april likes to write

i write on [here] mdni

[aprilsproject]

INTRO POST

my name is april

⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢 my ao3 is linked in my profile

fandoms im apart of:

stranger things, freaks and geeks, mid90s, (basically any content set before the year 2000) marvel (mostly spiderman), the walking dead

⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢 currently writing:

"first impressions" eddie munson/reader

"you're so vain" eddie munson/reader how to lose a guy in 10 days au

x reader luver and unashamed-

im open to requests!!! mostly one shot stuff, but maybe a whole fic? send me a pm!

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

[aprilsproject]

the issue w writing is now I have to edit it. can someone else do that pls

[aprilsproject]

you're so vain

CHAPTER TWO: invite

read on ao3

eddie munson/reader how to lose a guy in 10 days au

summary: you get an unexpected visit from eddie after an argument with your father. you invite him to come to a party, and end up somewhere else. this project could be, easy?

warnings: no use of y/n, ab*se, drugs/alcohol

word count: 6,000k +

You woke up to your father banging something in the kitchen, and you prayed it wasn’t out of anger. 

You moaned in exhaustion from the little sleep you had last night, spending most of your evening and well past your bedtime doing homework for English class. 

The hunt to track down Eddie Munson started today; that’s what you told Nancy over the phone. You probably should have started on Monday, but fear got the best of you. 

Actually doing it was horrifying. You wanted to find a way to talk to him, but hopefully not publicly, you tried to do anything to preserve a small amount of social image. But, you knew once the word got out, you were done for. 

“Dad, what the hell are you doing?!” You shouted from under the covers. Although you were in your shut bedroom, the noise always managed to push past your door which was practically cardboard with fake wood panelling stuck to it. 

He ignored you, or just didn’t hear you, and continued on from the other room. 

You slugged yourself off of your mattress, walking on the shitty carpet into the kitchen of your two bedroom house.

“It’s like, six in the morning,” you complained, rubbing your eyes. 

Your father had a pickle jar in his hand, and continued to slam the rim against the countertop. “Well, unless you can open these fuckers— you can go back to sleep.” 

He wasn’t a morning person either, but his job made him wake up every day at five A.M. He was a truck driver, so most days he wasn’t even home, and when he was it was miserable. The rumors of an absent father bothered you more so because they were partially true. 

That’s why you were stuck in the hellhole of your home, and another reason why you refused to tell anyone where you lived. It was far past the actual town, and about a five minute drive from the trailer park that only old schmucks that retired early lived in. 

“I can’t sleep with all that fuckin’ noise,” you said, squeezing past him to open the fridge. 

He stopped momentarily, putting the jar down, “Language.” 

You shrugged him off absently, searching for the milk in the refrigerator door. 

You grabbed it, poured yourself a cup, and sat down at the small circular table that had three chairs—never used besides anyone but you and your father. You always wondered what the third one would be for. 

“Can I take the Chevy? Do you need it today?” You asked about the truck sitting parked in the grass. 

He had succeeded in opening the lid, “I need it. Boss’s got me doin’ something important today, just hitch a ride from that Wheeler girl.” 

You let your head droop into your arms as you sat. “Fuck.” 

This was your natural state in front of your father—no lipgloss, nice shoes, just a tanktop, underwear and an inclined urge to talk like you were stationed in Iraq. 

“She’s busy today, I don’t think she’s got her car.” You told him, still slumped. 

He took a pickle and dangled it into his mouth, “Tough luck kiddo,” he said, crunching with his mouth open, “I’ve got business.” 

You knew you’d have to walk down the highway for a good twenty minutes until you could make it to the bus stop in time. The thought of it annoyed you—actually doing it was even more irritating. 

“How’s school goin’?” He pestered, stomping past you into his own bedroom, looking for his work shirt. 

You took a sip of your drink, “Fine.” 

His tone darkened, “Don’t lie to me.” You knew he had found something out.

You licked the milk off your lip, “I’m not.” 

A loud thud came from a shoe slamming it against the wall. It was yours that had managed to make it in the middle of the hallway. 

This is what he did when he was frustrated. 

“I said, don’t fucking lie,” He emerged with his collared shirt on and the matching shoe in his hand. He waved it like it was his pointer finger, “you lying?” 

You shook your head, silent, knowing you were. 

The thought of everything you hadn’t told him raced through your mind as you were being threatened with an item of clothing. There were a multitude of things you had done, cut class, missed homework assignments, you accidentally slept through Biology multiple times. 

“Then explain why I got a goddamn call from the principal tellin’ me you missed your English class for the fifth time this month?” He wound his arm. 

Then, he took the small loafer that looked like a doll's shoe in his hand, and threw it right past your head, slamming against the picture frame on the wall. It missed your head by two inches. 

A black eye was the last thing you needed on a Monday morning.  

Your heart skipped a beat, shit, probably even two, and you cowered in fear as he stood over you. “I don’t know!” You huffed, bracing for any more flying objects. 

He slammed his fist against the table, rattling the single glass in front of you,“Bullshit.” His words echoed against the wooden walls. 

He moved his gaze from you to the front door looking for his work boots. His burly arm grabbed the keys, his work bag, and tied his boots to his feet. 

“You lie again, you can kiss the Wheelers' house goodbye. Don’t ever lie to me again girl.” He pointed with his keys in his hand. 

He ducked underneath the doorframe to get outside, slamming the door shut, not bothering to close the screen. He sped away in the truck, the dust of the gravel road collecting into a cloud. 

“Fuck me.” You mumbled to yourself, picking up the shoes that had been flung. Now, the house had a stale air to it. It was more patient, more kind. 

You wished your mother was still around to hear how he treated you, but she was sent away months ago to a local insane asylum. Something about her bipolar. Not that you got to witness any of it—she wasn’t present even when she was with you. 

The radio buzzed as you turned it onto 94.6, the jazz station. You didn’t like jazz, you didn’t care about it either. But the way it ties back to the zoot suit riots was intriguing, and you always found a way to find something to do. 

You spun your finger around the phone cord, listening to it ring. 

“Nancy?” You asked, hearing someone pick up the phone. 

A male voice came through instead, “It’s Mike. She’s not awake.” 

It was awkward between you and him. He didn’t hate you—he didn’t hate anybody really, but the fact that his friend who he admired to the point where it was almost parasocial, was trying to date you made it all the more worse. 

You didn’t know that though— assuming he was just as clueless as everybody else. 

“Can you uh… can you wake her up?” You asked stiffly. 

He gave you a sardonic sure, and you heard a muffled yell for her to pick up the phone. 

“What’s up?” Her voice was groggly. 

You made a “pshhh” sound, “What isn’t? My dad took the truck, any chance you could swing by?” You prayed for a yes, and realised you hadn’t masked your speech to the Hawkins lingo. “I mean, he’s being like, super annoying.” 

“Sure,” she said. “I’ll pick you up at like, eight—is that fine?” She rubbed her eyes, laying back in her bed. 

“You’re a lifesaver.” you praised. 

You heard her hang up the phone, meaning you had all the time in the world to do whatever the fuck until eight. Your routine only took about thirty minutes, straighten your naturally very frizzy, curly hair, put on light makeup, and your dress-up clothes for the day to impress the masses. 

