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You hadn't wanted any of this, why would you. Your father, drunk every single day, had finally left you both for his affair in another city, and your mother was still crying over it, even though you didn't quite understand why. After all, she was the one who usually got hit by him; though his hand fell on your cheeks from time to time, too, if you said something he deemed wrong.
It took years before your mother could finally find happiness again. Shortly after your 17th birthday, she told you about this police chief she had met, how nice he was to her, and that he also had a son exactly your age. At first, you didn't know what to make of the two of them. Your mother's boyfriend introduced himself when you met with a friendly, "Hey, I'm James Hopper," and shortly afterward pointed to his son, who was sitting in the back on the couch in your and your mother's house, not giving you a single glance. "This is my son, James Jr., but you can call him Jim," he muttered. It seemed kind of strange to you, naming his son after himself, but you honestly couldn't care less.
"Introduce yourself, boy!" James suddenly bellowed, seeing Jim's ignorant attitude, making you flinch for a second. Your heart almost immediately started racing, and you felt that old, familiar tightness in your chest that you had always felt around your father. Apparently, your mother magically attracted those kinds of guys.
Reluctantly, Jim rose from his seat. He seemed somewhat rebellious in his demeanor as he walked over to you and your mother. He was tall, damn tall compared to you, and it was almost uncomfortable having to crane your neck just to look at him. He shook your hand with a small nod and an almost growling, "Hey," before doing the same with your mother.
Only a year later, your mother and James moved in together after getting married, acting as if they were running out of time. A nice, big house in Hawkins, where the tension between you and Jim gradually became unbearable. You didn't need a second opinion to see how much you despised each other. You were either fighting or pretending the other didn't exist. It was absolute hell for both of you whenever your parents sent you on errands together to go grocery shopping or to act like you were some happy family now.
Even on this evening, your mother and your step-father retreated, but not before condemning you to fold the laundry for everyone. Dragging yourself through the chore just to get it over with, you dutifully folded everything piece by piece. But every time you held one of Jim's garments, you felt disgusted. His socks were always inside out, his jeans smelled of dust and sweat even after being washed, and with everything of his you touched, you rolled your eyes in annoyance. Until this one dark blue T-shirt fell into your hands.
It was faded, the fabric thin and very soft from countless washes, and it carried that unmistakable scent of cheap cigarettes he secretly smoked whenever his dad wasn't home. You hated that smell, hated it with a passion because it took over the entire house. And yet, you caught yourself holding the fabric in your hands a moment too long, your heart suddenly giving an irritated, stumbling beat. Furious with yourself, you threw the shirt onto your own laundry pile as an act of defiance. He wouldn't miss it anyway, and it would just add to your worthless pile of T-shirts to sleep in.
When you finally managed to escape to your room a little later after putting everything away, the muggy summer heat of the day hung oppressively in the room. The window of your room, which opened directly onto the flat roof of the porch, was wide open but offered barely any breeze. Annoyed by the evening, the heat, and most of all the constant bickering, you stripped off your remaining, restrictive clothes. Your eyes fell on Jim's shirt. Without giving it another thought, you pulled it over your head, almost feeling offended by it.
It was way too big for you; the shoulder seams hung almost at your elbows, and the hem reached down to mid-thigh. But the fabric was cool against your skin. You threw yourself onto the bed and closed your eyes, but instantly his scent filled your nose again. It drove you crazy. You could hear him walking around the house, even if his footsteps fell silent shortly after. You would have loved nothing more than to press a pillow over your ears so you wouldn't have to endure him anymore, but you also felt something else, an almost desperate throbbing between your legs. You felt the need to regain control, you wanted to obliterate his presence, and all this frustration relentlessly migrated down into your lower belly. With a suppressed, angry sigh, your hands glided almost on their own down your body, tracing over the soft fabric of his shirt until you gently pushed the hem up. You were wet, hot, but above all, you were turned on.
What you didn't know, however: Just a few feet away, Jim was sitting on the warm, relatively flat slope of the porch roof. He had sneaked outside to comfortably smoke a cigarette and enjoy the evening warmth. He had actually intended to knock on your window frame briefly to throw another stupid comment your way, or to make you even crazier and angrier than you already felt anyway.
