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Once a modest home for Hopper and El as they hid from the world, the now blended Hopper-Byers family had outgrown Hopper’s barely two-bedroom drafty cabin in the woods.
They’d managed the first couple of nights, with Will and El sharing a room, Jonathan turning the loft into a makeshift sleeping space, and Hopper beginning most nights on the couch before inevitably–and shyly–crawling into bed alongside her with cramped legs and a protesting back. But the attic was cold, their teenagers understandably didn’t like sharing, and she wasn’t going to be able to sleep next to his wandering hands in a small bed for many more nights without giving their kids an earful.
There hadn’t been enough time to get him alone, between arriving in Alaska and coordinating with Owens for a debrief and a lift home. And in the days following their return to Hawkins, they found themselves plunging into chaos with barely enough time to sleep and eat, let alone think of romance, the threat of Vecna and The Rifts too dire. They were parents with a sole mission of survival and protecting their kids, and that meant pushing their own needs to the side. But they–and their three teens–were growing increasingly grumpy and claustrophobic in such a small living space.
It had initially been Jonathan’s idea.
A majority of Hawkins ran for the hills, escorted out by the military as the once peaceful, small Midwestern town was fractured into four.
“Why not stay at one of the abandoned houses?” her eldest son had suggested as their family of five balanced steaming plates of scrambled eggs and French toast on their knees, sprawled out around the miniscule living room on a Sunday morning, just a few days after the Rifts had opened. There was always time for breakfast.
It was a brilliant plan, they all agreed. Aside from a few stragglers too stubborn to leave, most of the perfectly good homes of Hawkins sat empty, vacated for the foreseeable future. So they packed up what little belongings they had and drove into town, examining several houses until they found a good candidate with plenty of bedrooms and a basement cellar stocked full of supplies. Homebase, Hopper had called it, doling out orders and assignments like a marine. He’d been tense ever since they’d returned to Hawkins. Joyce observed his stature. He’d reverted fully into military mode, remnants of a soldier who’d fought in wars before, each day a new mission, features constantly drawn into grave, stern lines like all he knew was survival. She wondered if the boisterous man with a snarky sense of humor and an annoying tendency towards jealousy was still in there, or if she’d lost him forever, abandoned to that godforsaken hellhole in Russia where those commie bastards had stolen him from her, piece by piece, until all that was left was a shell of the man she once knew.
She missed his smile.
He was still recovering, so she didn’t pry, with broken ribs, stitches in his ankle which he insisted wasn’t as bad as it looked, despite the fact she caught him limping from time to time. His frame was malnourished, too thin; she could feel his bones when he hugged her. And there was always something ominous, painful lingering behind his gaze. In moments he didn’t think she was looking, she caught him drifting somewhere else, consumed by whatever darkness was in his mind. She wanted to hold him until she could dissolve it all away, peel away the layers of built up trauma until she could hear his bellowing laughter again.
They were gathered round a dining room table that belonged to someone else. She found it unsettling to be occupying a stranger’s home, but any port in a storm. The kids had chosen their rooms on the main level, and she and Hopper had wordlessly put their things in the master bedroom upstairs. Hopper instructed the five hovering older teens to bring up food from the cellar. It’s important we keep up our strength, he reminded everyone, his commanding tone always met with silent nods of agreement and not a sliver of rebellion. He was no longer Chief of Police, a dead man drifting without a place in society, but he was still very much in charge. No one questioned Jim Hopper.
She sat next to him at the table, picking at whatever the hell organic granola was, as she listened to Steve, Robin, and Nancy fill the group in on what they’d encountered with Vecna in The Upside Down and the tales of another now-dead hero of Hawkins named Eddie Munson. She glanced over at Hopper and found his food in front of him, untouched.
“Hey,” she whispered, leaning over and resting a hand on his knee.
He jumped and blinked a few times, then looked over at her as if reorienting himself. She wondered where his mind had been this time, imagining it was somewhere in an icy cold tundra across the Pacific.