It’s not that you had a real issue with who you basically pretended to be, it meant that you weren’t a target. 

The flowers in the front of your house were dying from the heat over the weekend, and you knew your dad “forgot” to water them. (In reality, he just couldn’t care less,)

So, you made your way outside shivering from the morning air. You were never out this early, but nothing good besides the weather was on TV, so you decided to use some time wisely. 

You adorned your tanktop and underwear, knowing that the neighbors on both sides of you were about two acres away, and thick trees between it. So it really didn’t matter to you what you were wearing. 

“Holy shit,” You cursed from the cold as you saw your breath in the air. 

The garden hose was wrapped neatly on the side of the house, and you slowly turned the nozzle to get the water flowing. 

You stood, mind absent of anything until your peace was disturbed by a loud car on the dirt road hummed past. 

Turning, you figured you’d see one of the familiar trucks or Volvo’s the old folks from the trailer park drove, and instead you turned to see an all too recognizable van. 

You realised Eddie Munson, better known as your research project, unknowingly drove past your house. Your suspicions that it was him were especially confirmed when you heard the loud metal music from so far away. 

You wondered what he was doing out so early, because everybody knew he wasn’t going to school at six in the morning. He couldn’t be extremely… motivated to go to school. 

You muttered a “what the fuck?” to yourself as he drove by, but continued to water the roses that were probably too late to save. 

There was a certain aroma to where you lived compared to school. Your house was secluded, and although there was a big grass yard from you and the road, there was no garden. It didn’t smell like faux cheese from PrezleRama in the mall, it didn’t smell like the Wheelers flower potpourri, it smelled good. It smelled real. 

You headed inside and grabbed your cup of milk, to sit yourself down on the cement doorstep that had a small flower pot with nothing but dried dirt. 

Your thighs were freezing to the touch against the ground, but you enjoyed the refreshing air. 

The radio continued to buzz, you had brought it outside with you. Morning ambience could only distract you for so long. 

You heard a familiar sound of well, metal music, although this one had more guitar you noted, and stuck your head out to see. 

He hummed to himself on his tape that was playing, noting the absence of the car in the driveway of what he thought was the Old Man’s house, and saw a small girl sitting on the front step. 

There was one thing running through his mind: God, she’s hot. 

“What the fuck?” You noticed the car slowing down, and you stood yourself up placing the empty glass on the ground. 

A million thoughts were racing through your head, while data collection was important, it was almost more important nobody knew where you lived. Especially not him. 

Then, the music stopped. And the van. 

You stood like a deer in headlights. If a deer were wearing underwear from the Gap. 

You watched as he slowly rolled down the window, and he shouted something, but the thousand feet between you echoed all his words into a jumbled mess. 

“What?!” You shouted, knowing at least something would go through. 

You squinted as he flung himself back into his seat in annoyance, and he turned his key to start the engine. He turned sharp into your driveway, and you considered all methods of suicide right then and there. The first real interaction with him, and you were wearing practically nothing. 

He parked over the grass, paying little regard to what he was driving over, and you analysed as he turned his van off again, and stepped out. 

“I said, what are you doing?” He huffed, swinging the door shut. He brushed a small amount of hair out of his face, even though he had so much. 

You watched as his chest rose and fell, his leather jacket that you doubt kept him warm. His shirt underneath clung to his chest in a way you hadn’t seen before. Maybe it was an old shirt. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” You leaned back on your heels, before straightening your body again. You knew you were showing off what you had, and you knew he would look too. 

He stepped towards you, letting his arms hang as he shifted his weight to his hips. “Yeah, I, uh— I would— That’s why I asked, sweetheart.” 

Maybe getting him to date you wouldn’t be that difficult. 

You moved yourself towards him, his eyes dressing you as you stepped down. You knew you had to close the gap. Even if he smelled like gasoline from his car. 

He noticed your painted toenails, matching your fingers, and slowly grazed his sight over your body, outfit, and your expression. He could tell how cold you were from the pink on your knees, cheeks, fingers. 

“So,” he crossed his arms, mimicking you intentionally, “are you gonna explain why you’re sitting in front of this… old geezers house?” 

You felt your face flush, even though your assumption was he was going to ask. You weighed your options. Should you beg him not to tell anybody? Or, more dignified, threaten him to not? 

“Careful what you say about my daddy.” Is all you came up with.

He grinned like he did this often, “Y’know, for a girl like you, I wouldn’t expect you to live out in the gutters.” 

You tossed your hands at your side, looking away from him, seemingly at something else, “well, here I am. You better not tell anybody.” It sounded like a dirty secret. 

You seemed to realise over the years that flirting was actually easy, you just had to play the right cards. 

There was something about your voice that really struck him. Maybe it was the small amount of southern it had that he hadn’t heard before, or maybe it was the fact you looked like a model, and you were entertaining his stupidity. 

The bet was still on. Gareth wasn’t getting a lick of anything. 

“I won’t.” He managed to blurt out while you pointed your finger at him. 

“What’re you doing out so early?” You questioned his presence. “I mean, I know you’re not going to school at six A.M, so you have to have some reason.” 

“Ouch,” he said, wounded, putting his hand to his chest, “I am very academically inclined, thank you very much.” 

“You didn’t answer.” 

He swung his arms, taking a step back, looking at the sky searching for an answer before recontaining eye contact with his brown eyes that sort of make you nauseous. “Oh y’know,” he paused. “Errands.” 

“Right… and what errands exactly? The grocery stores open from 7-9 on weekdays.” 

He noticed the way your teeth grazed your bottom lip.

He really did find you attractive, (at least your appearance,) but he didn’t feel like dating some stuck-up chick from the paper. But, as long as the bet was still on, he’d shove that thought away even if you made the hair on his head fall off. He couldn’t afford to replace anything he had. 

And, although it was against his will to play a girl like this, make her fall in love, was probably completely messed up, he didn’t really put it past anything. He knew that if he actually let up in front of you, he’d have the entire football team crawling up his ass. 

He needed to play this game now, his entire life depended on it. 

“Okay, okay, I surrender,” He narrowed the gap of distance between you too. One step closer and you would have been pressed against him. 

You could smell the toothpaste on his breath. You hadn’t been this close to a boy in a long time. 

Lifting your chin to look him in the eyes, you asked, “So?” 

“I had to uh… go pick up some stuff. Nothing like you’d see in your princess life.” He rubbed his cheek, internally assessing every feature of your face. He wondered if you were wearing makeup or if you just looked like that. 

You rolled your eyes at his assumption. “Drugs?!” 

It shook his eardrums as you pretended to be shocked, putting your hands on your cheeks and bending your knees. 

“Eddie Munson? You were buying…” you whisper shouted, “marijuana? How could my… princess' life comprehend that?” 

Guys liked when you pulled their chain a little bit. And you knew it made his ears ring to hear his own name.

“Just tell everybody, why not?” He muttered to himself. 