But when he looked through the gap in the curtains into your dimly lit room, he froze. The cigarette burned unnoticed between his fingers, and his eyes locked onto your body. He saw you lying on the bed, unable to move. He saw you writhing beneath the way-too-big fabric. And it practically only took a second for him to realize that it was his damn T-shirt you were wearing while letting out quiet, panting noises and soft moans on your bed with your eyes half-closed. His jaw clenched as a dark, possessive heat suddenly spread through him.
You were so caught up in this forbidden, heated haze that you completely missed the soft creaking of the roof shingles outside. Every breath you took was shallow, and your fingers moved almost desperately to satisfy this urgent frustration inside you. Until a noise sliced through the silence. Jim took another deep drag from his already burned-down cigarette, and then:
Knock. Knock.
Two slow, deliberately hard strikes of knuckles against the wooden frame of your open window.
You froze instantly. Your heart skipped a beat as the blood turned to ice in your veins. With wide eyes, you gasped for air and hastily searched for the direction the sound had come from. Your gaze immediately snapped to the window. The silhouette of a tall, broad-shouldered man leaned darkly into the corner of your window against the midnight-blue sky.
A soft click sounded, followed by the sudden, brazen flare of a lighter. The small, orange flame illuminated Jim Hopper's face almost provocatively for a fraction of a second. He was leaning casually against the window frame, his head tilted slightly to the side. His gaze was so dark and piercing that it almost physically pinned you to the mattress. He took a drag from the cigarette wedged between his lips, slowly exhaled the smoke into the stifling summer night, and flashed that dirty, arrogant smirk you despised so much about him.
"I always knew you were a prude," his rough voice tore the silence in two. His words were quiet enough not to entertain the neighborhood, but deep enough to make every fiber of your body tremble. "But being so desperate that you're writhing on your bed in my shirt... that's a new one."
The shame that instantly shot hot into your cheeks was replaced in the next fraction of a second by a blind rage. You frantically yanked the hem of his shirt down, wanting to tell him to go to hell, to scream at him to get lost immediately. But before you could get even a single word of insult out, he pushed off the frame.
He flicked his cigarette down the roof into the night, and with a smooth motion, he swung his long legs over the windowsill and stepped into your room. "Oh no, don't you dare-..." you yelled, raising a warning finger to scold him, but the room seemed to shrink instantly as soon as he stood inside. He approached your bed with slow, threatening steps.
"Stop it," he scoffed quietly as you tried to sit up and scramble off your bed. He could even ruin moments like these for you. His large hand shot forward, grabbed your wrist with an iron grip, and mercilessly shoved it back into the mattress. He leaned over you, his face now only inches from yours. His breath smelled of tobacco and pure provocation. "When you were just getting started," he breathed softly.
"Don't touch me," you hissed, your voice nothing more than an angry whisper. You thrashed against his grip, but Jim didn't budge an inch. On the contrary, your resistance seemed to give him exactly what he wanted, and against his stature, you didn't stand a chance anyway.
A dark, almost predatory sound left his throat as he shoved his knee between your legs, using his weight to pin you ruthlessly to the mattress. You instantly felt the hard bulge of his jeans pressing against your center, and the heat radiating from his body was almost unbearable. A stark contrast to the cool fabric of his shirt against your skin.
"Or what?" he provoked quietly, his face so close to yours that his lips almost brushed yours as he spoke. Teasingly, he pressed himself harder against your crotch, and it didn't seem to bother him that you were probably ruining his entire jeans with your juices right now. "Our parents won't be home for a long time."
Your breath hitched as the reality of it hit you. You arched up, blind with rage. Your free hand flew upwards, ready to slap that sickening arrogance right off his face, but Jim was faster. With almost frighteningly youthful reflexes, he intercepted your second wrist as well, pinning them both above your head with just one of his large hands to finally secure you.