“You need to eat,” she whispered, nodding to his still fully wrapped protein bar. Also organic.
He winced, slowly unwrapping it and taking a tentative bite. She watched with concern. She didn’t know a hell of a lot about malnourishment, but she could tell it stole your appetite and slowed down your metabolism. The first bite seemed to sit okay, because he was soon scarfing the bar down, followed by a few swigs of water as he reached for her granola. Satisfied, she returned her attention to the conversation around them.
Her hand never left his knee.
Steve wanted to steal some grenades and march into The Upside Down and kick Vecna’s ass for a second time, insisting if they had more fire power it was possible. The kids were in agreement, especially Dustin who seemed to be mourning this Eddie Munson the most.
Hopper stood and the room fell silent.
“This isn’t how it works anymore,” he explained, tone surprisingly calm. A year and a half ago he would have snapped, she mused. “You kids aren’t in charge, and you will not be reckless about any of this. From here on out, I’ll be coordinating with our military. We’ve got a briefing at 9am tomorrow to discuss the first plan of attack.”
“Sir, I’d… I’d like to be there for that,” Steve Harrington said, slowly rising to his feet, features set into lines of determination.
“So would I,” Jonathan agreed, also standing and chocolate eyes equally solemn.
Joyce bit her lip. She knew how intimidating Hopper’s towering form could be. Not to her. She’d known him since he was a lanky kid going through puberty more concerned with girls than grades, but to these young men, including her son, he wasn’t an easy man to stand up to, both figuratively or literally.
Hopper hesitated, glancing down at Joyce. She gave him a nod. These boys had every right to know what was going on, and with their experience fighting these terrors firsthand, they’d more than earned a place behind the scenes, and she trusted Hopper not to put her son in danger. This was just strategy.
“Fine. But just the two of you, the rest of you are gonna go home, get some rest, then meet us back here around midday after our briefing so we can talk about what the hell is going on. Use channel nine on the walkies, no unnecessary chatter. Understood?”
He was met with wide eyes.
“Understood?” he repeated firmly.
The room nodded in unison.
Everyone dispersed.
Dustin, limping, fell in step beside Steve and his friend Robin, and they made their way outside. Nancy and Jonathan, Eleven and Mike all retreated to their separate corners to say their emotional young love goodbyes, while Will hovered awkwardly. Joyce watched his eyes linger on Mike and Eleven before he disappeared into his chosen bedroom, and she made a mental note to put her Detective Mom skills to work later. Hopper settled back down next to her at the kitchen table, sliding off his cap and rubbing a hand over his weary face. She shot him a sympathetic look.
“Tired?” she whispered, leaning towards him.
“Yeah.” He set his cap on the table and postured back in his chair, long legs bumping hers.
“Why don’t you take your own advice and get some sleep, Hop?” She wrapped her fingers around his forearm through the flannel of his shirt and squeezed.
He shot her the faintest of smiles, just an upturned corner of his mouth, and nodded faintly. To the kids he was in charge, but someone had to be in charge of him.
“Think I’ll take a shower first.”
Eating had been difficult for him since returning home, but given how he never passed up the opportunity for a hot shower, she could tell it was a luxury he’d missed from his time in prison.
She bit her lip and considered joining him. Alone time.
The door opened and shut as the Wheelers left, drawing her from her wistful thinking, and Jonathan retreated to his room, El walking over to the two of them instead. Joyce wondered if the girl was scared to let Hopper out of her sight, fearing he’d disappear again.
She had those fears herself.
“Hey, kid,” Hopper murmured blearily, tugging her down into his lap.
El buried her face in his chest and he held her close, rubbing her back. Joyce watched the heartwarming display with teary eyes. Father and daughter, reunited.
“Your old man is tired.” He planted a kiss to her shaved head.
“Then sleep,” El insisted, drawing away and giving him a faint smile. “Old people on TV always go to bed early,” she teased.