“Listen, if you’re like, into that…” you continued, reeling yourself back into him, “because I know you are, you should come to Anna Lishma’s house. She’s throwing tonight, and y’know… there’ll be customers. I’ll be there.” 

The offer would have been irresistible in your eyes, but to him? Not so much. A bunch of nepo-baby popular kids in one house, bad music, and it’s a Thursday to boot. Not that he cared about making it to school on time, but it wasn’t helping. 

But, if you were going to be there, and if he wanted to keep you wrapped around his finger like he thought you could be, he knew he didn’t have a choice. 

“You gonna buy something?” He laughed. “I don’t know if that’s a smart idea. I wanna get to know you…” He dragged out a slow smile, “...not deal.” 

His forwardness brought hope, and it clicked in your brain that this project was going to be an ace. Real research, straight from the source. You’d have all the evidence to back up the article too. 

You lifted yourself on your tip-toes, and you spoke inches from his lips. “Are you gonna be there?” 

He imagined you doing this to other guys and the thought triggered his acid reflux. Fuck. 

“You said it’s going to be big?” He spoke low. 

Maintaining the small gap from kissing him and not, you answered softly, “I didn’t. But it will be.” 

He let you sit in the tension of silence for a brief moment. You almost let yourself get distracted by the wind of the trees. 

“I’ll be there,” he slipped a small note of paper into your hand, the warmth made you lose all focus, you had to look down and drop your heels. “Call me, tell me the address.” 

It almost hurt to put on this face for him. The “cool” guy. What he really wanted to do was pick you up in his car, force you to listen to bad music, and spill every thought on his mind. But, he stuck to what he knew would work, small, short answers. No personality. Pretend to be like Steve the hair Harrington. 

You stepped back, you loosened the grip you had on his mind as you tucked the paper into your waistband on your hips, “5893 NE 93rd. Right between the Qwick-Stop and the Mall. I’ll call if you forget it.” 

He watched as you turned away from him, leaving an imaginary trail of heat between the two of you as he stood stiff. 

Even if it were all fake, you were good at this. So was he. 

— 

When you managed to pull yourself out of the mental chess you had just played you realised what had been set in stone. 

Not only did you have to go to the party Nancy was practically begging you to go to, you had to see Eddie there. 

He had well driven off by now, and the clock dawned near eight when you heard Nancy pull into the driveway. 

“Thank God you are here!” You shouted, your teeth showing as you ran out the door with your school bag. 

She smiled from the driver's seat and unlocked the door for you, “You’re in a good mood.” 

“Better.” You squealed. “Better than good.” 

“Oh do tell.” She backed out of the long driveway, turning down the station she had been listening to. 

You told her about the interaction with all the joy in the world. The plan, make him fall for you and in a couple days you’d launch your mission. You left out the fact it almost sickened you the fact that you might possibly consider him attractive. 

“And,” you told her, “get this—he’s going to Lishma’s.” 

She screamed out of excitement. “This is insane, you’re crazy!” 

You said anything to get Dishmen to give you a column. 

“Well, that’s good! At least things are going good for you,” she groaned, putting her hand to her temple. 

You inquired, “elaborate?” 

She blew air out, puffing her cheeks, “Steve called.” 

“Again?” 

“Yes,” she passed her eyes over to you, then back to the road, “last night. Called to tell me he would be at Anna’s, actually. He is such a dick! I don’t know why I entertain him anymore.” 

You shrugged, “Maybe he feels bad.” 

He didn’t feel bad. There was not a world where he felt bad. You knew he really missed getting under her bra, and at the party, he definitely would. 

You swallowed that thought for her sanity. 

“I wish.” 

—

When you made it to school, you sat through the grueling hours of class time. You were smart,  especially when it came to literature, but math? It’d be easier to learn fluent Latin in a week than understand whatever the hell that was. 

The teacher droned until she passed out the papers from last class’ quiz, and you dreaded what would sit in front of you. 

A big, fat, red F adorned your paper. 

You could feel your ears turn a bright pink and you hid the paper in between your arms. This was one of the least pleasant things about being pretty—it couldn’t hide stupid. For the longest time, you were a straight A student, until you started partying, your mom was gone, and your dad was getting angrier, things started to slip. 

For Nancy, it seemed like her life was easy, her biggest issue was a shitty boyfriend, not someone you would ever be forced around. But, to everybody else that was your life too—just as simplistic as every other normal hot girl. Unfortunately, you didn’t have the luxury of being miserable over a boy.

School was not entertaining, not until you made it to Journalism. 

Dishmen sat as the students across the class frantically made it to their desks to prepare. 

You felt a small spark of confidence and walked up to your teacher. 

“Mr. Dishmen?” You held your backpack straps like a kindergartener. At this moment, you felt just as small too. 

He looked up from his desk at you through his glasses, “Shoot kid.” 

“I heard that article went missing and uhm…” You shifted, “I’m working on one.” 

There was a sigh that followed from your proposition. “Listen, I know you want to write about that whole ‘the devil is fake’ thing, but c’mon, nobody is going to read that. I’d have parents crawling up my… y’know.” 

“No, it’s not that,” you insisted. “It’s different—It’s—I’m working on a piece on like, relationships.” The words stumbled out less gracefully than intended, and you cursed internally for saying “like” to a teacher. 

He gave you a questioning look. 

You continued your pitch, “OK, admit it, you hear stuff around these hallways, all the drama, right? Every single guy and girl out there are struggling, and I know we need an article. So, I’m getting real, live, data for it too— it’s everything, not to do.” 

His look wasn’t budging, and you knew you had to switch perspectives. 

“It’ll be funny. A good comedy piece.” You continued, “No more, satanic panic—it’s lighthearted— it’s fun.” 

“And?” 

You paused, “and… it’ll get a lot of readers? It’s nothing like I usually write. I promise. I can get you a draft in two weeks, you can look it over.” You pleaded internally. 

“Y’know,” he clasped his hands together, “is your father a business man?” 

“Something like that.” 

He sighed, admitting defeat, “you drive a hard bargain. If you can get me a final—I mean final— draft by the Saturday after next, I’ll get someone to review it. I can’t promise anything. Don’t get your hopes up.” 

Internally, you did a victory dance, instead, you said a hasty, “Thank you so much.” 

“Ten days,” he said. “You have ten days. Okay?” 

You nodded, and got to work writing. You wouldn’t have let it slip through your fingers for anything; except you had no evidence yet. 

However, Eddie was finding a hard time distracting himself as well. 

In statistics, (which was the third retake, you’d think he’d learn something right?) He rested his chin on his palm while he considered his options on what to do at the party. 

He could get business done, sell some, and leave. But, the alternative, which was more likely needed to win his stupid game, he’d have to pull out all the stops. 

In reality, he didn’t actually mind doing that. Even if he didn’t like you because you were just as shallow as he thought you were. Just the act of bringing flowers to a girl made his hands shake, he hadn’t had a chance in a long time. Hopefully, once the bet was over, he could go out with a girl he actually… liked. 

Once you’re denounced as the freak, it’s hard to get girls to like you. Hell, it’s hard to get anybody to.

