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Tags: dub-con (because of sex pollen) (but with very mutual attraction), use of alcohol and cigarettes, age gap, mentions of death, fingering, oral sex (f rec.), size kink, PiV, mult. orgasms, grump + sunshine, mutual pining, loose pov
Summary:
“So… you and the chief, huh?”
“Oh!” You clear your throat, fingers covering your mouth, “No, not really. I don’t think he sees me that way.”
“Uh huh.” Murray answers dryly, his legs crossing neatly at the ankles as he leans next to you, “Are you sure about that?”
(Or - when you go to Murray’s for some help, you end up with a little more than you bargained for)
Your nose crinkles as the car finally slows to a halt on the packed-dirt path, just outside the industrial-sized garage door. Debris lines the concrete building, a busted office chair, turned on its side - mechanical parts cushioned against the tall, barbed-wire fence by overgrown tufts of knee-high grass.
“You sure this is the right place?” Your words are directed slowly at Hopper, throwing your shoulder into the door as you open it - the old hinges creaking with the effort.
He’s already out of the truck, the piece of paper crumpled in his hand, shoving it into the back pocket of his light jeans, “This is it.”
Here goes, you think, making for the door, but a hand is catching your elbow, dragging you back. Glancing back at the frown on Hopper’s face, as he leans down to your level, letting you go so his hands can brace on his thick thighs.
“You stick close to me,” His voice is low and hushed, a rough edge to it, “And don’t touch anything inside unless I say so. Got that?”
Annoyance prickles at you - you were in the tunnels last year, same as the rest, and you had come out just fine. Whoever this man was had to be a cakewalk in comparison. He didn’t need to pull the macho-cop act, you weren’t a teenager like the others.
“Nancy said he was nice.” You counter, lifting your sunglasses, perching them on top of your head as you fix him with a look.
The crease between his forehead deepens, the edges of his lips turning down, “Just do what I tell you, okay?”
Your head tilts, his eyebrow raises in response. And fuck - the way he’s seeming to loom over you, big and broad, prickles at you in a different kind of way.
“Fine.” You blink, averting your eyes.
“Good.” He straightens, giving you one last weary look before heading to the front door.
Secretly, you had been hoping this trip would be a little more... interesting. For weeks now, the two of you have been exchanging lingering looks, finding half-hearted excuses to move just a little bit closer.
And when this short trip had come up, you had jumped at the opportunity. Because of the reason it was being taken, of course - and selfishly, for the chance to spend a little more time with him.
But so far today... nothing.
Unless you count the brush of an elbow against yours as it sat on the armrest. Not exactly the steamy encounter you had daydreamed about.
His fist raps a pattern on the rusted metal door, once - twice. Finally, a face peeking out as it cracks open, the room behind dim, curtains pulled tight.
The man’s face pulling downward when he sees who it is, eyes narrowing behind glasses, mouth twisting, "Oh, not you.”
Hopper's foot quickly jamming in the space, preventing it from shutting all the way, “We need to talk to you. It’s about what happened.”
There’s a long pause before the man nods - Hopper’s foot pulling back so the door can shut, the chain latch undone before it opens again.
You follow behind into the house, the inside not a far cry from the outside. But it’s fascinating in a way, the wall of televisions, the man himself - an old robe worn open like a cardigan over a tight white tank, grey sweats.
“Thank you, Mr. Bauman.” You step around Hopper, your hand extended, “We’re hoping you might be able to help us, please.”
Murray’s eyebrows lift when he sees you, the downturned edge of his lip kicking up, “And who is this?”
His handshake is firm, and you smile as you give your name, explaining, “One of Hopper’s friends.”
“Hm. Didn’t think the old grump had any friends,” He gives Hopper a sidelong look, Hopper’s hands jamming in his pockets as he scowls back.
“Just in case you were wondering, that is how you ask for help,” Murray tells him, amusing himself, before he turns back to you, “What can I do for you, sunshine?”
Throwing a look at Hopper for confirmation, you start, “Well, we wanted to see if you still had the original copy of the tape Nancy and Jonathan brought you.”
“Something is happening again,” Hopper cuts in, easing himself into the circle of conversation, arms crossed over his chest. “Maybe with the gate, maybe with El. We wanted to see exactly what they said.”
Murray shoots both of you a puzzled look, “Why’d you come out this way? Can’t you just ask them?”
