take care of my heart because you are in it

٭ he has athsma and needs a puffer. also needs it for his anxiety and panic attacks because obv it gets really hard / painful to breathe

٭ short sleeve shirts make him wildly uncomfortable. he feels so exposed and he also just hates how his arms look

٭ isnt too fond of how his body looks in general. it's not something he really thinks about, though, not unless he sees a really attractive guy on the street or in an ad and is reminded that he's not exactly the standard

٭ he likes his height, though. read somewhere that "chicks dig tall guys: no lady wants a man under six foot" and he was like fuck yeah

٭ bought red socks to be "adventurous" since he only owns black, white, and grey pairs

٭ they turned one of his white button-downs a light pink in the wash

٭ he won't wear it in public, but he really likes the colour, so he kept it

٭ finds sped up videos of snails eating cucumber slices very entertaining. it's genuinely brain rot

٭ will sit on the toilet lid or floor or his bed sopping wet and butt ass naked after a shower staring off into space

٭ not even just cuz he's depressed it just feels nice

٭ does not like tomatoes. it's the texture that throws him off the most and if he orders a burger and they mess up his order and he has to take them off himself, he'll still have a hard time eating it cuz he can "taste the remnants"

٭ migraines so bad he gotta lay down and wait for himself to faint

٭ struggles consistently with irregular eating habits. he can go days without proper sustenance, absorbed in whatever he's doing

٭ on the other hand, if he gets too emotional he'll binge, eating whatever he can find just to fill the gaping hole inside of him. he always overdoes it, and either goes to bed with a godawful stomach ache or throws up

٭ def a hair puller. he tries to justify it by telling himself that the pain is grounding, but he sometimes ends up ripping his own hair out entirely by accident. he feels gross whenever it happens

٭ oral fixation in the sense that everything is going in his mouth. he's a nail biter, he'll chew on his hand/arm (at home), on his pen, on his glasses, on his phone charger, etc...

٭ mouth breather when he sleeps, which also means he drools. wakes up with a little wet spot on his pillow and he gets grossed out

٭ he cannot use chopsticks. gets really embarrassed when he has to go back and ask for a fork (save me white boy save me)

٭ wants to play board games really bad, but has no one to play with

٭ buys himself a nice little something that he's been saving up for for himself for christmas. every christmas. he uses the holiday as an excuse to indulge in something he wants, instead of need

٭ wrapped it for himself one year. spent way too long tryna figure out how to wrap it nicely. felt so stupid once it was all wrapped up that he tore it open immediately. hasn't wrapped anything for himself since

٭ a single peppercorn would put him in a coma i think

THE hacker/gamer bf- ik he plays 2048 (me fr) in his year one comic but I feel like he’d play other games too (especially since gaming = escapism..)

maybe elden ring? or any of the souls/fromsoft games- he’d have the most op builds and learn the patterns for boss fights so quickly

I can definitely see you just being used to hearing wailing from the other room figuring he’s either thinking about the batman again or died to malenia

and then his guilty pleasure game would def be overwatch.. he’s a sombra (ofc) and rammatra main

like sombra who’s also a hacker w an icon (her little pixilated skull symbol) and then ram who is literally anti humans “suffer as i have”?? that’s literally him??

^not to be edaters but play mercy or ana and pocket him pls <3

speaking of gaming.. doing the new york times games is part of his morning routine, he can do them all in 15 minutes !

he’s also a flow free fiend (it’s a color maze kinda game!) he’s finished every single level but still does the daily/monthly ones when they come out..

a kind of headcanon- possibly canon thing I’ve been thinking about is artist ed(??) like his little ink doodle in year one????

then this page (which was probably just for the sake of the comic but I’d like to think it was ed’s drawing :])

idk why but I could not imagine him in an art supply store? so I think he’d take the ink out of pens and add water and then use like a coffee stirring stick (LIKE THE QUESTION MARK IN HIS COFFEE!!) to actually paint stuff

he would never ever show you but he does have like pages on pages- probably whole notebooks- w drawings of you <3

will text you riddles. and expect you to answer in a timely manner.

^also even when you two are together (chilling on the couch or on the subway) and he thinks of a good riddle but doesn’t want to talk (this 100% isn’t me projecting…) he’ll text you and stare at you as he waits for you to answer (often times w a big smile on his face)

he’s not the best at physical touch but will always want you in the same room as him- just to body double/know you’re there

^when you two are in public he’d be.. not necessarily more clingy but want to be closer to you so he doesn’t loose sight of you

he’s very child standing in their parents doorway w the ‘I frew up’ pose- like throughout 'the batman' he’s always… lurking.. so I feel like he’d be like that casually too

he’s somehow always just there. behind you. don’t scream though, he’ll cry (jk he’d probably just stand there like :| )

he’d either hate or love sour candies (I heard somewhere that sour candies can also help shock you out of a panic attack/anxiety spiral so that might be also nice for him..)

but I do think it would be funny for you to casually give him a kiss and then go.. ‘ed… open your mouth…’ and his tongue is just blue..

or having to pull away bc he tastes sour

I love soft, domestic, comfortable Edward so so much

In the dead of night, when Gotham was the quietest it could be, and if he was lucky enough to slip into a nightmare-less sleep, his fantasies would take hold. Silly little moments his mind conjured, most if not all of them about you. Perusing a corner store for snacks with you, on the bus whispering to each other about something. He could never quite remember the entirety of the illusion when he awoke. Only a brief clip of it and the fading feeling of safety would stay with him.