Sometimes, (most times,) you sat back and watched your peers as they struggled with every day highschool. You watched them scatter their brains over the simplicity of a school paper—but you were no better. You wanted it just as bad as them, if not more. 

The paper was something unsurprisingly, something important to you. It was one small way to show people what you were thinking. There were opinions digging at you, constantly, but you knew how to keep your lips zipped. 

Being a “popular” girl was one thing, being a bitch was another. If you said every thought that came to your mind, you would have been titled the biggest one of all a long time ago. 

Your mind wandered to your new assignment: Munson. The strange public figure in a way. His outbursts were nothing like how he treated you that morning. The rumors you had heard about him snorting something in the bathroom wasn’t completely out of his range of psychotic behaviors, but part of you doubted it. But you didn’t know if that was because you wanted to at least tolerate the guy. 

He was strange, but that was definite. Like a calorie label. You weren't. 

There was an odd line you were stuck on constantly. Nancy Wheeler’s hot friend. Quiet chick from the paper. Old geezers daughter. Poor, rich, it all applied somehow, and it exhausted you to no avail. 

There was always a small moment of a daydream where you just let go of it all—you were friends with more than just one girl, and you were complete and honest. You wore your clothes, spoke with your fathers dialect, and drove your Chevy to school, and you didn’t park it blocks away to avoid being seen. 

Pipe dreams, is what you told yourself. 

Manage another year of this shitshow that you call life and you’d move to New York and write there. 

— 

Anna’s house was thick with noise. 

You hadn’t been to a party in a while, your father had been home the past week or two, and you were on thin ice as far as you were concerned. But, tonight, you knew he wouldn’t call when he was on his business trip. 

You didn’t really know what to wear, you decided to dress well, especially if he was going to be there. Even if you didn’t realise you were irresistible in whatever you chose. 

Merging your way past the crowd of teenagers, you found the table of drinks. Handles and handles of Smirnoff, Jack, Everclear, and lots of mixers. 

You managed to get a spot at the table, where you poured yourself a drink consisting of pure vodka, and a small amount of sparkling water. 

There had been a switch in your life where drinking wasn’t hard. You weren’t thirteen sneaking wine anymore, having to plug your nose during every sip. Maybe you had just fried your tongue off by now—but now mixers were just a barrier between you and getting drunk.

It could have been the late nights after your dad went to bed, and the realization you probably shouldn’t be drinking before your bio quiz, but some nights he was particularly angry.

“I love your top!” A girl with an unrecognised face shouted across the table at you. 

You gave a thank you, then muttered under your breath, “bitch.” An unspoken social rule girls your age liked to play: pretend. Her compliment directly translated to, “your top is ugly, but I’m going to lie to you to seem nice.” 

Not that you would prefer her to tell it to your face, but saying nothing was better. 

You scanned the area, which was hard to overlook with how many people were in it, searching for any form of familiarity. Nancy, was nowhere to be found, and you realised that one drink from your cup had emptied it by half. 

At a random peer's house, shots weren’t a measurement. It was a challenge, and you rarely failed. 

You spotted Steve looking like a lost kitten in the kitchen, so you swallowed your pride to speak to him. There was a certain swagger he carried with him at all times, a sickening confidence. 

“Have you seen Nance?” You shouted in his ear over the noise. 

He shook his head, “No!” He leaned against the granite countertop, “I was hoping you’d know!” 

You buzzed your lips, throwing your head back, “Thanks.”

Trying to see where she was, you stood on your tiptoes in an attempt but to no avail yet again. 

“Hey!” He grabbed your attention before you could leave. 

The kitchen was no use, and you’d rather die than spend another second with him, but he kept you there anyways. 

He looked down in his cup, then to you, “Can you do me a favor?” 

You nodded. 

“Tell her I’m sorry.” He ran his other hand through his hair, “She doesn’t believe me—but she’s—different now.” He paused and really considered his words. That, or he was too drunk to form a sentence, and it took all the effort.  “She’s less…fuck. I don’t know—forget it.” 

He attempted to tell you how he felt without any true vulnerability. 

“I get it.” You didn’t. “She’s my best friend though. Don’t fuck her over, please.” 

You were telling the truth to him, one of the few times in your whole life. Although you had an obvious disdain for her on-and-off boyfriend, (he could feel your hostility before you even walked in,) he made her happy. Most of the time. But, that’s all you wanted for her, even if he was a complete and total idiot. 

“Please.” You tagged on for extra emphasis. 

He looked at everything but you as he spoke, “Yeah, yeah I know.” 

“I know—” you sighed. “I know we don’t really… jive like that. But she’s like, really important to me. I don’t want her to get fucked over. She likes you— okay? Even if she’s like…a lot.” 

He laughed at the truth of what you said. You were more worried about the fact you said “jive” like your father, and you probably wanted to choose a word more like, “mess” or “get along” 

But you said “jive” like a hippie from the 70’s. 

There was a small brief moment of pause in your conversation, and your attention was stolen by the figure of a jean jacket brushing past the crowd of people and exiting out the backyard. 

You rushed out of the kitchen without another word from Steve, and you hoped he’d listen, but God knows. But, you left him lingering, thinking. 

You caught Eddie in the corner, lurking like his normal tendencies. 

“Hey,” You walked up to him, ignoring your underwear riding up underneath your dress. 

He leaned towards you, waiting for more. 

You held your solo cup in your hand, “I didn’t think you’d show.” 

“What’s that?” he motioned, asking about your drink. 

“The best medicine in the world,” you told him, taking a drink from it, making sure to leave traces of your lipgloss on the rim. 

There were less people outside, which was good for you to preserve your social dignity. You didn’t want to admit it, but the brashness of the contrast that Eddie had in the party drew you towards him. Even though it was just for the project. 

He held his hand out for the cup, “Can I get some then?” 

You pulled it away from his reach, making sure he followed, “There’s some in the kitchen, I’m sure you could get your own, you’re pretty autonomous.” 

He moved towards you, standing above you again, “You think I wanna go back in that sardine tin of a house?” 

You pretended to hesitate letting him take it out of your hand and take a small sip. 

“Shit, princess, this is not good.” He winced, handing it back to you. The thought you could hold your drinks made him like you even more—or maybe less, that’d mean you went to these events often. 

Princess? That made you completely and utterly sick to your stomach. 

“Medicine doesn’t taste good, stupid.” You leaned your face in towards his. 

Keep close. That’s what you knew worked. 

“So, you gonna sell any tonight?” You looked around the backyard and towards the house, “got any buyers?” 

He let out a small chuckle, “I already told you, I'm not selling to you. Not unless you’re y’know… really desperate.” 

You realised this needed to be taken to the next step. A different level. You weren’t going to sleep with him, but the deal needed to be closed. Kissing, not kissing, whatever, but something needed a spark. There was a catalyst. You needed a catalyst. 

“I am desperate.” 

“Twenty for an ounce.” He reached in his jacket pocket, rolling his eyes, “Less or more?” 

You grabbed his shoulder, coincidentally checking the surroundings for anybody you knew, “Not… that.” You whispered in his ear, making sure to let your cheek graze his. 

He felt every hair on his body stand up. 

“If you’re looking for something stronger, I don’t have it on me.” 