You fidget, the same thing already discussed in the car. Hopper handles this one again, ”We don’t want to cause any… unnecessary panic. If we ask either, it’s going to spread. We want to do our own digging first.”
Murray thinks about that, plucking the glasses from his face, polishing them slowly on the edge of his robe.
“Please Mr. Bauman?” You ask, your hands clasped in front of you, the sound of your words drowning out Hopper’s annoyed grunt.
“God, please - Mr. Bauman was my father. It’s just Murray.” He looks back up after a long pause, slowly nodding, “But, fine. I can make you a copy. Have to find it first, but I will.”
Your answering smile is relieved - how long could that possibly take?
———
The three of you have been searching for hours now, sifting through beat-up boxes of hastily-labeled tapes in one of the side rooms, taking turns checking possibilities.
It’s slow going - you were quickly relieved of checking duty after you found a tape that leaned towards the illicit. Gasping as Hopper moved in front of you to shut off the high-pitched, recorded moans as he growled out a “Jesus Christ Bauman, she doesn’t need to hear that.”
“It was research for a story!” Murray had insisted, rolling his eyes, hands spread wide.
Now, you were on sorting duty, making stacks for Hopper to check, sweat beading on your brow as you dug through the piles. Even with the drapes drawn, hiding the summer sun, it was warm in the stuffy house - the nearest fan just out of reach as it rotates slowly.
Finally giving up, your arms stretching over your head as you rise, winding your way over to where Murray was working on his own stack.
“Murray, is it okay if I grab something to drink?” Your palm fans your face, the slight gust of air barely soothing the heat.
“Sure, sunshine. Help yourself,” He wipes his own brow, glancing up from his place on the floor. “I’m almost done. Grab a glass for me, too.”
The single bulb flickers in the kitchen, an ancient fridge tucked between two countertops. You revel in the blast of cool air as you open the door, stooping to peer inside.
It’s relatively clean, the shelves clear on one side, jars and condiments lining the other. There’s some beer cans half-way back and you reach for one, dragging it out. When you go to grab another, your fingers knock against a rounded glass bottle, the label curled and worn.
It wobbles dangerously, the cap loose on the narrow neck. The liquid inside - a thick, viscous pink - sloshes onto your knuckles as you catch it with the back of your hand. Trapping it between another container before you carefully nudge it upright.
Your hand withdraws, setting the second can on the counter before you bring it to your nose. The bright residue smells like summer, fresh fruit. Sticky sweet and cloying.
Without thinking, you taste it, licking up the drop that tracked across your knuckles. It seems to soak into your tongue, the taste almost familiar. Reminding you vaguely of the prickly pear lemonade you had on vacation a couple years ago.
Bright and sweet as bubblegum, the tart bite tickling your throat as you swallowed. No worries back then - just summer and sunshine ahead.
You blink, a funny tingling on your tongue, the rest rinsed off in the sink - dried on the dingy dishtowel.
The crisp crack of the can opening is music to your ears. The beer is cheap but you’re not complaining, it’s cool going down your throat - the can pressed against your forehead after you swallow.
Murray joins you a minute later, and you offer him the second can, but he shakes his head.
“Should have specified,” He tells you, dragging a bottle from the freezer, filling the bottom third of a glass.
Drinking the vodka like it’s water, nose scrunching as he swallows. You side-eye him, as you against the counter, elbows pressing against the stained laminate.
Taking your own sip much more slowly, his head turning to look at you.
“Helps me think.” Murray offers, though you weren’t about to ask. There’s a long pause, before his head tilts, “So… you and the chief, huh?”
You choke on the mouthful, coughing as you swallow. Hopper had warned you that he was blunt - a good guy, but not one to mince words.
But it’s almost refreshing, after the passive aggressive tip-toeing around you so often get at work. Right to the point, nice and neat.
“Oh!” You clear your throat, fingers covering your mouth, “No, not really. I don’t think he sees me that way.”
Facing him, you miss the way Hopper’s head tilts in your direction as he listens to a new tape, eyes dragging slow over the cocked curve of your hips - but Murray does not.
“Uh huh.” He answers dryly, his legs crossing neatly at the ankles as he leans next to you, “Are you sure about that?”
You wonder if he’s teasing you, or if he knows something you don’t.