That got her a half-smile and a snort, and Joyce bit her lip. Maybe she and El could retrieve his happiness back from the Soviet tundra a little each day. It would just take time and patience.
“Don’t stay up too late. You’re gonna need your strength,” Hopper said sternly, but there was a warmth in his eye.
“I won’t.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
El slid off his lap, then bent and wrapped her arms around Joyce’s neck in their ritual goodnight embrace before retreating to her chosen bedroom.
“That goes for you, too.” Hopper rose and sidled up to Joyce’s side, and she fell into him, her head against the warmth of his belly through his thick flannel as his arm wrapped around her and squeezed. She closed her eyes, reveling, cherishing. Eight months of mourning him, of wishing she could feel him around her one last time, and here he was. She sighed softly.
He bent in half to plant a kiss to her head, then drew away, their arms stretched out and hands lingering together until he parted and meandered up to the second level of the house, the stairs creaking beneath his weight. She listened to the shower off the master bath turn on and lit up a cigarette, following him upstairs once she had anxiously smoked her way through it. She glanced at both their bags at the foot of the bed, and her stomach flipped at the idea of settling so easily into shared domesticity as the world around them went up in flames. She glanced at the closed bathroom door, listening to the rush of water and letting it calm her knowing he was only a few feet away, then opened a dresser drawer and rifled through a stranger’s clothing to find something to sleep in. Whoever had previously occupied this home had taste far more upscale than her, with silky nightgowns and lacy lingerie–and organic granola. She opened a drawer on the opposite side instead and pulled out a men’s t-shirt, tugging her own top over her head. The fabric caught against her skin and she let out a hiss, backing up to a mirror as pain surged through her shoulder. The reflection staring back at her looked daunting.
A nasty gash she remembered getting during the plane crash was open again, blood seeping out, some of it dried to her shirt. The cut looked long and deep, right over her shoulder blade. She winced and whimpered as she separated the fabric from her skin and tossed it into a hamper, inching her bra strap aside and examining her wound in the mirror.
She heard the shower shut off, and moments later the bathroom door opened, Hopper’s silhouette filling a majority of the doorway as warm light and steam spilled out around him, the sweet and tangy scent of unfamiliar shampoo filling her nostrils. He clutched his towel to his waist and stepped into the room, his features coming into view. His eyes widened and he stared at her in surprise. His eyes lingered for a few moments, darting from her face down to where she was clad only in a bra and jeans. He sucked in a breath and rapidly craned his head away.
“S-sorry,” he mumbled, his throat bobbing as he swallowed thickly.
She bit her lip and found his chivalry endearing.
“Hop,” she said, voice gentle and lips pursed, “it’s okay.”
You can look.
He slowly returned his gaze to her face, eyes drifting downward a bit more purposeful this time. She watched his mouth open and his tongue dart out to wet his lips, a surge of warmth flooding between her legs in response. But her stinging shoulder brought her back to the present like a cold splash of water.
“I could, uh… I could actually use your help.”
His eyes snapped back up to her face, brows drawing together in concern. “Of course. You okay?”
“Not really.” She turned her back to him and gestured to her throbbing shoulder.
“Jesus,” he gasped, closing the distance between them and grasping her upper arms in his massive hands as he bent to examine her. She could feel his hot breath against the nape of her neck and her skin erupted in goosebumps.
“You need stitches, Joyce.”
“What? Really?” She shot him a skeptical look over her shoulder.
“Yeah. It looks like it already healed over once but opened back up again.” He gave her arms a squeeze and straightened. “I saw a first aid kit in the kitchen.”
“Can’t we just–I don’t know–bandage it up?”
He paused, smirking faintly. “Are you scared of needles or something?”
“No!” She crossed her arms in front of herself defensively. “I just don’t want one in my skin!”
