#had to finish some work this week!! | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

gourmet-trash · 6 months

Text

HEY. remember when i said i accidentally stayed up until 2am writing smut a week ago? i did it again! tomorrow i might delete edit this and post it properly, but in honor of trying to use nanowrimo to simply get back into the habit of writing and get out of my own head about it, here's 4k of under-negotiated halstarion kink for ya!

They haven’t been settled in the clearing long, but Halsin is breathless, shirtless, and working a line of sucking kisses towards Astarion’s gaping collar when it happens. He’s learned to look and listen for it now - the telltale shift of Astarion’s focus, the overly practiced cadence of his moans. Tonight, it’s a sound he makes when Halsin kisses the exposed bit of his collarbone – too breathy, too eager – that makes Halsin look up.

Astarion is still perched over his lap, has curled a long fingered hand around the back of his neck and another over his shoulder. But for all that his weight is a welcome presence across his thighs, Halsin knows he isn’t really there with him. His features are arranged into an expression of soft pleasure, certainly, but there’s a dull rust in his eyes and a languidness in his limbs that give him away.

Slowly, Halsin sits up against the tree he’s propped himself against and lifts his hands from where they had been stroking the outside of Astarion’s thighs. He rests one warm palm higher against his side and lifts the other to cup his cheek.

“Astarion?” he calls, brushing his thumb against the soft skin beneath it. They’ve only just started feeling their way into the evening, and Astarion hasn’t been detached for long. But even still, Halsin gives him time to reconnect, watching as his eyes gradually brighten and refocus.

“Are you all right?” he asked gently.

Astarion blinks at him once, twice, and then his expression pinches down into something narrow. Annoyed. It only lasts a moment before he visibly regains control of his features, brows softening, lips curling, lashes lowering.

“I’m fine,” he insists, turning to press a nipping kiss to the thumb against his cheek before leaning in closer and winding his arms around Halsin’s neck. “Just got a bit…distracted. Now where were we?”

When he dips in for a kiss, Halsin returns it, but only briefly before he eases Astarion back. The annoyance reclaims his face and is not swept away this time.

“Are you certain?” he presses. “We do not have to continue with this if you would rather not.”

Astarion leans back from him of his own accord this time, fisting his hands against his own thighs and huffing so hard a curl falls down over his forehead. He doesn’t climb off of Halsin’s lap, but his brow knits into a tight furrow and his lips press down into a hard, flat line. The agitation roiling up around him may as well be a physical thing for how obvious his displeasure is.

“I want to continue,” he bites out, teeth all but grinding together.

Halsin, in turn, is exceedingly careful when he lowers his hand to Astarion’s other side, his touch featherlight, though Astarion gives no indication he notices at all.

“It’s all right if you don’t,” he points out, keeping his own voice calm. He means this, and knows - or rather hopes - Astarion knows that. It would not be the first time they adjusted their evening plans accordingly, and Halsin knows it will not be the last. He is, perhaps, more at peace with this than Astarion himself is if the tension in his limbs and the thunder in his expression are anything to go by.

Astarion doesn’t respond, breathing hard and unnecessary through his nose, and when Halsin glances down, he finds he’s uncurled his fists in favor of curling the points of his nails into his thighs instead. When one cuts through his trousers to dig into the glimpse of white flesh underneath, Halsin releases his sides and sets his own larger hands over his, grasping gently. Not enough to restrain, but enough to keep him from directing any more frustration into his own skin.

Astarion scowls down at their hands in silence.

Halsin rubs his thumbs against his hands until Astarion relaxes them. Then, softly, he says, “I don’t want to hurt you, my heart.”

“Yes, and maybe that’s the problem!” Astarion snaps suddenly, yanking his hands out from under his.

Halsin stares, startled by the outburst, and Astarion frowns, first at him and then at the tree over his shoulder. When he doesn’t elaborate, Halsin carefully breaches the silence instead.

“Do you want me to hurt you?”