The prospect makes your heart thud, a wishful anticipation in your chest as you answer, “Well, I don’t really know. Sometimes I think there’s something, and then other times he doesn’t notice me at all.”
Not telling him that a part of you thinks he’s hung up on someone else. And the worst part is you get it, it makes sense - they have all that history. And you’re just tripping after him like a lost little puppy.
“Jim’s a pretty direct guy.” Murray interrupts your thoughts, and your answering nod is slow, a little unsure of his meaning.
A pause - before he pats your shoulder, draining the rest of his glass, “Just something to think about.”
Okay, I guess, you think - finishing the remnants of your own drink, finding what looked like a recycling bin for the empty can. After a moment, taking the extra beer you had grabbed over to Hopper. Offering it to him wordlessly as you lean over the back of the couch, next to his shoulder.
He takes it, a thankful curve to his lips, fingers overlapping yours as his hand wraps around the can. For a second, you almost forget to let go - too focused on the way your skin seems to buzz under the brush of his fingertips.
“Thought you forgot about me.” He nods towards the kitchen, cracking it open with a hiss.
You watch the bob of his throat as he swallows, a curl of heat creeping up your neck, your cheeks. Trying to keep your voice from sounding too much like a sigh when you reply, “Never.”
Clearing your throat, trying to keep on track, “Any luck?”
“Not sure. Think we’re getting close though, these are from the same time.” He sighs, leaning back against the cushion, arm trailing along the back - swapping the tape out for another.
The voice that plays from this one is familiar - the recoding caught mid-sentence.
“-you mean without shutting us up?-”
You’re grabbing at his arm, swinging around the edge of the couch to take the seat next to him. Leaning into him to listen, “Wait, wait, that’s it!”
His eyes flash to yours, the recording playing just long enough to confirm it. A relieved smile flashing across his face, before his arm drops to curl around you - a squeezing half-hug of victory.
The tape is handed off to Murray to make a copy, and you stay selfishly seated on the couch. Nothing to do but wait until the copy is made, the edge of his arm still brushing your shoulders.
But the more you sit - the denser the air feels, humid and sticky hot. Your pulse seems to thud in your ears, a steady, dull pattern.
“Is it warm in here?” You ask idly, fingers plucking at the neck of your sundress, peeling it back to get some air against your skin, “Like, more than before?”
He frowns, his eyes averting when you glance his way, his legs shifting, “It’s warm. But it’s cooler than outside, that’s for sure.”
It doesn’t seem that way to you - you’re not sure how he’s able to wear jeans in this heat, even with the beachy, button-up shirt. The sleeves stretch tight across his biceps as his arms cross, your eyes slow to pull away as he adds, “Maybe you just need some fresh air.”
You nod - that makes sense, and you silently wish for Murray to hurry up, as much as you’re enjoying the current seating arrangements.
Now that the tape has been found, copying it goes quickly, the audio conversation as short as it was. Hopper tucking the tape into his shirt pocket, patting his chest as you push yourself to your feet.
It takes an effort, your limbs feeling not quiet coordinated. Your mind a little fuzzy, skin buzzing and tilting towards oversensitive. Maybe the beer wasn’t as cheap as you thought - maybe it was your empty stomach.
Hopper’s eyes narrow when he notices the slight sway in your posture, as Murray not-so-subtly herds you towards the front door. You still manage a thank you, and even a hug that you’re surprised that he accepts, “Thank you for helping us, it means a lot.”
“You’re both welcome back anytime.” Murray tells you cheerfully, the words almost cut off as the door shuts, the latch chain sliding into place immediately.
Leaving the two of you alone, blinking into the sunlight - the slight breeze welcome on your face. You’re still looking dazedly at the door when Hopper’s hand brushes your back, a gentle nudge towards the truck.
His words slow, eyeing you as you start to move, “Let’s get you in the truck”.
You’re compliant, unprotesting as he opens the door, climbing in. Slumping against the seats rolling the window down as he gets in on the other side.
The truck roars to life, reversing out of the lot, dirt kicking up from the driveway as he pulls back onto the main road.
Time seems to lose its meaning as the miles tick down, you’re not sure if it’s been minutes or an hour - the heat in your face and neck starting to feel like it’s moving downwards.