“It’ll only take a second,” he assured her. “Come on, you’re the toughest person I know. You can handle a couple stitches.” Smirk growing, he disappeared through the bedroom door, and she listened as he descended the steps, returning a minute later with the promised first aid kit.
He set down the supplies on the dresser, then pushed a jewelry box and a few other trinkets to the side and gestured for her to come closer. She stepped up to him, gasping when his hands found her waist and he lifted her up onto the dresser with tremendous ease. The warmth in her core crescendoed and she stared up at him with more desire than she intended to. He returned her gaze, his eyes darkening, and stepped between her legs.
‘We need to take this off,” he murmured, calloused finger gliding beneath the strap of her bra, his eyes following their path.
She nodded but didn’t move to rid herself of the garment.
Eyes locked on hers, he reached around her and unhooked her bra, slowly sliding it down. His gaze fell on her breasts as they spilled into view, and he smiled appreciatively but didn’t linger longer than necessary, carefully setting it aside and flipping on a lamp next to them. He rounded the edge of the dresser and repositioned her wounded shoulder blade towards him, then uncapped a bottle of alcohol and wet a cloth.
“Sorry, this is gonna sting a bit,” he warned and slowly began to clean the area.
She hissed and grit her teeth as the alcohol made contact with her open cut, grabbing onto the ledge of the dresser, knuckles as pale as her face felt.
“Almost done,” he assured her.
She watched him over her shoulder as he meticulously arranged the supplies and began to thread the needle.
“You’ve done this before.”
“Oh, yeah. This is nothing compared to some of the shit I saw in ‘Nam.”
“I can’t imagine.” She winced and drew in a shaky breath, hesitating. “I… haven’t.”
“Never?” He glanced up at her in surprise.
She shrugged and shook her head.
“Well, the worst part is the first couple of seconds, then–it’s not bad. Just a little sting.” He stepped up to her, smile reassuring. “Ready?”
“No.”
He blew out a laugh. “You can hold onto me if you want.”
Gratefully, she reached behind her and gripped his bare side, still damp from his shower, eyes clamping shut. The needle pierced her skin and her nails pierced his side. His hands were gentle but adept. He worked quickly, closing up the wound and snipping off the remainder of the string before peeling open a bandage and meticulously pressing it to her skin. His fingers lingered, caressing the top of her shoulder as he bent to kiss her temple.
“All done. You can retract your claws now,” he teased.
Flushing, she opened her eyes and let go of him, biting her lip hard. She glanced behind her and found she’d left marks. “Sorry.”
“I didn’t say I minded.”
She flushed. “So that’s it?”
“Yeah. You should heal up nicely now.” He brushed his fingers down her shoulder and arm, raking her with shivers, then leaned away to pack up the first aid kit. “I can take the stitches out for you in a few days, but it might leave a scar.”
She wrapped her hand around his forearm and tugged him towards her. He smiled and settled between her legs once again. She laid one palm flat against his chest as fingertips reverently tracing his jagged, marred skin, eternal remnants of the torture he endured in that Soviet prison camp.
“Then I guess we’ll match,” she murmured, gaze drifting up to his and met by wanting eyes that left her trembling. She danced her fingers over a puckered oval on his ribcage, feeling him shiver under her touch. “How did you get this one?”
He hesitated, looking away. “Joyce, you don’t wanna hear about that.”
“Yes, I do,” she insisted, frowning. “I wanna know everything. When you’re ready to tell me.”
He slowly looked back at her, the want and desire in his gaze battling with affliction. It tore her apart from the inside. She continued caressing the scar, wanting him to unload his pain on her so they could share the burden together, so he could heal.
“It’s, uh… it's from a burn,” he explained, voice wavering and unable to meet her eyes. “They would dip steel rods into hot coals and press them to our skin as a way of keeping us in line.”
She winced and bent her head, pressing her lips to it, feathering it with kisses.
He gasped, torso rippling under her.