Astarion opens his mouth to respond before catching himself and pressing his lips back together. Halsin spots a glimpse of a fang hooking over his lower lip briefly before it’s released, and he clicks his tongue softly, shoulders coming up slightly towards his ears.

Halsin sees the moment Astarion’s not insignificant amount of nerve fails him. When he decides to settle rather than expose any more of his soft underbelly than he already has by asking outright for what he wants. He casts his eyes aside and tilts his head, just so, hiding his expression and tucking away his throat - his jugular.

“Astarion,” Halsin tries to coax him back into the conversation, lifting a hand to frame the sharp edge of his jaw. He sees Astarion roll his eyes under the cover of his lashes and the loose curl of his hair.

“Let’s not worry about it, darling! Certainly not worth derailing the rest of our evening over. Shall we try again?” Astarion says with bright, easy flippancy. He settles back into his own limbs with perfectly composed intent: rolling a wrist as if to brush away the conversation, sitting up to regain his position and conveniently pulling his jaw out of Halsin’s palm. He puts on a familiar smirk and drops his hands to Halsin’s chest, watching as his fingers drag down over the bared muscle and hair there. A well insinuated excuse to avoid eye contact.

Halsin considers him for a moment while Astarion artfully attempts to sweep the entire ordeal back under the proverbial rug. But it is a rare thing for Astarion to voice his own desires with any sort of specificity, either because he does not know what he wants or because he struggles with what he does. And Halsin suspects he knows which of the two is agitating him this evening.

When he lifts his hand to Astarion’s jaw again, he catches both sides and digs his fingertips and thumb into the soft skin with more force than he’s previously shown outside the furthest throes of passion. The skin dimples under his grip, and on another man it would take only a bit more pressure to leave a flush in the shape of his fingers behind.

The effect is immediate.

Astarion’s eyes finally snap back to his, wider but infinitely more focused than they’d been just a moment before. And whether from the pressure against his jaw or sheer surprise, his lips have fallen just a bit apart. He doesn’t even appear to be making the effort to feign breathing, gone supernaturally still in Halsin’s lap with only his fingertips still balanced against his chest, as if he’d forgotten about them entirely.

But it’s the intensity of his focus that strikes Halsin the hardest. Any misgivings he may have had about the honesty of Astarion’s desires are put at ease by how firmly anchored into the present moment he appears to be. For now, at least.

Halsin doesn’t speak right away, watching Astarion’s face as he slowly tightens his grip, pushing into what must be uncomfortable pressure. It’s just hard enough to force Astarion’s mouth further open, enough to expose his fangs. It would likely not yet even bruise if his lover were at risk of such a thing.

It still tears an impossibly sweet noise from him, high pitched and wobbling in his throat. The sound is something delightfully unpracticed, and it sends a sharp, promising jolt of warmth through him to hear it. Another warm pulse follows at the flustered expression that crosses Astarion’s face a moment later when he realizes he made it.

“Astarion,” he says again, fingers tight but his voice as gentle as it has been before. Astarion tries to make an undoubtedly disapproving face at the tone, but he isn’t entirely successful with his mouth pressed open and a thin line of saliva starting to trickle out of the corner of his lips. “Is this the sort of treatment you were asking for?”

The spell that had so thoroughly ensnared Astarion when Halsin grabbed him is starting to abate by now. He doesn’t pull away, but he does raise an arch eyebrow and lifts one of his own hands to wave pointedly at where Halsin is holding his mouth ajar.

Halsin smiles and uses his grip on Astarion’s chin to tip his head back a bit. He’s rewarded with a small, hitched sound that Astarion doesn’t quite manage to stop himself from making, and the trail of saliva curls over his jaw and starts a slow trickle down the exposed line of his neck.

“I’m certain you can manage a clear enough yes or no from here,” Halsin says, not unkindly.

He watches Astarion’s eyes narrow and his throat bob. He has never been connected to Astarion’s mind in the way their other companions have, but he doesn’t need a tadpole to know Astarion is weighing his options. It is written more plainly on his face than he’s likely aware.