It should be a moment to remember, just the two of you, a beautiful summers day. A warm breeze on your face as the radio rolls through favorites - Springsteen, Rolling Stones, Tom Petty. Songs you know by heart sounding faded as thoughts you kept buried deep inside push to the surface.
Sideways glances that linger a hair too long, eyes drifting over his light, patterned shirt. The extra couple buttons popped at the neck, the coarse hair beneath.
The thick muscle of his arms, large hands that you think would span the space between your shoulder and jaw. The perfect size to cup your face. Fingers drumming absentmindedly on the steering wheel.
You like looking at his hands, thinking about what they could do. How they would feel. On you. Maybe even in you.
The path of your gaze slowly shifts downwards-
You blink - catching yourself, eyes facing forward again. Going rigid as you recognize the curl of arousal in your guts, where the heat has settled. Stronger than you’ve felt before - the aching need for pleasure so sharp it almost hurts.
“You okay, kid?” He breaks the silence, “You’re usually talking my ear off.”
The nickname is unintentional - it’s one he’s picked up from his time looking after El. You know this but it still bristles at you, a dull ache in your stomach causing your words to come out snappish, “Don’t call me that.”
“Oh,” he draws the word out with a scoff, “What, would you prefer ‘sunshine’?”
He’s being petty, defensive - glancing your way with brows pulled low, expression changing when he sees the way you’re sitting, tense and uncomfortable.
You flinch when his hand reaches across, the back of his palm brushing your forehead. Something blooms in your stomach, and you have to fight back a moan at his touch, the feeling between your legs almost like a pulse.
“Jesus, sweetheart.” He’s frowning, eyes darting your way, “You’re burning up. We need to get you home.”
All you can do is nod, your face pressing against the glass again - trying to ignore the instinct to press your thighs together.
———
It’s become almost unbearable by the time you find yourself among familiar roads - the long winding dirt path through the woods to the cabin. Somewhere along the drive, Hopper had offered to take you home, but his was a good 15 minutes closer.
You just needed some water, to sit down for a moment. You were sure it was nothing.
He shifts into park, legs taking him around to your door before you can fumble with the handle. Almost knocking the old wooden door off the hinges as he ushers you inside - the water still lukewarm from the tap as you gulp it down from a glass.
It soothes some of the heat that warms your face, but not the one that roils in your guts. You can’t hold back the groan that wracks your chest, hand splaying across your lower belly.
His hands almost feel cool on your cheeks as he cups them, worry clouding his blue eyes as he angles your face up to look at him.
“How are you feeling? Talk to me, baby.” He coaxes.
“Hurts.” You manage, blinking as you try to concentrate.
“Where?”
Silently, your hand slips lower, until it’s all but cupping your mound. The slightest brush of fingers making your eyes flutter shut, a soft needy groan falling from your lips.
Hopper goes still, unable to breath. Not even knowing what to say for a moment - trying to come up with something, anything, to help figure it out.
“Uh- did you take anything today? Try anything funny this morning?” He stammers, and your eyes flicker open.
A small shake to your head. And then, you pause, remembering.
“At Murray’s. I-It was pink. I didn’t mean to.” You tell him, and he’s nodding - it’s not much, but it’s something.
Leading you to the couch, your body slumping onto it as he heads for the phone. Digging through his pockets for the scrap of paper, silently hoping that Murray will actually pick up.
Your hands wander on their own, brushing across your thighs, up, and then up. A pad of your finger pressing against the thin cloth covering your clit, and fuck - it feels good. Maybe the best you’ve ever felt.
But somewhere in the fog, you know the couch is not the place to do this. With an effort you push yourself up, his eyes flicking worriedly to your wobbling gait as the phone rings.
The bathroom door creaking shut behind you - the wood muffling your moans as your fingers press against yourself again. Easing the ache, just for a moment.
His fingers wrap around the phone cord until it hurts - eyes trained on the closed door, foot tapping as he waits for answer.
“Hello?” Finally there’s a voice on the other end, and Hopper feels like he could strangle him.
“Murray? Jim.” He barks out, not waiting for a reply. “Something is wrong, she’s not doing well. Said she had something pink at your house.”
There’s a beat, before he’s cursing - his questions not quite making sense, “Jesus Christ. She didn’t, right? When did-?”
“What was it?” Hopper interrupts, his voice firm and low, one that he always seems to pull out during his interrogations.