“Oh, Hop,” she whispered, shaking her head. “One more?” He nodded. She drew her attention to a jagged scar on his stomach, fingers worshiping it as if she could draw out the pain like salt on a wound. “What about this one?”
His eyes fluttered shut and he tangled a hand in her hair, fitfully kneading, features drawn together with what seemed to be a painful memory. “A stab wound while I was being tortured for information.”
“Information? About our country?”
His eyes slowly opened, expression unlike anything she’d ever seen from him before but deeply anguished. He didn’t answer immediately, searching her face as if he was trying to decide whether or not to be honest with her.
“Hop?” she questioned gently. “You can tell me.”
He let out a long breath. “Not information about our country.”
“About what then?”
“A-about you, Joyce.” He swallowed thickly.
“About me?”
“They had a picture of you from their security cameras at Starcourt,” he whispered, face twitching as it threatened to twist with tears. His head fell. “I didn’t tell them anything.”
She felt emotion well up inside of her as realization dawned, stomach sinking and eyes stinging like shards of glass cutting her body apart from the inside.
He’d been tortured for her.
“Hopper,” she whimpered, cradling his face in her hands. His cheeks were wet. Tears spilled out of her eyes to match, and she began kissing away the wet streaks from his face. His arms wrapped around her, crushing her to him, clinging, and their mouths found each other in a storm of desperation and desire. She dug her nails into his back and he in turn bit her lip, his strong hands that had healed her moments earlier now gripping her like he was afraid of losing her again. She shared his fears.
The pain faded, the kiss intensified, giving way to only desire. His hands cupped and weighed her breasts in his hands and she moaned, pulling him impossibly closer.
“Mom?”
Gasping and panting embarrassingly hard, they flew apart. Hopper quickly stepped in front of her to block her half-naked body from view of the door.
“Jonathan?”
She slid off the dresser behind Hopper’s towering frame and reached for the men’s t-shirt she’d chosen earlier, catching a glimpse of her son’s horrified expression around Hopper’s bicep as her son turned away and covered his eyes.
“You guys have a door, you know!”
“Sorry! I’m sorry!” She flushed, pulling on the shirt and tugging her hair out of the collar. “What’s up, sweetie?”
“Uh… Owens is on the phone. He wants to talk to you.” Jonathan cautiously uncovered his eyes and glanced at Hopper with an indicative nod, who tightened his towel and headed for the door with a muffled groan, awkwardly brushing by her son.
Cringing, she buried her face in her hands and rubbed her forehead. This house still wasn’t big enough, it seemed.
“Mom…”
She looked up, surprised he hadn’t fled yet.
“What is it?”
He couldn’t quite meet her eye, his expression bashful. “I… I’m happy for you.”
She let out a breath, chest flooding with affection. “Thank you,” she whispered, offering him a grateful look.
Jonathan nodded, hesitating, then hurried down the steps.
Sliding out of her jeans, she crawled into bed and waited for Hopper, but she could hear the whispers of the conversation from the living room downstairs. He and Owens were deep in conversation, coordinating the events for tomorrow. Despite herself, her eyes grew heavy and she found herself unable to stave off sleep. It claimed her, and with her last waking thought, she wondered if she was ever going to get him to herself.
The end of the world wasn’t the most convenient place for dating. Or whatever this was.
***
She awoke to an unfamiliar scent on the pillow and the dance of dawn on walls from swaying trees outside as ghosts of sunlight filtered through translucent cream curtains. She rolled onto her back and reached her arm over, frowning when she was met by a cool, empty bed.
“Hop?” she whispered, rubbing her eyes and sitting up. His side remained unbothered, unslept, and panic began to set in.
She slid out of bed and crept down the hall, stopping at the sound of snoring coming from the guest room next door. There he was, fast asleep on his belly on a twin size bed that he dwarfed, back heavily rising and falling, long legs splayed over the end of the mattress. She bit her lip and padded inside, settling down gently on the edge of the bed and bringing a hand to rub his back.