You let down from him quickly, finishing your drink, probably for your own sake, “Like what?” 

“Can’t say here.” He motioned to the party behind him. 

You tilted your head.

Nancy was lurking around somewhere, and you told her you’d be here. But Steve was too, and maybe your words of wisdom helped. You knew she’d understand you had to get your grade from a D to a B in approximately two weeks. She’d get it. Right?

“Where is it then?” 

—

He didn’t make you wait outside. 

You took off your heels, maybe his trailer was a shoes-off household. 

“Give me a second,” His voice was all business. 

You stood, as he left you in the living room of a trailer you thought an old man lived in. It looked like your house. It was tight, the wooden panels were chipping, there were empty pint glasses that decorated a small table. 

He came out after the rustling from a kitchen cabinet stopped, and he held a small bag of white powder in his hand. 

“This,” he said, “this will fuck you up. Are you sure you want to?” 

You didn’t know what to say. You definitely didn’t want it though. 

He saw the hesitation like a lost child, “We don’t have to do this,” he tucked it in his jacket again. “We can… we can leave. I’m not going to make you do this.” 

Your brain buffered at his sincerity. 

“Uhm…” you thought of your father and his habits. “No—I— I don’t know.” You held your clutch in your hand, swinging it around as you spoke. 

“It’s fine,” He paused. “I promise.” 

“...Do you do that?” 

You knew he used, smoked, drank, all the above. But hard drugs? That was something you hadn’t considered. It felt like everything in your life led you back to this: shitty houses and illegality. 

“Me?” He pointed to himself with both hands, “No… no. I just uh, I need the cash. I know you probably haven’t been in that situation—I don’t use. I know I have a pretty scary appearance, but I’m not like that. Devil hasn’t gotten me that bad.” 

He sat himself down in one of the kitchen chairs, you thought it was funny that you were standing above him now. 

He looked you up and down, your scared stance, your beautiful dress. He probably fucked up by offering a girl cocaine, and the absence of a response from you made embarrassment wash over him in a way he couldn’t describe. 

“Look,” He put his hand to his forehead and winced, “forget it.” 

You walked towards him, noticing the particular chill of the floor on your feet, “Can I sit?” 

He waved his hand to the chair next to him. 

“What’s a girl gotta do to get you to talk to her?” You turned the tables. There wasn’t anything that could stop you from writing. 

He made eyes at you like you just asked for his whole supply. 

You rested your elbows on the table, “I mean, I see you over at the Wheeler’s and you never even say hi, what’s up with that?” 

“Maybe I was scared of you…” he whispered. 

“Me?” 

He let out a soft “mhm”, and before you could blink, he stood up and yelled, “Why would I… The King of the Dipshits, talk to you?!” 

His loud outburst made you laugh for the first time all night. 

“Plus,” He sat back down gentler, swiveling his chair backwards, “you could’a said somethin’ too y’know… I’m not that… dangerous.” 

You leaned back with a genuine smile, “you just tried selling me coke!” 

“You asked!” He argued. “And— you never called.” 

You shrugged in defeat. You weren’t even thinking about where you were, what the party was happening, what Nancy was dealing with. You were liberated for one brief moment. 

“Checkmate.” 

“You’ve got me there Munson… You got me there.” 

He leaned back in fake disgust, “Don’t call me that…” he explained, “only my uncle calls me that, that’s not what I want you to be calling me.” 

You grabbed the back of the chair that faced you, almost holding his collar, “what should I call you then Eddie? Eds? Freak?” 

“Yeah I bet you like that one,” he scoffed, leaning away. 

You thought of all the times you heard it in passing. All the times you said it, all the times your friend said it, Steve, Nancy, your father, it was his public figure. 

“What’s that implyin’?” 

He looked up in thought, “Oh, y’know, you and your little friends, your teachers, they all know me.” 

Guilt was written all over your face whether you liked it or not. 

He knew what you thought of him, and he told you that too. 

But, you deflected. “Yeah, yeah, save me some. Everybody hates you, everyone’s scared of you, blah, blah, blah.” 

He couldn’t help but notice your difference. You weren’t soft spoken like at Mikes, there were no gentle glances, or mean giggles with your friend that were definitely targeted. You were sitting still, after drinking enough liquor to kill a baby, in front of him. The air was thick inside, there was a heat that surrounded you in an encapsulating way. 

“OK, OK, ” he moved the chair back around, knees against yours, “Well—it’s not easy. I’m not beautiful. I’m not—fuck—I’m not smart, I’m not rich, I’m not— whatever.” He cut himself off. He didn’t need to be spilling his guts out, he hardly even knows you. 

You look at him with a stifle from what he said, and even though to him, you don’t know what that’s like, you knew.

But, in vague acts to dissuade anyone from finding out you pretended like that was a really funny joke someone could make because of the lack of truth. 

“Neither am I,” You laughed off his comment. “I mean, I’m Nancy Wheeler’s friend. I’m failing the paper because Dishmen doesn’t like what I write.” 

He quickly pushed down whatever self-loathing thought he had, “No way. You? Failing? Am I having a stroke? Check my pulse—seriously—check it.” He held out his wrist. 

You pressed against the inside of his wrist with two fingers, feeling his heartbeat, giggling. “Maybe you’re dreaming, Munson.” 

He pulled his sleeve back over his arm as you let go. 

This wouldn’t be as hard as you thought it would be. 

[aprilsproject]

chapter two on ao3 is released!!!! i actually like this one lmao

coming to tumblr in aprox. 10 minutes

[aprilsproject]

biggest issue I have w most eddie x reader fics is they make him so like. smooth talker. im sure he could be sometimes, but I know that boy is NOT smooth the other half.

especially with smut about him... like I promise that guy is stumbling over his words CONSTATNYL

[aprilsproject]

guys how am I supposed to write a slow burn over 10 days. bye do I rewrite some stuff or commit????

[5lutforeddie]

Yeah "loner stone faced" male characters are okay, but here is one of the most endearing things about Eddie. How much he SHOWS his emotions.

He's far from a nonchalant man. He shows and feels everything passionately, and I very much believe he is that way when he's in love too❤️.

[aprilsproject]

you're so vain

CHAPTER ONE: betting

read on ao3

eddie munson/reader how to lose a guy in 10 days au

summary: you're an article writer for Hawkins school paper, but you need something to write about that won't get shelved. Nancy knows you give the best relationship advice so you'll write about that. Little do you know, Eddie Munson has a bet going on that he could make you fall for him.

warnings: no use of y/n, none (for this chapter...)

word count: 4,000k +

“Shit,” She said to you. 

You looked over the table of paper confused. The Hawkin’s High School Newspaper was supposed to be released in a month, and the class was in charge of organising it. 

This cycle, you didn’t get a column. Your work was shelved—often too. It wasn’t that you were illiterate or anything, it was the content. Apparently, not a lot of people like reading about everything wrong with the Satanic Panic and the way it ties back to communism. 

You were more interested in writing than organizing— it was just more enjoyable. Your father always told you it was a good way to become an investigator, like for the FBI or something. 