The fight was over before it had even really begun, and you both knew it. You were breathing heavily, your chests rising and falling in the same erratic rhythm. The hatred in your eyes was palpable, but there was something else, too. An almost suffocating, electric tension that made the air in the room uncomfortably tight.
"You are such a disgusting asshole, Hopper," you practically spat the words at him, even as your racing pulse instantly gave you away.
"And you're wearing my shirt," he countered roughly. His gaze dropped to your lips for a second, then back up to your eyes. The mockery had actually vanished from his face, replaced by a pure hunger that sent a dangerous shiver down your spine. "Take it off."
"Fuck you."
"That's exactly the plan."
With his free hand, he roughly grabbed the hem of the dark blue fabric at your hip. There was nothing gentle about his energetic movements. He impatiently ripped the shirt upwards, exposing your flushed skin, your round breasts, and your wet, throbbing center, which was practically dripping for him by now. You should have turned away, should have tried to hide your body, and you should have cursed him. But instead, you arched towards him defiantly, driven by all the pent-up frustration of the last few months and this damned, inescapable attraction.
When his lips crashed hard and demanding against yours, it wasn't a kiss born of affection. It was a pure power struggle between you two. You ripped your hands free from his loosening grip, only to claw your fingers deeply and angrily into his hair, pulling him just as roughly against you. He tasted of the nicotine he had just smoked, of unbridled rage, and of the final realization that after tonight, you would only hate each other even more than before, and that right now, in this very moment, you absolutely couldn't get enough of each other. His knee spread your legs even wider for him, while your hands wandered impatiently down his taut body, searching for the zipper of his jeans.
The metallic clinking was deafening for a second in the suffocating heat of the room. Together with his underwear, you pulled the rough fabric of his pants down your thighs as far as you could, letting his hard erection spring free. You could have rolled your eyes in annoyance at its sheer length.
"Take them off," you growled desperately, which coaxed a smile onto Jim's face that was far too arrogant for your taste.
"And save your stupid smile."
With an unbridled movement and an offended grunt, Jim kicked his jeans away until they fell to the floor, the buckle hitting the floorboards with a dull thud. He quickly pulled his shirt over his head, too, tossing it into the shadows of your room. Now, nothing separated you anymore. You immediately pulled him back down to you, almost missing his lips for a moment. He was a better kisser than you would ever admit.
Angrily, he pushed his warm, thick tongue into your mouth, and the power play started all over again. His hand, far too calloused for his age, cupped your breast and purposely rubbed teasingly over your nipple. You instantly moaned softly into his mouth while the two of you were still busy exploring each other's mouths in frustration.
When he reluctantly pulled away from your mouth, his face next flew to your heated, flushed neck. His rough cheeks, covered with the stubble of his newly growing beard that he took such painstaking effort to shave off every time, scratched rawly and arousingly against your soft skin. A contrast that sent a pang straight to your lower belly. You cursed words into the thick air, which he acknowledged with a tender bite to your neck. He found your racing pulse, visibly pleased by how you were reacting to him, and began sucking wildly at it.
The reddish mark he would inevitably leave there would remind you of this damn night for days to come, but in this moment, you couldn't care less. His free hand slid down from your breast, trailing almost possessively over the trembling skin of your stomach until it arrived exactly where you were so desperately craving relief.
He didn't waste time with gentle, drawn-out petting. You were both far too charged up for that. His rough fingers stroked demandingly over your clitoris just once, drawing an uncontrolled, high-pitched moan from you.
Jim didn't hesitate. He forced his knees further between your legs, spreading them mercilessly wide, and positioned himself over you. His large hands gripped your hips with a hold that was guaranteed to leave dark bruises on your skin tomorrow.
"Look at me," he growled hoarsely, a command that brooked no contradiction.
When you opened your eyes, his dark, heated gaze hit you with full force. At the exact moment your eyes locked, he thrust deep inside you with a single, unbridled movement.