Astarion still doesn’t try to pull away, hasn’t even moved again except to drop his hand back onto Halsin’s chest. But he sees the considering shift in his expression, and Halsin feels the testing shift of his jaw under his fingers. Pushing back against the pressure.

No, Halsin realizes a moment later. Pushing into it. He squeezes, brief but hard, in retaliation, digging into the soft divots where Astarion’s jaw is already hinged open. Gives him a taste of something properly painful.

The red of his eyes disappears briefly under a flutter of lashes, and a shudder wracks through his body where he’s so carefully perched over Halsin’s lap. When Halsin presses one thigh up firmly between his, Astarion eagerly accepts the offer and grinds himself against the proffered muscle with a ragged moan.

There’s no denying he’s a stunning creature, but Halsin thinks he’s especially beautiful like this, when some of those carefully tailored seams start to fray, revealing the raw edges he typically keeps tucked away under needle and gilded threat. He smooths a warm hand down Astarion’s considerably cooler flank to cup his hip, rubbing a soft circle against the point of his hip bone through his trousers. And when Astarion squirms at the tender treatment, he squeezes his jaw once more.

It takes him by surprise if the gurgling moan and stuttering rock of his hips are anything to go by. Astarion’s fingers curl where they’re pressed against his chest, nails pricking at his bare skin, and he makes a pleased sound of his own for it. Halsin is so endeared he nearly lets this be enough.

Nearly.

He softens his grip somewhat on Astarion’s jaw. It’s not enough to release him, not even enough for him to comfortably close his mouth again, but Astarion whines his protest all the same, trying admirably to scowl at him with his spit slicked jaw hanging open.

Halsin chuckles and tugs Astarion forward a bit, just to see his eyes flutter, as he leans in to meet him. He draws the tip of his own tongue along the soft shape of Astarion’s lower lip, from one corner to the other and slowly back again, relishing in the shiver he feels under his hands and against his thigh.

“You do still have to answer me, my heart.”

“Huhhn?” is the wordless, confused noise he gets in return, and Halsin leans back again to catch Astarion’s eyes.

He’s watching him, eyes gone heavy lidded and dark, but he’s still there, still anchored between the press of fingers to his jaw and thigh to his cock.

Halsin smiles and lifts his hand from Astarion’s hip to pet a few wayward curls off of his forehead, ignoring the way Astarion rolls his eyes at him for it. “Is this the sort of treatment you were asking me for?” he asks again.

This time Astarion does his best to nod in Halsin’s grip, making an affirmative “uh huh” sound for good measure.

He leans in once more to press a tender kiss to Astarion’s temple while tightening his fingers around his jaw again, digging a little harder against what must be exceptionally sore muscles by this point.

“Thats’s very good,” Halsin says against his ear, feeling the sharp prick of Astarion’s nails pressing harder against his chest for it. “You’re doing so well, Astarion.”

The noise he makes is one of confused pleasure, a protesting sound, but he grinds harder against Halsin’s leg when he shifts it deliberately against him. Halsin can feel the delicate muscles of Astarion’s jaw trembling under the pressure of his fingertips as well as he can the trembling in the thighs Astarion has squeezed around his own.

“You are,” Halsin insists, pushing Astarian’s chin further up, forcing him to tip his head back, to arch his neck to accommodate the bracket of Halsin’s hand clamped around his wet jaw. His own fingers and wrist are damp.

And so is the front of Astarion’s pants where he’s rutting. Halsin can hear how rough his own voice has gone when he murmurs, “You’ve done such a good job this evening telling me what you desire. Allowing me to give it to you.”

Astarion whimpers and screws his eyes shut, trying without much success to shake his head in Halsin’s grip. But he’s pressed so close that Halsin can feel the way his cock jumps in the snare of his pants, can smell the arousal high and heady in his scent.

Briefly, he considers cutting a finger over one of those pearly, reaching fangs and trickling blood down Astarion’s open throat. But they are already well beyond where they should be with nothing more than a passing comment, and he’s unwilling to push much further against the blurry boundaries around this. He can, however, give him a bit more.