That was the dream, but realistically, you were stuck writing about how the Tigers won their basketball game, the cheer team is going well but that’d probably get shelved too. 

Your eyes tracked Nancy’s movement, “What’s up?” 

“We’re missing an entire fucking column. Like, a whole article." She put her hands in her messy hair, stressed and about to brink insanity by the looks of it. 

“It’s like, for sure gone? Completely?” 

She practically shouted that it was. 

You watched Nancy do her work, small sniffles in between each frantic shuffle of paper. 

“Are you okay?” You asked, “What’s going on with you?” 

She sighed and looked at you. Her eyes slightly dreary, “Nothing.” She sniffed, it was obvious she didn’t feel like making a scene. 

You sighed, this was the fifth time in the past two months. “What happened?” It didn’t mean you couldn’t be supportive though. 

“I–I– I don’t know. He called me last night, and said it wasn’t working. He said… that I was too high maintenance. What the fuck does that even mean?” She groaned. 

“Steve?” 

“Who else? This is the like, third time he’s said that!” She buried her head in her hands. 

You swallowed every snarky comment you had ready to fire, and tried a softer, more comforting approach. She was your best friend, and despite the fact she just can’t get enough of Steve ‘the hair’ Harrington's bullshit was not your problem. 

“Right. Well, was there anything leading up to that? Or did he just call you… out of nowhere to break up with you?” 

She told you that she argued with him about everything, little or small. Where to get coffee, where to hangout, when to come over. He said she was too high maintenance. 

“I just don’t know what I’m doing wrong, I feel like I am a perfectly reasonable person.” 

“Do you want some advice?” You asked. It killed you not to help someone— like really killed you. If there was an issue, why on earth wouldn’t you want to solve it? So that’s what you tried to do. 

“Please. I need it.” She fell into a chair, her chin low. 

You advised her of what to and not to do— example: maybe don’t call him inconsiderate because he didn’t buy you flowers before coming over at midnight. He probably didn’t have time. You said she also shouldn’t spring last minute events on him and be disappointed when he couldn’t make it, and maybe, just maybe, don’t be completely and utterly overbearing. 

What came out was a lot nicer, softer and you hoped you didn’t hurt her feelings too much. 

“I wish I could just like, read about this. Who the hell writes books anymore? Can’t someone just, like, make a guide on how to not do this?” She thumped her head against the wall.

“Maybe it’s out there somewhere.” You joked, knowing she’d take it well. 

She gave you a deathglare out of love, “Hah. Very funny.” 

You checked the clock, “It’s almost three, are we still going to yours? I have a bunch of popcorn—it’s microwaveable…” you taunted. 

She let out a brief smile as she shuffled everything on the table into a neat stack, “Yeah, yeah, we can take my car.” 

“Yes!” You squealed, wrapping an arm around her. 

You had always done this, Nancy gets sad so you go to her house, watch a movie, binge on popcorn and gossip. It made you feel like a beautiful girl which was rare considering that you were Nancy Wheeler's friend. 

She was just always prettier, smarter, more lucky with guys, (except since sophomore year,) but she’s a respected person. You? You’ve spent your entire high school career living in her shadow— for the most part: willingly. 

But that’s what was easiest. If you weren’t seen, you weren’t spoken about. You couldn’t imagine what Harrington was spreading about her already. 

Everybody knew you as Nancy’s friend. Not even your name. 

— 

When you made it to Nancy’s with your school bag still slung over your shoulder. You waited for her to open the door before taking off your shoes as she shouted to her mother that she was home. 

Mike walked down the stairs, groaning at the sight of you, “Is she going to be here the entire night?” He stretched his long pale arms backwards out of disappointment. 

“Shut up Mike. It’s a Friday, I have friends too, y'know.” She dismissed him, kicking off her loafers. 

They spoke as if you weren’t right next to them. 

“Can’t you do a different night? Hellfire is over right now— I’m literally doing something really important too.” He pleaded with her. 

You stood still, holding my shoes in my hand, bag ready to plop into Nancy’s bedroom. 

“Too bad. I’ve like, literally had plans for weeks, you can ask mom and she’ll say the same thing.” She started walking up the stairs shoving past her brother, “Tough luck.” 

He slumped his way down into the basement, not even bearing to look at you. A muffled communal groan of disappointment followed from the shut door as you made your way up following Nancy. 

“Sorry,” She said, continuing opening her door, “He’s being a dick.” 

You shrugged it off, thinking about the paper mostly. You wanted to fill that column. This was your chance. 

“I don’t care—rotten little brothers, whatever.” 

The air was thick with the smell of AC and you could hear her mom cooking dinner through the vent below. 

She laid down on her bed which was well kept, and grabbed her teddy bear from next to her, holding it in the air, “Steve got me this.” 

“I know,” you sighed. “But, Steve isn’t here right now. Your best friend is.” You pointed to yourself with a false grin, dropping your stuff on her floor. 

You were jealous of her room. It was sweet, pretty, everything she was. Yours, however, had been littered with your clothes, the bed was just a mattress on the floor, and your desk was stacked with old homework you never turned in. It was a mess, just like you. 

But that’s not what anybody knew— and at some points it came down to borrowing her clothes because your washer broke and you had no time to go to the laundr-o-mat. Plus, you’d probably hide one of the dryers if anybody saw you there. 

“I have Footloose on VHS. Ready whenever you are.” You held the tape in your hand, and tossed it onto her bookshelf. 

She stared at her small brown bear with a small ribbon around the neck, before dropping it to the floor. 

You knew she’d pick it up right after you left to its returned place, but it was the thought that counts. 

“We have to wait for my stupid brother before we do anything.” She groaned, rubbing her face with her hands. 

You sat at the foot of the bed, fiddling with a strand of your hair as you listened. 

“I am going to kill that twerp. His friends are so loud and obnoxious,” She sat up before continuing her rant. “They’re weird, like incredibly too. One of them’s like, really old, and he’s the leader of their little cult.” 

“Oh my god.” You laughed, understanding what she was referencing. 

She was talking about the “Hellfire Club”. The entire thing seemed entirely childish to you; especially the matching t-shirts. 

“It’s totally stupid right? When they sit together at lunch, it’s like some weird circle over there. Smoke rises over there every thirty seconds too.” She laughed, throwing her head even further back into the pillow. 

You agreed. 

You continued to gossip and laugh until your stomach cramped until it was dinner time, and you ate her mothers chicken, rice and asparagus. It was better than any dinner you had at home. It was either this, or frozen TV dinner. 

The group of her brother and his friends downstairs continued, ignoring the call of food entirely, probably too immersed in their own false reality, similar to Nancy’s hope of Steve calling and apologising. 

“How’s school going?” Her mother asked, cutting a piece of meat with her fork. 

You leaned back, “It’s going.” You realised that snarkiness was not the desire of the dinner table, “I mean, it’s going well. Except the newspaper.” 

Nancy rolled her eyes in agreement while playing with her food, “Tell me about it.” 

Her mother looked curious, her dad less so, and her baby sister sat in the highchair. 

“What’s going on with the newspaper?” She asked you and Nancy. 

