#opaque glasses is close second fav too

[katyspersonal]

When a character has covered eyes in any way but lower side of the face is visible (and especially if they are smiling), it sparks SO much yearning in me. Nothing against eyes (what a BB fan thing to say xD), but this is just... so appealing? Basically if Bloody Crow and Annalise only had upper side of their faces covered, I'd simp. If Micolash had his eyes covered? There would be no survivors

[dadsbongos]

Hello!

First things first, I absolutely adore your fic, Monachopsis. Like, I can say that one is easily one of my fav fics I’ve read with Eddie and just, ugh, it’s so good. It makes me so happy and I go back to read it from time to time!

Second thing, I saw that you were open to writing for a disabled!reader and I wanted to suggest maybe a Reader who has a really noticeable disfigurement? For example, my disfigurement is that I was born without my right jaw bone, and my right ear, so my face is noticeably off center and one side looks more developed then the other. Im also blind amd deaf on my right side! Its called Goldenhar Syndrome! I’ve had a bunch of surgeries on my face and for other things so I have noticeable scars too. (Of course you dont have to go down this specific route, but I figured it would help to give an example XD)

Anyway, if you want, I’d love to see a fic where Eddie and Reader with that kind of situation, interact!

If anything, I just wanna say that I really like your interpretation of Eddie and to say again that your writing is great!

wahhh thank you so much :,(( that is so kind of you to say omg thank you for this ask, this concept was NOT leaving my skull and i found it adorable

1K words

warnings - mentions of surgery/surgical scars, hospital waiting room (idk beware nosocomephobia havers), not proofread oopsie doopsie

summary - you’re waiting to go into reconstructional surgery, and your boyfriend - Eddie - won’t stop trying to read your patient form.

…

“Can I see that?” Eddie holds his hand out, chunky rings wiggling on his fingers when you don’t immediately pass over your patient form.

“Why?”

“I wanna read it,” he pouts and leans close, you can smell the cheap cologne he last-minute sprayed on in the van outside.

“Do you not know why we’re here?” you turn to full face him on your left, head tilting, “Eddie.”

“I know!” he holds his hands up defensively, grinning wide, volume of his protest breaking the golden rule of silence in hospital waiting rooms, “I absolutely know. We’re here for your surgery,” he kisses your forehead sweetly, “You little cutie, thinking I’m a bad boyfriend.”

“Never said that,” you flip to the next page, filling out emergency contacts and home phone numbers and health insurance information.

“It was seriously implied, babe, and I don’t appreciate that.”

Eddie is practically breathing down your neck, nearly caging you against the stone blue wall on your other side. A green and white opaque glass vase sits on the darkwood table between your chair and the wall, a daisy that reminds you of the ones Eddie picks for you outside his trailer sits among roses and lilies. You see it while turning your back to your beau to avoid his piercing bambi stare.

“Babe,” he whines, cheek pressing to the back of your left shoulder, and you can still feel his eyes burn a white-hot hole through your papers, “I’m just trying to see something.”

“What?” you turn back around to face him, “What’re you trying to see, honey?”

He hesitates and a hole splices straight through your gut, and the more logical side of you knows for certain that Eddie would never - not after all his pining and hopeless romance - but something inside you lives on the fear that maybe he forgot. You want him to know, and you’re sure he does. But insecurity is pure ugliness that rides woes and waves.

“Did you forget the name of my condition?” 

Immediately, Eddie jerks back, curls waving wildly as he hurriedly shakes his head, “Not at all, baby,” your nose scrunches in the cute little way it always has when he says something ridiculous, “I’ll say it.”

“Go on,” you’re teasing now, and Eddie can feel his heart relax between his ribs. He hates when you’re upset and he always, always has.

Since you two first met in the lobby to Ms. Perkins’ speech therapy. He saw you trying to stuff yourself into the farthest gray corner, and before he could say anything, he was being called in. to discuss the trials and tribulations of his pesky stutter (honestly, it was like his brain just moved way too fast for his tongue sometimes). Before he left, though, he insisted on writing down his number for you - Wayne insisting later that people normally know the names of someone they give their number to. There was an energy about your side of the room - like the anticipation you get before a firework blasts off.

You were quiet, but he could sense thrumming - a big, loud bass smothered in the basement. And he’d be lying by saying that your little pout wasn’t adorable. That wrinkle of your nose that captures him mind, body, and soul to this day enraptured him even then.

“Goldenhair Syndrome.”

You laugh, hand flying to cover your mouth as you giggle.

“Oh, so that’s not it?” he throws his hands up, pure defeat in his muscles. He grins, enjoying the peels of your joy, “Did I say it wrong? I can spell it, probably.”

“You did say it wrong,” you fill out the final sections of your form and run it up to the receptionist, “So wrong, baby,” before sitting back in your chair, you brush a lock of his curls behind his ears and pat his cheek, just a little condescending, “Goldenhar.”

“Okay, so I got the last part wrong,” he rolls his eyes, checking the clock and noting there’s still thirty minutes until surgery, “Goldenhar. Oops.”

“Better,” you prod his arm with your nail, “What were you looking for then?”

“I was watching you write your name to see if you’d,” he snorts, more nervous than genuine in his laugh, “You know!” he twirls the skull ring around his finger, shrugging, “Hesitate and almost write an ‘M’ for your last name, it’s whatever!”

“Eds.”

“What?” he’s smitten to a point of barely even being embarrassed. He’d only find shame in it if you did.

“That’s adorable,” you take his hand, squeezing tight, and Eddie squeezes back tighter.

“Thank you, I really, really try.”

And as soon as you’re off for some reconstructional surgery - Eddie will rush off to buy you the biggest bouquet he can buy. He likes giving you the torn-root daisies as much as you enjoy receiving them, but buying flowers for you would be nice. 

“Maybe one day, I’ll actually get to write Munson, hm?”

“Oh, honey,” he excitedly turns to face you fully, eyes wide and lips pulled back so far his teeth are on display, “If you’d let me, I’d marry you right now.”

“Stop,” you swat his arm and you both giggle - neither entirely joking, though. 

There’s a soft lull. And Eddie does as he’s best at and breaks it.

“Nervous?”

“A little,” tenderly, you brush your fingertips against the collection of scars from previous surgeries, “You?”

“Why would I be nervous?”

“In case there’s an absolutely dashing doctor in there,” you like making Eddie laugh.

It was like making George Carlin - the so-called Godfather of comedy himself - laugh. Simply the funniest man you’ve ever met - and that may be bias, but you can’t be bothered to care.

“God, I hope not,” he grimaces, “Who else would I force to listen to my campaign plots?”

“Oh, whatever, Munson.”

He leans over and kisses your cheek sweetly, “Yeah, ‘whatever’. You’d be lost without my campaign plots.”

“That’s true,” you squeeze his hand again and he squeezes right back, “I’d hate it terribly.”

"Good," he nods curtly, already planning the route to the florist he saw not a block away from this hospital, "I would too, honestly."