“Look at me, my love,” he croons, petting his free fingers into Astarion’s hair again before fisting them hard enough to pull against his scalp.

Halsin is certain it doesn’t hurt as much as his jaw must, but it’s a new, sharp sensation, and Astarion’s eyes snap open with a yelp that gets trapped somewhere in his curved throat. His lower lashes are wet when he narrows his eyes at him. Looking at him now, it’s hard for Halsin to believe the sort of stillness that had overtaken him earlier in the evening.

Now, all that supernatural stillness has abandoned Astarion, and he’s squirming in Halsin’s lap like he can’t help himself, scoring what are certain to be welts into his pecs like a particularly pleased cat. As if in retaliation - and that isn’t so absurd a thought with Astarion - he scoots down the thigh he’s been riding so he can rub his own knee against the hot ridge straining at the front of Halsin’s pants with every eager roll of his hips. And in the process, he leans closer, deliberately making Halsin’s grip pull harder on his hair.

Halsin takes a deep breath to steady himself and knows Astarion sees it from the pleased flash in his eyes and the self-satisfied quirk of his parted lips. So he chuckles and gives Astarion’s hair one more sharp pull, enjoying the thready moan from the vampire as he rolls his own hips once, letting him feel how much his trust, his pleasure, have affected Halsin in turn.

When he slides his fingers out of his hair, Astarion whines and grabs blindly for Halsin’s wrist. But when he finds it, he doesn’t try and drag Halsin’s hand back, he simply clings to it like a new lifeline, panting through his open mouth when Halsin slowly moves his hand between them.

“You’re so good, my heart,” Halsin says, as gentle as he can make his now gravel-pitched voice, while he rubs his thumb against the wet patch on Astarion’s trousers. Astarion clutches at his wrist, shuddering, and the low moan that starts in his chest hiccups into a sharper noise when Halsin digs his other thumb in a tight, harsh circle into the sore meat of his jaw.

“That’s it. Just like that, Astarion. You can let go whenever you’re ready. I have you,” Halsin promises against his ear, brushing his lips softly against the sensitive, twitching tip.

Astarion shakes his head slightly again, though if it’s in protest or simply to feel his fingers pushing into his flesh, Halsin can’t say. He isn’t sure Astarion could either, at that point. But he’s patient, lets the vampire take what he needs, where he’s all but writhing in his lap, chasing down that cresting peak.

Halsin grinds his palm steadily back against Astarion’s cock and offers no protest to the iron grip on his wrist or the stinging in his pec. He murmurs soft praise and encouragement as he needles at the aching spots in Astarion’s jaw. And when he finally feels tension sweeping up through his body, hears the catch in his throat, Halsin loosens his grip entirely on Astarion’s jaw.

Astarion sobs when sensation rushes back into the tender muscles, grinding down onto Halsin’s thigh hard enough as he chases his orgasm that the druid will not be surprised if he’s bruised in the morning.

Carefully, while Astarion is still hiccuping and shuddering through the last sparking threads of his climax, Halsin cups the nape of his neck and slowly eases the weight of his head back up and then foreword onto his shoulder. And when Astarion goes, shivering but without complaint, he slips his wrist from Astarion’s loosened grip and winds the arm around his back, pulling him in close to the warmer curve of his body.

He gently massages the stiff muscle down the back of his neck, and allows himself the brief indulgence of pressing his nose against the soft white curls of his hair. He smells like he always does, of faded rosemary and iron, but also enticingly of salt and sex, and it’s a lovely, heady combination.

But Halsin is more than content in their current position, breathing in the scent of him, marveling at the looseness of his limbs and the faint trembling in his fingers where they lie curled against his chest. His shoulder is damp where Astarion has tucked his face, and Halsin allows them to pretend it’s from the spit smearing his jaw while he listens to the quiet rustle of the night around them and Astarion’s unsteady efforts to reaffect the act of breathing. Even one shirt shy of fully clothed, this is more vulnerable than Astarion has ever appeared when spread out on a bedroll, and Halsin holds on to this gift for as long as Astarion allows.