His sheer size made your back arch instinctively. A loud, trembling scream left your throat, a scream that brought that sickening smirk right back to his face. The rhythm he set now was hard, fast, and absolutely merciless. Every one of his thrusts felt like a physical fight. Your old bed creaked menacingly under your weight, drowned out only by your heavy, out-of-sync breathing and the slapping of your skin. You fought against his pure dominance, pushing back against him hungrily with every movement, absolutely refusing to let him control this high all on his own. It was wild, dirty, and fueled by months of suppressed hostility, and it felt better than you would ever willingly admit.
You whimpered desperately as you wrapped your legs around his hips, taking him even deeper inside you. "So... big," rolled off your lips unintentionally, almost pain-filled, which Jim immediately underlined with a rough chuckle.
"No one's ever complained," he murmured arrogantly into your ear, making you groan in annoyance as a cool shiver brushed across your body. The thought of the many girls he must have already fucked left a disgusting, almost insulting aftertaste.
"Just shut the fuck up," you spat at him, clasping his hips even tighter with your legs. No comment, no counter, in fact, Jim said nothing this time. He closed his eyes, concentrated on his rapid thrusts, and let out a steady, rough panting.
The fact that he was suddenly so silent completely threw you off, and at the same time, drove you out of your mind. The arrogant facade had completely dropped, leaving nothing but this pure, primal necessity. His thrusts became uncoordinated, deeper, driven by an urgent desperation he would never admit to out loud in front of you. Your nails dug mercilessly into his sweaty shoulder blades, angrily scratching his skin as you worked against him blindly. The heat between your bodies was unbearable in its mixture of desperation and friction.
The rhythm of his hips accelerated to a maximum, and a hot pulling sensation built up in your lower belly. You gasped desperately for air, your body going taut like a bowstring as the first wave of your climax crashed over you. You turned your head and bit down hard into the muscles of his shoulder, just to muffle your own betraying scream. Your sudden, uncontrolled tightening around him was the drop that made Jim's cup run over.
His eyes snapped open, dark and completely clouded over, before he pressed himself so deep inside you with one last, merciless thrust that it knocked the wind out of you. A deep, hoarse growl ripped from his throat. It was unfiltered, raw, and almost animalistic. He froze over you, every muscle in his massive body tense, while the hot waves of his own release tore through him.
For a few endless seconds, he just let his heavy weight sink onto you as you felt him rhythmically shooting his seed into you. His racing heartbeat hammered so wildly against your chest that he trembled above you. Only the loud thumping of your hearts and the groaning gasps of your breath filled your room for this moment.
But before anything resembling tender intimacy could even hint at forming in this closeness between your bodies, Jim abruptly pushed himself off. No kiss after the storm, no gentle, affectionate squeeze of your skin. Only the cold and silent withdrawal after you had finally put your anger and pent-up energy to good use, and despite the heat, it actually made you shiver slightly.
"You coming?" Jim asked suddenly, his voice still rough. He didn't even look at you, mechanically pulling on his clothes that he gathered from your floor.
His words yanked you back to reality for a fraction of a second, and your brow furrowed in slight confusion.
"What do you mean?"
"Outside, onto the roof," Jim explained as his gaze finally fell on you. You had probably never spoken to each other like this... so normal. His eyes were less dark and angry now than before, but you could still detect that typical mockery in them.
"I, uh... Yeah," you stuttered, still somewhat caught off guard, and stood up on trembling legs to pull on a pair of pants as well.
"You can keep it, it's gotten too small for me anyway," Jim mumbled with casual ignorance as he fluidly climbed back out your window. He clearly couldn't care less that your legs were almost too weak to follow him over the windowsill.
You looked down briefly at his dark blue T-shirt, having pulled the hem back down, and ran your fingers over the soft fabric one last time.
"Suit yourself," you replied casually, sitting down next to him on the roof outside.
The night air was finally more pleasant, cooling your heated skin a bit. As Jim pulled another cigarette from the crumpled pack in his jeans, you wordlessly, yet demandingly, held your hand out to him.
He rolled his eyes in annoyance but handed you one, tossing his lighter to you so you could light it.
It was a moment where, for a change, you weren't screaming at each other, but it wasn't a moment where everything was suddenly fine between you two, either. It was just a brief, comforting quiet, the eye of the storm before everything would start all over again.