“Let me think. I need to make sure.” There’s a crackle on the other end, the words chosen carefully. “How is she? What are her symptoms?”
Hopper blinks, “Uh, hot. Forehead is really warm. She seems distracted.”
“She um, said it hurts.” Not knowing how to word the next part, heat creeping across his own face, “Down there.”
He makes a face as he waits, scrubbing a palm across his forehead, and there’s an agonized groan on the other end.
“Okay. Can you ask her how much she had?”
His patience is running thin, worry and anger making his chest feel tight, “What the hell was it?”
Another beat of silence.
“It’s an… aphrodisiac. I was doing a story on it.”
He had the phone pressed so close to his ear that it creaks in his grip, “A what?”
“You know…” Murray hedges, and then sighs. “The tape you heard? The one that pissed you off so much? That was part of my research.”
Hoppers mouth feels dry, remembering the lewd, rhythmic moans. The word clicking into place in his mind, things starting to make a little more sense.
“Does it go away?”
“That’s why you need to ask her.” His tone turns serious, “You need to, right now.”
With a frustrated sigh, he sets the phone on the side table, crossing the room to the bathroom. Knocking, then calling out for you.
Listening, not meaning to hear your panting breaths, the stifled moans sliding out from between your teeth. He doesn’t mean to picture what you’re doing either - but the images pop into his mind, his fist tightening around the door handle.
Inappropriate. Get it together.
“Sweetheart?” He calls out, and he hears your sounds stutter. He hopes your listening, “The pink stuff. How much did you have?”
A moment as you think, the words slow from your lips, “Just a bit. It spilled on my hand.”
He’s back on the phone a second later, “She said just a little bit.”
“Thank god.” There’s a sigh on the other end, but Hopper doesn’t know what there is to sigh about, “I didn’t want to tell you, but the reason I was doing the story was a couple guys took too much. It uh, turns out it can cause cardiac arrest.”
The implication hangs in the air - he wants to ask more, but fears the answer. Murray presses on, “But if she just took a little, she should be okay. She needs to…”
There’s a pause as he sucks in a breath, “She needs to work through it to make it go away.”
“Work through it?” He echoes, brows furrowing.
“Yes. If she doesn’t, it hurts like hell. I tried it myself, just once.” Murray confesses, his voice low, “Drank some like a shot. It took twelve hours to go away. I was chafed red, Jim. Red.”
Hopper makes a face at the overshare, lips pulling down over clenched teeth, “That’s disgusting.”
“That’s what happens.” Murray answers firmly, “I’m just telling you, you might have to help her. Or find her help - don’t let her go through that pain.”
He doesn’t know what to think about that either. Doesn’t even want to think about it, helping you. Not like this, not when you’re not in your right mind.
The next call is quick, just to cover his bases - a call to the school. A message for El, asking is she can spend time with Max tonight. Hopefully you didn’t need the twelve hours, but he had no idea what to expect, or if he could move you.
Then the back of his knuckles are rapping on the door again, three short, sharp knocks. He calls your name, listening - his mind going a mile a minute. Opening the door when he hears you say his name, the two syllables drawn out in a soft whine.
Even with what he knows now, he’s unprepared. The bathroom in his cabin had always been small - barely enough room to squeeze in a tub, a toilet, the chipped sink with a mirror.
Small enough that he’s hit with the scent of your shampoo, perfume. Then, the sweet musk of your arousal, completely unmistakable. Combining into something that made his pants feel tight, his breath catching in his throat.
Pheromones, maybe - something he saw once on a nature documentary. Murray didn’t warn him about that part. His back sags against the door as he closes it.
Fuck, he can’t do this.
He’s already thinking things he shouldn’t be - because he knows you don’t see him the way he sees you. That your sugar-sweet smiles and nudges are the same you give everyone else.
Trying on occasion to put some distance. An act of self-preservation - he’s always been shit at love. Always on the wrong side. But then you drag him back in. Bright and stunning and blinding.
Sunshine in human form, after all.
You’re sitting, back against the wall - tucked in the far corner, opposite the tub. Elbows resting on spread knees, your dress dipping down between the soft curves of your thighs. The navy blue flash of panties as you shift, the light glinting off the wet gleam of your fingers has his eyes darting away - flushing as he clears his throat.
Your eyes glassy as you look up at him, the way he fills the doorway - even bigger and broader than usual from your spot on the floor. Another sharp throb shoots through you, and you moan out loud.