Unsurprisingly, the moment does not last for as long as Halsin would like. But, if he is honest with himself, an eternity cradling that tender moment would still not have been enough.

“Well, darling, that was certainly a pleasant surprise,” Astarion hums, and while the words themselves are true to form, the raspy quality of his voice and the fact that he has yet to lift his head are telling. Halsin smiles into his hair and can’t help but snort his amusement when Astarion most certainly feels it if his put upon “Ugh” is anything to by.

“I meant what I said,” Halsin tells him, lifting his own head, and it doesn’t escape him that Astarion takes several moments longer to do the same. Even if he has affixed a bland, unimpressed look on his face when he finally sits back enough for that face to be visible.

“Of course you did,” he says, rolling his eyes, and it takes a considerable effort for Halsin not to reach up and wipe the remaining tear tracks off his cheeks. He drops his hands to frame Astarion’s hips instead, holding him steady while Astarion laces his own fingers and stretches his arms up above his head, making a showy but pleased sound at the feeling.

When he drops his arms again, it’s in a loose circle around Halsin’s neck, and his lips are curled into something teasing and just on the edge of mean. He doesn't reach to rub his jaw, doesn't comment on the ache that must be left behind. Instead, he drops his voice into a familiar purr and says, “You know, darling, usually when someone roughs me around a bit, they just call me a whore and get on with it.”

Halsin smiles softly and rubs his thumbs against the jut of Astarion’s hip bones. “If you find your pleasure in a firmer hand, my heart, I am happy to oblige. But I will not be cruel.”

Astarion barks out a laugh and shifts pointedly, pressing the thigh tucked between Halsin’s to rub against the still-hot ridge at their crux. “Cruel?” he repeats, leaning in to nip sharply at Halsin’s lip. “I think I can handle a little name calling with my manhandling. In fact, I’m quite good at it.”

There is a much more complicated matter lying tangled at the heart of all this, something overgrown with thorns and rot and biting quips. And Halsin is old and experienced enough to know that there are several more conversations to be had before they wade back into this bramble again.

But they are, for the moment, still caught in the underbrush, and Halsin does not feel as guilty as he perhaps should when he lingers there.

Astarion smirks when he raises a hand to his face again, but his expression falters with startled realization when Halsin gently traces his knuckle down the tear track drying against his cheek. And when Astarion twitches as if to lean back, it’s a simple thing to catch his chin between his thumb and forefinger, holding him gently in place.

Halsin leans in slowly, and Astarion does not try to pull away when he brushes his lips up the long shell of his ear. When he speaks against it, his voice is no louder than a whisper, something meant for the vampire’s ears and his alone.

“Did you ever come as hard for those insults as you did for my praise, Astarion?”

He shudders so hard, Halsin is compelled to tighten the grip he still has on his hip to make sure he doesn’t lose his balance. Astarion tries for a moment to find his easy deflection or sweetly barbed insults, visibly floundering at his own speechlessness. Tripping over the brambles he likely didn’t realize were still underfoot.

Thinking again that he should feel guiltier than he does, Halsin releases Astarion’s hip and chin to cup his face gently instead. He brushes his thumbs under the surprisingly round shape of Astarion’s eyes, stroking away the last visible remnants of any tears. And with that baffled, garnet stare still focused on him, he presses a soft kiss to Astarion’s forehead.

“We should wash up before we return to camp,” he says, raising his voice a bit and leaning back, giving Astarion space to step out of the brush.

He does so slowly, blinking away his own befuddlement and sitting back on Halsin’s thigh. It takes one false start that he covers as eloquently as he can with a cough before Astarion is neatly hemming down his edges again. “We? Only one of us seems to have the dubious pleasure of thoroughly sticky trousers, darling,” he says, wrinkling his nose.