“Hey,” she whispered. He tensed and jerked awake like he always did since his return, a soldier who thought he was still at war, but she murmured soothingly and bent, pressing a series of kisses to a scar on his bare shoulder.
He rolled over and rubbed his eyes, squinting up at her.
“Joyce.”
“Yeah.”
She lowered her head, brushing her lips against his and felt his confusion and perhaps fear from whatever unforgiving dreamworld he’d been plagued by melt away with an adorable groan, his hands coming up to lazily stroke and clutch her back. She drew away, hair falling around his face, watching as he gave her a sleepy smile.
“Why didn’t you join me last night?” she asked through a pout.
“You were sleeping so hard by the time I got up here.” He hesitated. “And I guess I didn’t want to… you know… presume.”
Chivalry again. Endearing, but she found herself wishing he’d be less of a gentleman.
“Hop.” She scoffed and dusted her smiling lips against his temple, tracing fingertips along his stubbly jaw. “You can definitely presume.”
“Good to know.”
He swiftly wrapped his arms around her and tugged her down against him, and she gasped and let out a quiet laugh as she curled atop his warm body, hands traveling over his bare arms and chest. Their lips easily found each other again, lost in a languid but lengthy kiss as the house called out in morning stillness around them. For the first time it felt like they not only had alone time, but they had time to take their time.
“Are the kids still asleep?” he rumbled against her mouth.
His jawline tickled her fingertips. “I think so.”
“Good. Wait here.”
He untangled himself from her and slid from the bed. She immediately missed his warmth. He tiptoed over to the door and listened to the silence, then slowly shut the door and locked it, offering her a playful smile as he turned back around towards her. She bit her lip and propped herself up on her elbow, raising a brow at him. The bed dipped under his knee, and he leaned over her, cupping her cheek as he kissed her, slowly, passionately. Her body hummed to life, a fire igniting deep between her legs, a call gone unanswered so far.
“Hop,” she breathed.
His hands traced her sides, inching the oversized t-shirt up, and he bent and dropped a kiss to each exposed breast, suckling her nipples, then pressed hot, wet, open lips to her stomach. She shuddered.
“Want to taste you,” he mumbled, kissing his way lower without warning.
Her eyes widened and she gasped, sitting up on her elbows to watch him in surprise. Not that she was complaining. The look he gave her told her he was a starving man–in more ways than one–who had gone too long without his favorite meal. Her cheeks warmed.
He settled between her legs and tugged her hips closer, grunting as he buried his face against her panties and inhaled. There was an effortless roughness to his touch. Confident, firm, but not harsh. It was something the last man who had touched her lacked, and it so easily animated her body. She liked being handled like she wasn’t breakable.
Briskly, he tugged down her panties and tossed them aside, and then his tongue was traveling up her slit and she began to lose all coherent thought. A hungry noise rumbled deep from the back of his throat as he lapped at her.
“Taste so good,” he mumbled, replacing his tongue with his fingers.
She quivered and stared down at him, hands gripping the sheets on either side of her on the tiny twin size bed. She smiled, realizing the massive, lavish king size bed was right next door, but neither of them seemed interested in pausing their activities to move.
His thumb flicked her clit and her hips bucked, eliciting a low chuckle from him. He was so smug. Bastard. She bit her lip hard, waiting for him to do it again, but he paused, and she frowned down at him, finding him smirking up at her. God, she wanted to kiss it off of his face and order him to make her come– right now –but the look in his eye as he lowered his lips to her inner thigh with a hot, open-mouthed kiss stole her words away.
“Hop,” was all she managed, voice wavering.
“Tell me what you want,” he whispered, kissing her other thigh.
She trembled and swallowed hard, hips twitching.
‘Taste me… touch me. Please, Hop,” she whimpered.