His brow furrows, and then he’s moving, crouching down to your level. Fingers reaching out to brush your forehead again, your skin burning hot against his fingers.
“Talked to Murray. You drank some experiment he’s been working on. Says you need to, uh-” His hand rubs the back of his neck - lacking the eloquence of his new friend, completely out of his depth. “Finish. To get rid of the uh, symptoms.”
This close, the throbbing increases, twisting in your guts into you ache. The smell of leather, tobacco, aftershave sending another pulse down your spine, your thighs pressing together in an attempt for release.
Your nod is sluggish, the fingers twitching again, “I tried, Hop. I can’t-”
“Is there… someone I can call for you?” His voice is gruff, trying as hard as he can to think with his brain and not with his cock, “A…boyfriend, an ex?”
There’s a thud as your head tilts back against the wall, as you fix him with a long look.
“Is my flirting really that terrible?” You ask, with a huff of a laugh that borders on delirious.
There’s a long pause as Hoppers mind trips to catch up, to interpret your words.
“Nevermind.” The smile that stretches your lips is resigned, your chest heaving in a panting breath as your hand waves dismissively, “That wasn’t fair of me to say. Just forget it, I’ll be okay, Hop. Really.”
“Wait, back up.” Hopper’s hands raise, his voice taking on an edge, “What the hell does that mean?”
Each word feels like an effort now, your tongue feeling heavy, your heart thudding between your thighs, “It means-, it means the person I’d want to call is… you.”
There’s silence for a long, agonizing moment.
“You don’t want me,” He rasps out, eyes flickering between your half-lidded ones, the glossy sheen of your parted lips where your tongue had flicked over them. “It’s the drug. You’re not thinking straight.”
“Jim.” The name punches out from your chest, your eyes locking onto his, the pretty splash of blue, “It’s not. I’ve always wanted you.”
Realization making him sway - the wooden floor crashes into his knees as he rocks forward. His head ducking down as you push yourself up to meet him.
A whimpering moan that shoots straight to his cock when your mouth meets his, one of his thick arms curling around, a palm pressing flat against your back. Your tongue already swiping at his lower lip, pressing closer until your breasts are crushed against the wide barrel of his chest.
His hands dropping, as he groans in response - cupping the globes of your ass, your thighs opening further for him as he yanks you up and onto his lap.
Fingers fly to the meat of his broad shoulders for balance, the fabric of your dress bunching under roaming hands. A clashing of teeth and tongues as you devour each other, your panting gasps as your core bumps into contact with the thick curve of his jeans.
Electricity flickering down your spine, a seam catching on your clit. The burning in your core turning into something closer to relief. Your hips jerk again to chase the sensation, just as a hand comes up to palm at your breast, the tight peak of your nipple.
“Hopper,” You’re moaning into his mouth, your fingers fisted in his shirt, trying to tug him even closer. Hips rolling, grinding down against the thick curve of his jeans, “Please.”
His last ounce of self-control leeching from him as he accepts what you’re asking. What you’re needing from him.
Begging, even - something he’s only ever dreamed about.
“I’ve got you, sweetheart.” He promises, shifting - your thighs wrapping around his waist, a low whine from your throat as he tries to move.
Hopper gives up on untangling your limbs, instead pushes himself unsteadily to his feet; your arms encircling his shoulders. Lips dropping to his neck, pressing against skin.
Walking you through the door, until he can drop you onto his bed. You scoot backwards to make room for him as he lowers himself down next to you, crowding you closer to the cabin wall.
Fingers trailing up your shin, your thighs falling open, just as your eyes shut with another cramp of discomfort. Halting at your thigh, at the curving hem of your dress.
“What do you want, sweetheart?” He asks, leaning over you, letting you call the shots the best he can.
“Touch me.” You beg, hand reaches for his, dragging it up between your thighs. Hips rocking into his fingers when they press down against your core.
“Fuck, baby.” He groans, feeling the damp cotton, your own hand going limp at your side as his flatten, rubbing at the fabric.
His other hand pushing your skirt up to your hips. Letting himself look now, the dark, wet stain of your panties under his fingers. Realizing they were never navy in color - the soft fabric cutting across your hips a light, sky blue. So similar to the shade of his eyes.
