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Hopper had never particularly liked hands in his hair.
Perhaps a leftover from his rocky relationship with his father, Hopper hadn’t much liked any part of his head to be touched over the course of his relationships. It was easy to guide a woman’s hands to his shoulders, easy the anxiety in his belly when fingers try to wave through his mess of blonde hair.
Diane had learned to accept it, over the years- kept her touches of affection below his shoulders, never straying higher. The women he’d slept with over the years in Hawkins had mostly been one-and-done encounters, never sticking around long enough to try to be affectionate.
When they shear his hair, the vulnerability increases twofold.
Russia is cold, and he soon grows used to the feeling against his bare scalp. It’s uncomfortable and sends prickles of anxiety down his spine, but it’s the least of his worries when he’s in a labor camp against his own will. At least he is alive, is how he soothes himself as he lays in his bunk every night. At least Joyce is still safe.
Touch is difficult for him in the weeks following rescue, and he’s almost thankful they have to save the town once again, so he has a distraction. The thing of it is- he likes Joyce’s hands on him. He likes the touch of her body molded to his in the middle of the night, warm and tender and soft against his hard edges. He likes the feeling of El’s hand in his, of Jonathan’s hand on his shoulder, of Will’s tall, lanky frame settled beside him on the couch, nearly as tall as him now.
His hair grows back, another part of his armor, and a part of him relaxes.
Joyce picks up on his eccentricities almost wordlessly, and doesn’t push- doesn’t ask him if he wants her to trim his hair when she digs out the clippers for the boys and scissors for El and Max, makes sure her featherlight touches to his neck and chest don’t stray for very long, and lets her hair curtain around them when she rides him late at night, sealing out the rest of the world. She has her own anxieties- doesn’t like not being able to use her hands, so he never brackets them above her head, leaving her immobile.
It's late- the kids are all asleep, the house quiet, and Hopper’s knelt before Joyce, head buried between her thighs as she bit her lip to keep quiet. If he’s being honest, this is his favorite location- tongue delved deep in her cunt and her thighs around his shoulders, spread open before him. He’s got her panting, desperate for release- he’s teetered her close to climax a few times, but never let her tumble over.
At her breaking point, Joyce’s hand instinctively reaches out, and buries itself in his hair, tugging firmly- but instead of the usual onslaught of anxiety trickling down his spine, he feels a stab of arousal in his belly, hot and sharp. He growls against her cunt, feeling her shudder as she tips over the edge, clenching around the fingers he’d buried inside her.
Joyce comes back to herself and seems to realize where her hands are- she goes to release him, an apology already slipping from her lips, but Hopper shakes his head firmly, capturing her fingers and pressing them to his cheek.
“Sorry- sorry, I know you don’t like-” she continues, but Hopper cuts her off with a kiss, hand stroking over the soft skin of her side.
“Joy, it’s fine,” he soothes her, pressing kisses along the length of her neck as they catch their breath. “It’s- I liked it.”
Joyce’s brows furrow, and she strokes her fingers along his cheek; he revels in the touch, nuzzling into her palm.
Perhaps it’s the trust he shares with her- the way he’s allowed her to know him, inside and out- that allows him to enjoy the touch of her hands in his hair. Her fingers spider their way across his jaw, stroking the length of it, and Hopper lets loose a sigh of contentment.
He draws Joyce’s hand back up to his hair, encouraging her to tug, and feels the heat crawl up his spine as she pulled him closer, mouth finding his.