“What isn’t going on? We lost an entire article.” She said, taking a bite of her food. 

You nodded, hoping that was the truth. God, you really, really hoped it was the truth. You just didn’t know what the hell to write about. 

“Darling, can you go get the boys from downstairs?” She asked Mr. Wheeler, to which he grunted and obliged. She turned back towards you and her daughter,“Well that doesn’t sound fun. What are you going to do about it?” 

“I think— I’m gonna try and write something.” You spit out. 

Nancy looked up from her food, her seemingly bad mood went away when you could offer solutions it seemed. 

Her mother smiled, a polite, wealthy smile, “That’s wonderful! What’s it going to be about?” She had a glass of wine sitting across from her and she took it in her hand. 

You thought of anything you could write: War, famine, death, criminal injustice, and landed on an answer you thought would appease the two, “Fashion in Hawkins?” 

Nancy seemed unsure, but her mom less. She had adorned clothes from Nordstrom, so you knew that had to appease her to some extent. 

“Like—we dress differently than people in big cities,” you attempted to back up your claim. “We have magazines and stuff, but we seem to dress different.” 

She gave another polite nod and a “that’s nice” before finishing her dinner and you and Nancy were left to finish yours. 

It seemed like a quiet moment, until there were the screams of teenage boys coming from below your feet, to which you both ignored. It almost sounded like a real monster had come down there to get them. 

“I didn’t know you were going to write a column.” She said as she started to finish her food. 

You shrugged, knowing you should have told her before springing the idea on her in front of her parents,  “Someone’s gonna have to. Plus, Dishmen benched my paper before—” 

“Fashion?” She questioned. 

You laughed knowing she saw right through your lie, “OK, not fashion. But something that he’ll put in. I know he’s gonna be desperate.” 

“Just like me,” She alluded. It seemed like she always managed to tie her love life into the conversation. 

“Maybe that’s what my paper will be on.” You teased. 

She pretended to swat at you across the table, “Oh shut up, scuzz.” 

You realised this is what friendship was— this was all you had. It was this, or go home. Go home to whatever mess you crawl out of each morning, your mother would tell you to do something and you’d go to school. 

“Hey,” She said inquisitively, “That’s not a bad idea. Like, really.” 

You sarcastically laughed at her before realising she wasn’t kidding. 

“Like what? Nancy Wheeler’s relationship status, page six?” 

She started stacking the plates, her father dismissed his completely after returning from the basement to yell at the kids down there.

 “No, but you gave me some good advice. Maybe put that in the paper, seriously. I know Melinda Smith just broke up with her boyfriend, and Chrissy Cunningham is well—Chrissy. It wouldn’t be a shot in the dark is all I’m saying.” 

You looked at her like she had a third eye. This was a good idea, however the issue is, ever since you had been out of a relationship since Junior year you gave up on the idea of dating. That did not stop you from flirting at parties, however. 

Despite the fact you spent a lot of time clinging to Nancy’s shoulder, guys liked you. They thought you were everything and more, just out of reach. 

This did not come pleasantly to you, it made you disgusted that all guys wanted to do was get in your pants. But you had been conveniently labelled, “off-limits” which was a less charming nickname than you had hoped. 

“How do you suggest I do this? I can’t exactly get like, data on how successful my advice is.” You stayed seated in the uncomfortable dining room chair as she tidied, the plate of food sat in front of you mocked you. 

A small smirk cursed her lips, “Sure you can,” She licked some chapstick off of her lips, “You could pick up some cute guy.” 

You asked how that could conclude any evidence of the legitimacy to your word. Because realistically, nobody wants to read a paper about your dating life. They’d snore themselves to death.

“Oh I have a way better idea then.” She ran to the kitchen, shuffling her socks on the way, balancing the dishes in her hands. 

You stood up as she raced her way back, “Oh, really? You have an idea? Enlighten me.” 

She clasped her palms together, “Instead of some boring puff piece on relationship advice, or a piece on the Vietnam war, write everything not to do.” 

“I don’t follow.” 

“Like, what not to do— call late at night, say you love each other a week into dating, all the bullshit girls like me accidentally do— write an article on that.” She finished her ramble. 

It did intrigue you since it was a perfect thing to ruffle some feathers. 

“Yeah, maybe I’ll find a guy to chase and make him hate me by the end of it.” You picked your feet up and began to follow her. 

She started to walk her way to her bedroom to retrieve the VHS now that you had finished dinner. “Seriously! Everybody would eat it up. You could have some fun with it too— there are so many cute guys around our school who’d love to get with a girl like you.” 

“No thank you,” you followed her to her room. “I’d like to preserve some of my social dignity.” 

She quickly grabbed the tape and swung herself out her room and yet again you trailed behind after grabbing the popcorn out of your bag. 

“So date someone with none.” She suggested, turning on the TV as you sat yourself down. 

You blew air out of your lips, “Like who?” 

She slid the VHS into the player, grabbing the remote and sitting herself down next to you on her sunken seat. 

She looked at you with a mischievous smile painted across her cheeks, waiting for the TV to fully work. 

“What?” You pleaded, “What do you know I don’t? You’re seriously freaking me out.” 

 “Y’know… I know somebody with a low enough place in the food chain— you wouldn’t have to worry about embarrassing yourself. Nobody would even take his word for it.” 

The only idea that came to mind was her ex boyfriend which you knew was no-go, so the curiosity bit at you. 

She laughed at her own idea to herself, and you knew she’d continue unless you begged with all your will. 

“Spit it out!” You whacked her thigh with the remote that was previously in her hand. 

She giggled even more to herself, putting her legs on the table which was probably worth more than anything you had owned in your whole life. 

“You’re going to hate me,” She said. The TV began to start the movie’s previews that you forgot to tape over. 

You curled yourself towards her and kicked off your socks to the floor. 

“Eddie Munson.” She covered her smile with her hand as she laughed through her teeth. 

You opened your mouth wide in a dramatic gasp, “No way!” 

Eddie Munson. What isn’t there to say about him? He was everything you weren’t. He ran the cult that your best friend's brother was in, and he was better known as the “freak” and if anybody found out you were hitting on him, you knew your attempt at the popularity contest you had been running in for years would be toast.  

He was known for his loud behavior, crass and crazy. There were rumors constantly about him dealing drugs to people and his living situation. People said he was homeless for all of middle school, but that was the one rumor you chose not to comment on due to the similarity that you had been in before. 

“Fuck you! Nancy, I’m not going out with that weirdo.” You stated factly. Although, the thought of driving a boy, let alone the schools craziest, had a charm to it somehow. Maybe it was the adrenaline. 

She shrugged smugly, “It’d be good evidence, a good source of data; that guy would be crawling at your doorstep.” 

“Fine.” You crossed your arms. You needed a piece, and this was all that was promising. 

She moved her hands from her lap and threw them in the air, “Seriously?” 

You kept your arms crossed and grazed over the popcorn bag sitting on the coffee table. “I need something to write about—plus, maybe it’d be like— a little fun.” You whispered. 

“He’s so scary!” She whisper shouted with a grin across her face. 