Halsin laughs at that and nudges Astarion until he reluctantly climbs onto his feet, and he ignores the bemused frown being aimed at him by ducking to retrieve his discarded shirt. “Perhaps a bit of late night laundering to go with a bath, then.”

“Not precisely the point I was making, you realize?”

“I do,” Halsin assures him, pulling his shirt on before turning back to Astarion. He smiles at his pinched expression and reaches up to brush a bit of hair off his forehead. Astarion is still frowning at him, but he tips his head, just a bit, towards his fingers, and it takes a greater effort than Halsin cares to admit not to lean down and kiss his forehead again. “I am perfectly content this evening, my heart.”

“Content? My, what glowing praise for the evening,” he sneers, his tone still off center but finding its way back into easy scorn. “Perhaps you would be better at insults.”

Halsin chuckles and pulls away, starting towards the edge of the clearing in the direction of a stream they had found earlier in the day. “I promise to have better compliments prepared for next time.”

There’s a beat of quiet before he hears Astarion’s footsteps trailing after him. “Well. If you promise.”

#¯\_(ツ)_/¯#this has been eating me alive for a week so i had to finish the damn thing in SOME capacity #what IS this????#does this WORK???#IS THIS SOMETHING????#i don't know anymore #i see you sandman and tf babes but em needs to get this outta her system first #halstarion #halsin #astarion #bg3 #baulder's gate 3 #fanfic

57 notes · View notes

ya-killin-me-smalls · 5 months

Note

A while ago you made some Deimos x Teammate headcanons, and they were all absolutely WONDERFUL

Would it be possible to get some Hank x Teammate headcanons? 👀

absolutely!!

headcanons under the cut

2BHank:

obviously gotta start with these two, respect for the elderly and all that

- divorced but it's complicated

- they started out as roommates while Doc was in college and Hank, unbeknownst to Doc at the time, was just getting started at being a menace to society

- they were close. a little too close. but nothing ever came of it aside from a mutual pining

- when Doc began working for the Agency/Nexus it drew a hard line between them. both believed they were doing what was right and that the other was a lost cause

- it turned into a physical fight and Hank did in fact leave Doc for dead

- he got better dw

- fast forward a few years, Doc has swapped sides and is incapable of admitting he was wrong

- Hank is not even a little bit sorry because in his mind it was deserved at the time

- they're different people now though and they both know that. the past is in the past. the world keeps turning

- their relationship has moved beyond platonic since but it's still complicated. they don't have the luxury of deep "what are we" conversations or quality time spent together unless Hank is injured

- regardless, Hank spends whatever downtime he does have in Doc's personal space. he's the type of guy that will just loom over you silently while you're working and patiently wait for Doc to pay attention to him

- Doc still keeps things professional for the sake of professionalism. his guard is only ever truly down when they've retired for the night and he can give Hank every drop of attention he craves

- Hank finds physical touch grounding so on days when his head is a mess and all his thoughts sound like they're underwater, he'll drape himself over Doc's shoulders and try to map out the sensation of him for a while

- "Wimbleton" is as close to a pet name as Doc will ever get. if he uses Hank's first name it's usually when he's mad/annoyed

- Hank doesn't necessarily bite Doc but he's got this weird form of cute aggression that makes him want to put his teeth on him

Hankmos:

yeah I already did this in the last post so what

- their first meeting was the equivalent of finding a wet kitten at the scene of a car accident

- Deimos hadn't yet made a name for himself but was well on his way, torching every stitch of AAHW property he could get his hands on (pyrokinesis Deimos my beloved)

- Hank was sent to raid a cloning facility when it happened. the entire place had gone up in flames and was little more than smoldering debris by the time he got there. he was there to kill everything that moved so of course he had to parse through said debris for any survivors

- what he found was a scrawny fucked up little dude passed out at the center of it all, completely unharmed, the only sign he'd been involved in the fire being the singed remains of his clothes

- interesting enough for Hank to not kill him despite being visibly a clone. instead he wraps Deimos's tiny ass up in his trenchcoat and brings him back to base