He smiled and yanked her closer by the hips again, hooked one of her legs over his shoulders, and began gently sucking her throbbing clit. Pleasure shot through her and she gripped the sheets until her knuckles turned white. He made a questioning noise which she answered with an enthusiastic god yes , and in turn he slid a thick finger inside of her. It was almost embarrassing how little resistance he met. She was slick, wet, body abundantly ready for more. He seemed to sense this and added a second finger, gently pumping in and out of her as he continued to suck and lick her clit. Most men she’d been with weren’t this attentive, and oral sex had been something she’d only put up with from time to time, but Hopper was certainly proving not to be most men.
Whimpering, she rocked against him and lifted a hand to grab onto the metal headboard, welcoming cool beneath her overheated skin. The noises alone he was making between her legs were nearly enough to send her over the edge.
“Hop,” she panted, and he met her eyes with such intensity and hunger. “Fuck…”
“More?” he rasped.
She nodded, and he eagerly attacked her clit with his tongue, adding a third finger inside of her and driving it against her at exactly the right angle. She brought her arm to her mouth and bit back a scream. Relentless, he brought her higher, until she was bucking against him and coming, coming, coming, vision white and ears singing as it took her. He greedily lapped up every last drop of her pleasure, her hips twitching every time he made contact with her oversensitive bud. She let out a long groan, breath still stolen away even once her coherency had returned to her.
He slid up her body and rested his weight on his arm over her, tucking her hair out of her sweaty face with his free hand and face adoring.
“Do you want to see how fucking good you taste?” he rasped, face shiny with her pleasure and eyes dark. He looked so damn happy with himself.
She flushed but slowly nodded, and his mouth descended on hers. It was sweet, a little bitter, but not unpleasant, and as they kissed, she snaked her hand down the front of his boxers, pleased with the way he bucked into her hands when she made contact with his iron hard length.
“Want you. Now, Hop.”
He let out an eager noise and slipped his boxers down, kicking them aside, his erection bobbing and head shiny in the low light. Just like the rest of him, he was huge. She willed away any intimidation she felt at his size. She’d waited too long for this. Wetting her lips, she wrapped her hand around him, feeling his thickness, moaning when he twitched in her hand and let out a deep rumble.
“Jesus, Joyce.”
She smiled and stroked him languidly but firmly, watching his eyes roll back into his head.
“Hey, hey… uh…” He grabbed her wrist, Adam’s apple dipping as he swallowed and a sheepish expression plaguing him. “I should warn you, this isn’t gonna be my finest hour of work.”
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that… I was in prison for eight months, Joyce. This is gonna be over kinda quick.” His cheeks were a darling shade of red.
She framed his face with her hands and leaned up, kissing him tenderly with a gentle smile.
“Hop. It’s okay,” she assured him, nuzzling his scruffy cheek.
He let out a nervous chuckle and nodded, then shifted above her and took himself in hand, running his head through her folds a few times. They both shuddered. He positioned himself and slowly entered her, his girth making her stretch and sting. They both gasped when he finally settled to the hilt inside of her.
“You okay?” he panted. She dug her nails into his shoulders, feeling him tremble.
“Y-yeah…” She gave a shaky nod, eyes fluttering shut. “You’re just, well… you’re big, and it’s been awhile,” she chuckled breathlessly.
He made a pleased noise and she opened her eyes, greeted by a grin. Of course complimenting the size of his cock was how she’d retrieve that smile of his she missed so much. Typical man.
“Are you saying I’m bigger than your exes?”
“Hop!” She poked him in the ribcage, earning her a chuckle.
“Okay, sorry!” She expected him to start moving, but instead he paused, brows furrowed. “It’s been a while? So does that mean you didn’t, um… date? While I was gone?” he asked.
She bit her lip hard, amusement fading. “Kinda hard to date when you’re in love with a dead man,” she whispered.
His eyes widened, realization flickering behind those steel blue irises. “In love?”
She caressed his prickly cheek and sighed with exasperation, slowly nodding. “Yeah, Hop.”