— 

"Hey, hey. What's this I see? I thought this was a party! Let's dance!!" The TV buzzed, the movie began to spin its way to the end. 

The clock wrote nine fourty-seven. You had noticed the darkness from the window outside, and the popcorn bowl had been empty for about an hour at that point. 

The group of boys slowly exited the basement, causing a wave of noise to flood the living room you sat in. Heavy footsteps came up the stairs and a small line of boys came out, putting their shoes on. 

Your friend's brother opened the door for them, slowly letting the herd of people out.  Jeff walked to his car, so did Gareth, and last but not least, Eddie emerged from downstairs,  

He gazed at you then Nancy, then back to you. 

She had her back turned from him, but tilted her chin down from her muffled smile at who was staring.

You lightly slapped her shoulder to stop, which aroused more suspicion than just leaving her be. 

Eddie stopped for a slight second, catching his breath as Mike stood leaning against the open door with his hand on the doorknob. 

“Till’ next time Micheal.” He mocked turning his face to his friend, before returning his eyes on you. “Goodbye ladies,” he looked you up and down, giving you a sly wave from his hip. 

He lounged his way out the house, and you sat yourself up to check the window as he got into his car. 

You ignored the strange look her brother gave you when you slid past him in your socks to hover in front of the window.

You pushed the blinds out your way to admire what was outside. 

Everybody knew about his shitbox of a vehicle, but you never tried to comment on it since your family had owned a similar one most of your life. 

“So,” Nancy grabbed your attention, craning her neck to speak, “You’re really gonna do it?” 

Mike stood watching, confused. 

“I’m gonna have to if I want that article.” You nodded, “I just have to get Mr. Dishmen to think it’s a good idea first.” You told her, walking away from the window as the loud music from his van managed to escape through the walls of the house. 

You sat yourself back down on the couch next to her as Mike gave you and his sister a suspicious look. 

“What the hell are you two on about?” He threw his hands up in the air, one motioning to the outside.

“Can’t tell.” Nancy remarked, snickering to herself. 

He scoffed a small “whatever” and slithered himself up to his room. 

“I’m just, like, nervous.” You confessed to her after waiting for her brother's absence. 

She comforted you, “Don’t be. It’s just like every other relationship— except you have to be completely and utterly insufferable,” She laughed at herself. 

The thought of it being considered a “relationship” made your stomach churn. The fact that the next boy you’d date was Eddie Munson made you want to jump off a bridge. 

And the fact you’d be playing with his feelings. That too—but that wasn’t necessarily your top priority to preserve his feelings. Everybody knew he was mean, especially to those outside his little friend group. 

— 

When Eddie got in the car, he turned the music all the way up. The campaign was successful, but he felt like something in the story was lacking, so instead he figured he would go home, sleep on it, (probably miss the first period,) and then all the ideas would flow to him. 

He drove past the small mini-mart that was on the way to his home, noticing a couple sitting on the outside table, sharing a pizza and drinks. They were laughing, happy, together. Everything he wasn’t. 

But he didn’t need a girlfriend, let alone something to commit to. Jeff always told him that one would just weigh him down, not like he could get one anyways. 

He didn’t have a big insecurity of being single, but when he was in the basement, it was more of a challenge. 

“You couldn’t pick up a chick if you tried man,” Gareth remarked as their game ended. 

He gave his shoulder a jab before pretending to have his feelings hurt. “That’s pretty messed up. You think I couldn’t get a girl to like me? I could have 'em lined up outside the van if need be.”

The group laughed at his joke. He knew he was joking, but there was part of him that thought that could partially be the truth. He wasn’t popular, so he knew he’d have to go for someone preferably not in Hawkins. 

“Yeah right, like who?” Jeff nudged Gareth with his elbow, knowing he probably wouldn’t be able to answer. 

Doug chimed in before Eddie could respond, “unless she was like, deformed, I cast my doubts. Think Eddie could get some hot chick? No way.” He scoffed, grinning. 

“I think I could get an absolute beauty if I tried thank you very much.” He put his hands on his chest, standing up from the fold-up chair that he had spent the last three hours in. 

“Really?” Doug inquired, egging him on. 

Eddie nodded, letting out an “mhm”

He stood up to be at eye level with his dungeon master, “Who?” 

“Fuck, what’s her name?” He gestured to Mike, “Your sister's hot friend.” 

Mike groaned and winced, closing his eyes, leaning his head backwards in disgust. He thought about all the sleepovers, girl gossip sessions and shoes at the doorway, “Ew! Not her. Please, anyone but her, that’s gross.” 

The group had known of your existence, shockingly. Although it was mostly due to the fact you were yet again titled as “Nancy Wheeler's friend” or better yet, “Mike's sister's hot friend” it was still the fact they knew you were on the same planet. 

“She’s like, totally weird dude! Her and Nancy spend every sleepover doing the same thing. Nancy told me she tries like, so much, and all she does is write about like, stupid stuff. War or whatever. She’s totally putting in way too much effort.” He remarked. 

“You couldn’t get her if you tried man,” Gareth agreed with Doug. “She’s like, way too hot for you.” 

Eddie unsheathed an imaginary sword and held it in the air, “I hereby announce that I not only will go steady with her—I will make this girl fall head over heels with me.” He put away the false weapon. 

“And if I fail?” He continued, “you will all be evenly dispersed my assets.” 

His assets were mostly drugs. Particularly a lunchbox full of marijuana, a van full of half empty cigarettes, and lots and lots of alcohol from his uncle. 

The group collectively laughed at the idea of Eddie giving up his things to them, and so they hoped that you would reject him. They liked the image of him showing up at your doorstep, then falling flat on his face right in front of you. 

“The deal is on.” Gareth said as Mike continued to grumble about the circumstance. “But if you lose,” he continued, “I’m taking your whole stash Munson.” 

He nodded with his eyes closed in agreement. 

The only issue? How the fuck was he supposed to go about this? He knew you weren’t easy— you were the opposite. So, getting in your pants would be difficult, but making you fall for him? That’s like hiking Mt. Everest with no shoes. 

[aprilsproject]

rewatching season 4 and OH MY GOD eddie is so charming im dead im in love byeeeyeyee

[aprilsproject]

why work on my eddie munson fic when I could start a new one based off of how to lose a guy in 10 days.... would we be reading guys?

[aprilsproject]

trying to write an eddie munson/reader fic but trying not to make reader a cheerleader, popular, or into steve harrington

this is so hard pls somebody give me reader character traits to use

[aprilsproject]

rewriting a five chapter fic to be in second person instead of first im done

[tokkibean]

when youre stressed about your current wip, start a new one! now you can be stressed about two wips instead!

[aprilsproject]

omg the thing that sucks about writing is that I just have to.... god someone is making me do this..... lots of readers.......

[aprilsproject]

thinking about releasing an eddie one shot on here and maybe ao3...

[itsybitsybug]

stop putting ur shitty ass oc in the x reader tag

[aprilsproject]

ughsghghdgshfg not even writers block just don't know where the story is going,,,

should I make it more of a enemies-friends-lovers or just oblivious friends to lovers ,? (im leaning towards the second option,,) but someone give me an opinion