Safety, the thought always made him scoff. There was no such thing as safe in Gotham, he knew that. The familiar sound of punches being thrown in a dark alley and gory news stories taught him better. An almost constant sense of discomfort had a funny way of crawling into his life.

Was it so wrong for these dreams to give him a brief moment of peace? A break from the endless sounds of the city and his own smothering thoughts. A gift he would’ve prayed for at an earlier point in his life. Why was it that after every time he opened his eyes in the morning and savored the remnants of you, he would feel guilty? Perverted almost, as if he’d been dreaming more.. vulgar senecios with you.

Yet these moments were perhaps even more unobtainable than those. They were sweet, sickly sweet, and offered a kinder version of his life he knew he didn’t deserve. Warm skin, gentle smiles, he wouldn’t flinch when you touched him in these dreams. He could hold your hand, you’d let him, slightly swinging them as you walk along. Or at least that’s what he thinks he’d do, his own imagination filling in the blanks of what he doesn’t remember.

He has a favorite. One where he stayed in bed for hours after waking up, desperately clawing at the sheets and his hair, trying to go back to that perfect mirage.

You two were in his apartment only cleaner, lighter in every sense of the words. There were no ledgers left on the floor or scratch of rats in the walls. And he felt as if he could finally breathe, there was no yelling, no one telling him what to do.

He was reading something, you were too. Sitting side by side, backs against the wall, legs touching under the covers. Something happens and the books disappear and the rest of the room dissolves into nothing as you settle your head in his lap. And he brushes the hair out of your face, you smile.

Then he wakes up.

Whenever he thinks about these fantasies during the day he gets nauseous. Heavy breathing accompanied by the repeated phrase of “I shouldn’t” makes him spiral.

“You should be ashamed,”

“Why? For wanting to feel safe?”

Edward traces your skin with his fingers as if he were trying to memorize points of interest on a map. pin after pin, taps of separate digits like blinking red dots across synthetic paper.

one van here, one here... oh, and.. here.

boom?

there's a snicker just beneath the ghost of Edward's breath, mocking. and he pushes with clammy palms, impatiently against both legs, folding you slightly at the hip and navel. Edward hovers, serpentine glaze euphoric, far away; bliss, bliss, what bliss. was this what the nuns preached, knocked bloody against knuckles with oaken disciplinary, had warned him about.. back in parochial school?

heaven. sworn to never reach it, but oh, how wrong everyone was about him and redemption.

everything is swimming.

you, him. treading thick black water, sinking, sunk - both drowning willingly.

you, sweat and ichor, laid bare.

sacrament on a platter. 

Edward exhales heavily against exposed nerve endings, strangled and hot and damp. his gloved hands are back at the patterns, strange geometric shapes that mean nothing to you - don't register. was it something important? you couldn't remember. one moves, up, up, up stiff stick of black nitrile and push. press. you're like a singing greeting card, the way you part for him, wither open. pathetic little whines, and all he's done is display a little force.

how much? how much? how much until you break? Edward can't help but wonder, predacious gleam of ivory behind thin lips.

you grab for him, obtusely frantic and searching when you find the fabric of his military jacket. encompassing, curling over his wrist; not to halt, don't stop. just wanting to hold. cradle. comfort in the heat of the small amount of humanity he still contained. all for you. Edward's heart trembles and thrashes in his throat.

focus.

he descends with the pressure of rapture resting heavy just between his eyes. clear glasses slip down the slope of his nose, dribbling with perspiration; tongue to cheek as he rests his face against a parted thigh. gaze flickering up at you behind thin veiled reflections, scripture threading through clenched teeth. this space a precious tabernacle.

Edward bites. just slightly, a tease of the blade against flesh. gentle, to the best of his abilities, but he can't help it. you jerk violently in his grasp, push upward against his hold - no, no, no. he remains steady, unaffected, as he shoves you back into the mattress. jaw dropping open to sloppily trail open mouthed kisses against the exposure of skin. just the slightest outline of his presence etched into your body - temporary, but Edward is left with a hunger so visceral it wars in his veins. pulses in his temples.

you were resting your rabbit heart so graciously in the stretch of his maw, pure angel blood across his canine teeth. Edward would never take it for granted. the shape of you beneath him; all the unseeable, unknowable parts. not to him.

the remnant won't last, not long enough - no trace of him permanent enough to leave behind. so Edward will grind your bones together until they meld into one substance. from dust you came, and to dust you shall return; and isn't he just speeding up the process?

animalistic, selfish need to possess. overwhelming, overtaking. never, ever enough.

body of christ; salt melting atop Edward's tongue, intermingling with the spit across the roof of his mouth. honey smeared his mouth - flooding all tangible senses, tasting every single piece of you; previously so forbidden.

two matters, fused into a singular meeting point, here - morphing this dark room of nightly dread into a garden of eden.