“Joyce, I–”
“Are we really gonna do this now?” She clenched her muscles around where he was buried deep inside of her for emphasis. She watched with amusement as he choked, his eyes slamming shut.
“Right,” he panted. “Okay. Pressing pause.”
He drew almost completely out of her, then pushed back in, and her head fell back against the pillows, mouth ajar in a silent cry. Oh god he felt good. His size had taken a few moments to adjust to, but it had been far too long since she’d been filled like this and her body buzzed with pleasure.
He set a steady pace and she drew him down for a kiss, panting against his mouth as he moved, an eight month long absence and years of dancing around their feelings now culminating in this. Joined, together, one as they made love. She wanted to weep.
Her fingers traced the scars on his back, and he let out a quiet moan and buried his face in her throat. She could feel him trembling, knew he was struggling to hold back.
“Hop–Hop, it’s okay,” she assured him, feathering his temple and head with kisses.
He let out a whimper, hips suddenly driving into her with desperation. Her stomach swooped with pleasure, nerve endings tingling, and she held him tight, cherishing how close he finally was after so many months of wishing she could just see him, hold him one last time. Overcome with emotion, she was no longer able to fight the threat of tears, eyes stinging with salt.
He grunted above her, and she could tell he was close, his movements growing uncoordinated and breathing uneven. And then she felt it, the hot rush deep inside of her as he began to empty, a sob leaving his throat and muffled into her neck. She murmured soothingly, holding his trembling form as it collapsed atop her, tears spilling out the corner of her eyes. The instinct to be ashamed of her emotion washed over her, but her neck was wet and his shoulders were twitching, and oh god he was crying too.
He finally looked up at her, eyes full of so much love and maybe a little pain that wasn’t going to leave either of them overnight. He seemed surprised to be met by her equally wet cheeks and lifted his hand, wiping away her tears with the rough pad of his trembling fingertip.
“Joyce,” he breathed, sliding up until his face was directly above hers. He trailed his lips over salty streaks on her face, then wrapped his arms around her and rolled onto his side until she was tucked safely against him. She wanted to tell him how thankful she was to have him back, to feel him alive around her and inside of her, but she didn’t trust her wavering voice to properly convey how she felt, so she settled for gripping him as tight as she possibly could and burying her face in his chest, tethered to him so he could never leave her again.
The moments ticked by, and she wondered if he had fallen asleep, but she felt him shift and bury his face into her hair.
“Can we press play now?” he whispered.
“Hmm?”
“On that, uh… conversation from earlier.” He kissed her hair.
She bit her lip and tilted her head up towards him. “Is it really that shocking?”
He tenderly pushed her sweaty bangs aside, eyes brimming with affection.
“Well, considering you wanted to get as far away from me as possible on the last day I saw you, maybe a little.” He grinned. “Told you people would like me better when I was dead.”
She swatted him and grinned back. “Oh, shut up.”
He chuckled and rubbed her back. “I love you, too, by the way.”
She moaned, flooded with warmth and so much affection for this man, and snuggled her face against his chest. Just as she began to drift, the wooden floors downstairs creaked and she sighed.
“A kid is up,” she mumbled into his chest hair.
He groaned. “Let them fend for themselves. They’re teenagers.”
“Still, we should get up soon.”
“Ten more minutes,” he mumbled.
“Ten more minutes,” she agreed.
Barely six minutes into their allotted ten minutes of paradise, there was a tentative tap on the door.
“Dad?” Eleven called out.
“Just a second, kid!”
They both sighed and shot each other knowing looks, then rose to their feet and began grabbing for their discarded clothes.
Duty called.
She finished dressing and, to her amusement, Hopper opened the door and awkwardly tried to answer Eleven’s questions about what Mom and Dad were doing in the guest room with the door locked. Somehow, even one of the largest, lavish family homes in Hawkins stocked full of all the organic granola her heart could desire, was still too small to get him alone for as long as she wanted.
She was gonna have to learn to share.