to get away from you before she did something stupid. but despite your frustration you still with that sweet tone of yours bid her farewell.

She swears your an angel sent from the heavens themselves. A blessing only meant to be received by her own four hands.

And to think that you were wholly hers— Truly a testament.

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