#he just looks so handsome eheh 🥰

[featherdusterbelphie]

seeing this in my gallery,, brings me back to the first time i saw it

i stared at it for so long lolol

[starlightsearches]

Aaaaand maybe track 11, with Eddie? I’d choose a love song for him, but I really am curious as to what you’d do with this song…..eheh….ya know it, fave song is Dead Man’s Party by Oingo Boingo 😅❤️❤️❤️

All Dressed Up with Nowhere to Go

Track 11 - Hungry Heart by Bruce Springsteen: Pick a character and tell me your favorite song, and I'll write a short blurb or headcanons based on it.

Kas! Eddie x GN! Reader

thank you, irma! i'd never listened to dead man's party before, but it fucking SLAPS. i hope you like what i made for you 🥰

📼✨ mixtape milestone ✨📼 requests open through march 1st

Warnings: drinking, puking, ANGST, talk of death and mourning, making out, blood sucking for the sluts uwu, language, a very open ending

Your hand is getting cold.

You let your eyes wander down briefly, stopping when you spy the cause. There's punch spilling over the edge of your cup, trickling down your hand and leaving a sticky red stain behind.

Your mind's been on the run all night—or at least after the last four drinks—always looking for something simple to focus on but never staying long.

The sweaty condensation dripping down the windows. The thumping base traveling from the dance floor. And now the way the punch shines like blood against your skin in the spooky lights Steve spent the afternoon hanging.

"Hey, hey, hey."

A big hand covers your own, reaching for the cup, and you pull it back on instinct, trying to place the pretty brown eyes.

Steve. Of course. Speak of the devil.

He looks handsome, and very Harrison Ford-esque in the vest you found together at the costume shop. The costume fits him better than the Leia dress does you. In all the billowing white fabric, you look like a ghost every time you catch your own reflection.

So maybe that fits you fine. You hardly feel like you're here at all.

There's a crease between Steve's brows, and he reaches for the cup in your other hand. You pull back on instinct, sloshing punch in the other direction. It lands with a loud splat on the floor.

"I think you've had enough," he says softly.

Steve purses his lips, and you know he's holding back a whole slew of unhelpful phrases. You've heard them all—I know it's hard, but you have to try and enjoy yourself. Eddie wouldn't want you to be sad. He wouldn't want you to spend his favorite holiday crying into a pillow or blacked out on my couch. He'd want you to move on.

But Eddie's been dead for six months. So who gives a fuck what he would want.

You pull the cup to your lips, drink and drink and drink, letting the sweet sting burn any chance of tears from your eyes.

Steve only put this party together for your benefit. It was a nice gesture—going through the list of couple's costumes you and Eddie made together before, mashing the playlist of songs Eddie loved with ones people would actually want to dance to.

But you wish he hadn't. You wish he had let you wallow.

The empty cup crushes against Steve's waiting hand. You sway a little closer so he can hear you over the music.

"I'm gonna go dance."

There's a splash of guitar from the speakers, and you know it's one of your songs from the confused looks of everybody on the dance floor. Whatever. They get over it, swept up in the beat.

You let it take you, too, swinging around wildly, flailing with no concern how you look or who's watching. There was nobody around you wanted to impress anymore.

Eddie wouldn't care what you looked like anyway. He was a shit dancer.

Fuck.

The room is spinning. You're trying to keep with the beat, but there's the same lyrics, echoing over and over and over in your head.

dead man dead man dead man deadmandeadmandeadman. dead.

You're going to fucking puke.

Fighting through the crowd is like wading through a pool of bricks, which would still fucking suck if you were sober, and you are not. Catching on thrown back hands and angel wings, you stumble into the bathroom, just bending over in time to avoid vomiting a red stain down the front of your dress.

Your head has it's own heartbeat, pounding behind your eyes. You dip your cheek down to meet the cool porcelain.

There's no avoiding it. Hot tears spill over your face, plopping like raindrops into the basin. Fucking rock bottom, crying over your dead boyfriend on filthy toilet seat.

There's the sound of the door shutting and latching, just audible over your sobs. You lift your head, so dizzy and sad and hopeless it makes you angry.

"God," you're yelling, loud enough for it to echo off the tiles, "can't you see there's somebody fucking—"

He looks just like you remember him. And not in a good way.

The room already smells like sulfur, the way everything did down there—like sulfur and mold and fucking death. Eddie brought it with him. He brought it all. The holes in his hellfire shirt, scars peaking out of his collar, the mud and shit and blood staining his clothes.

He's got dark blue bags under his eyes, like bruises, cheeks sallow. Looking almost as tired as you feel. But he smiles, just the way he used to.

"Wow, sweetheart," —Eddie's voice is deep and gravelly as he kicks a boot up against the door, nodding back in the direction of the party— "this all for me?"

"Eddie."

That comes out as a sob, too.

He crosses the room in a few strides, a big hand at soft at your back, petting strands of hair off your sweaty forehead.

"Hey princess," he tries to smile, "long time no see."

Jesus. Your head's still spinning. You might puke again. It doesn't help that Eddie keeps going in and out of focus, like maybe you're dreaming this all up, the way his skin feels and the smell of him and the cute little curls in front of his ears.

"You were dead."

He huffs at you. "I think, technically, sweetheart, I still am."

He pulls one of your hands toward his chest, and there's nothing beneath it. No heartbeat. Just Eddie.

He doesn't expect it, the way you launch yourself at him, pulling him to floor. Eddie laughs, wraps his arms around you, his shaking lungs and the feel of his hands full of disbelief.

"I missed you."

You can tell he's missed you, too. He nods into your neck, hot breath on your skin.

"Why didn't you come back before?"

"Halloween seemed like a good time," he whispers, looking you in the eye, "wouldn't want to scare the neighbors."

His lips press tighter together. There's something he's not telling you. If you weren't so fucking high, you'd try to figure it out.

But you are fucking high—high out of your mind—and there's only one thing you want to do right now.

Eddie doesn't taste like death. He tastes like he used to, in the back of his van, in his bed or on the couch, his hands on you and his wandering lips, just bodies and kisses and nothing in between.

"Fuck, baby," he grunts, nipping at your ear, "you gotta be careful with me."

You shake your head. There's enough blood in him for the skin at his neck to turn a shade darker when you bite at it.

Eddie's hips shift against yours. He's breathing harder, although you're not sure where it goes, or what his lungs do with it once it's there.

"Can I- can I taste you, baby?"

"Mhmm."

It feels so good to be caught up in his arms again, you don't even notice the sting when his lips seal around your neck, the way his throat pulses with swallow after swallow. The groan he lets out is pained when he finally rips himself off of you.

Eddie cups your cheeks in both hands, thumbs petting at the left-over tears.

"Awww, baby. I don't think I should have done that."

You hardly hear him. Everything is fuzzy. You let your eyes fall closed, and the soft brush at your hairline could be his lips, or something you made up.

And then he's gone.

Steve's beside you when you lift your head again.

"Jesus, what the fuck happened to you? Robin found you on the floor and thought you were dead."

He's wiping at your neck with a cloth, or paper towel or something, and it hurts.

What did happen to you?

"I- I think I fell."

Steve hums, disapproving, cleaning the dripping blood from your neck, smoothing a bandage over the skin.

When you pull it off the next morning, all that's left of Eddie—or your vision of him—are two perfect little puncture wounds, and a few bruises in the shape of teeth.