- Deimos still wears said trenchcoat because he's a fanboy and nothing will change that

- which also means he glues himself to Hank's hip from day one, not being a nuisance but always in the vicinity, tags along on whatever missions he can, asks Hank to train him in CQB

- and of course Hank grows fond of Deimos. how could he not? his rambling is pleasant background noise that helps keep Hank in the moment, he has a nice smile and laughs a lot, and it doesn't take long for him to become a worthy opponent for Hank

- Deimos goes out of his way to impress Hank. whether that means making stupid jokes to try and get a laugh out of him or showing off on the battlefield at every opportunity, his efforts know no bounds. it makes his heart flutter in a weird way whenever he gets those little signals of approval

- their dynamic in terms of combat is very clean cut leader/follower. Deimos knows how to operate independently but Hank's orders are executed swiftly and without question

- a lot of their communication is done through body language and micro-expressions. Hank is incredibly perceptive of those subtle shifts and for Deimos it comes naturally

- neither is keen on eye contact which works out perfectly, Hank because of the 'tism and Deimos because it feels like someone is trying to square up

- I feel like romantic cannibalism in the literal sense but as a metaphor would shit them so well. there's so much want between them and it's like they can't ever satisfy it. simply touching isn't enough. they need to grab. they need to hold. they need to squeeze. they could become each other and it still wouldn't be enough

- on the outside they play it cool for the most part obviously but the tension is always there. everyone can feel it

Hankford:

woefully underappreciated

- these two have the same vibe and demo and soldier tbh

- Sanford's whole thing is blowing shit up and setting things on fire

- Hank's thing is killing people in increasingly dramatic and violent ways

- combine the two, what more could you want out of a ship

- most of their initial bonding happens over explosions and combat tactics, as well as the inherently homoerotic act of patching each other up during battle

- after a particularly high risk/high reward mission, standing amongst the rubble of what was once a weapons factory and still high on adrenaline and dopamine, Sanford grabs Hank by the lapels of his coat and kisses him

- oh to make out with someone in the aftermath of an explosion

- these two lack a balancing factor. neither needs to be protected by the other. neither has ever been chill a day in their life. both are itching to destroy something at any given moment. they hype each other up and egg on every OSHA violation in the book

- Hank does feel protective towards Sanford because that's just in his nature, but he doesn't feel like he needs to hover or have eyes on him constantly. Sanford has dragged his sorry bleeding ass out of trouble more than once, after all

- Sanford is the king of PDA and they have to establish pretty early on that Hank isn't comfortable with others seeing that much of his private life. holding hands is as far as it goes if others are around

- alone? Sanford can't keep his hands to himself. his favorite thing is to dip Hank when he least expects it just to make him blush

- Hank isn't sure how to reciprocate at first. his hands are meant for crushing and tearing and Sanford is so gentle and tender. it's a learning curve and the way his hands shake when he's excited doesn't help

- they work it out over time together though, Sanford making an effort to lead affection and letting Hank sort out what he likes along the way

- Sanford is Hank's weighted blanket I take no criticism on this

- Sanford calls Hank "Doll". Hank incorrectly interprets this as sarcasm because he can't imagine someone associating him with something delicate or cute

- neither of them is allowed anywhere near the kitchen. not because they can't cook but because neither of them has any impulse control and the microwave will be blown up "for science"

- Sanford, ever observant and a little obsessive, begins mapping out Hank's behaviors and mental state as best as he can. he isn't surprised that Hank is a little fucked up, but there's a lot more going on in their than expected. and Hank, uncharacteristically, does open up to Sanford about the dissociation and memory problems

- Hank has outlawed the word babygirl because it makes him flustered angry

#this took me so long but finals had me in a chokehold the last few weeks #dissociative hank my beloved #i wanna do polycombat too at some point but I gotta finish the Hankmos ficlet I'm working on first 😒#madness combat #madcom #deimos #2bdamned #hank j wimbleton #sanford #hankmos #2bhank #hankford #asks #headcanons

45 notes · View notes