Your hips buck again, and his fingers slide beneath the fabric, slipping against soaked skin and soft curls. Another fresh wave of relief, pleasure curling over the pain, your fingers twisting around the pillow behind your head.
“Jesus. You’re soaked, sweetheart.” He grits out, fingers sliding up until they bump against the swollen bud of your clit, your response no more than a whimper.
Stroking against you, again and again - his fingers slick with your arousal. Sliding easily over your skin, making small, messy circles that have your breath catching in your throat.
A litany of pleas and moans falling from your lips, soft “oh, god-” mixing with his name. The sweet build of pleasure barreling down as his fingers touch you.
He’s impatient, the tight fabric limiting his movements, blocking the pretty sight of your pussy from his vision. The thumb of his other hand hooks on your waistband, tugging it down your thighs - your hips grinding into his hand as they rise to help.
A rough exhale of breath, the word “fuck” ground out through gritted teeth. Torn between wanting to keep going just like this - and knowing if you wanted more, that he’d have to use his fingers somewhere else.
His hand shifts, thumb rubbing over your clit, the middle sliding down, pressing against your entrance. Glancing at you for your nod before it sinks in, his fingers so much thicker and longer than your own.
Pressing down to the knuckle before withdrawing, starting a slow thrust that stretches you out. He’s so fucking hard, cock straining in his pants as he watches his finger disappear into you, your pussy so warm and tight around him. Thinking about how you’d feel wrapped around his fat cock, how good you’d feel coming on it.
Biting back a groan as he adds another, your own low whine as they press deep, finally itching at the ache of needing to be filled. Your words are slurred with drunk pleasure, your brain a messy fog.
“Make me come, Hop. Please-“
Fingers curling, each thrust of his wrist a loud, wet squelch in the small cabin. He shines with you, coating his fingers, leaking onto your inner thighs.
“I will baby, I promise.” He coaxes, trying to remember how it goes, fingers dragging against your inner walls until he feels you clench down around him, a ragged gasp in your throat.
His eyes flickering up again to yours, doing it again, again - watching the way your breaths grow shorter, tension coiling in your thighs.
The small rocking of your hips as you chase the movements of his thrusts, fucking yourself on his fingers, the soft pants of breath as you moan out “please” again and again.
Hopper shifts, pushing himself up - though you’re too close, too far gone to notice. Your eyes shut are shut, concentrating, when there’s the swirl of something hot and wet and soft against your skin.
Better than his thumb, eyes cracking open to see the way he bends over you, the pink flick of tongue as it presses against you, a low groan as he tastes you.
The scratch of his mustache, sending goosebumps across your skin. When his lips kiss against your clit and then suck, it becomes your undoing.
Unable to form words as the blinding pleasure peaks, instant relief flooding your system as you find your release. Soaking his fingers and tongue with a hoarse cry, limbs trembling with the effort.
The sounds you make when you come are prettier than he’s ever imagined - loud, panting moans, the heave of your breasts, head thrown back, eyes screwed shut in concentration.
Tight as hell around his fingers, he swears he can feel each pulse, the thud of your heartbeat in your clit as his tongue presses against it.
Devouring you until you finally go limp, before sliding his fingers from you. Bringing them to his mouth, unable to resist tasting the release that coats his fingers.
The sweet tang of your cunt as he sucks them clean, a low groan as his hips shift, pressing against the mattress.
“Oh my god,” you sigh, the fog starting to wane with each throb, though the desire still remained. The immediate pain quelled, but the deep ache of want and need was still burning in your veins.
Pushing yourself up, grasping at his shoulders until he’s hovering over you - your mouth tilting to meet his. His mouth tasting like you when your tongue darts against his, the rumbling groan as your hips shift up to rub against him.
“Thank you,” you moan into his mouth, and he almost wants to laugh, if the situation hadn’t been so disconcerting.
The thought about being thanked for something he’d dreamed about doing, never thinking he’d get the chance to bury his face between your legs.
He kisses you until you feel dizzy, until your hips are moving again, the damp spot darkening on the front of his jeans.
“More,” you break the kiss to beg, plucking at the buttons of his shirt, revealing inches of skin, greedily soaking him in.
“You need more or you want more?” He asks, hand curving to cup your jaw - a perfect fit, just like you imagined.
Lips feeling kiss-swollen as they scrape against the stubble of his jaw, down to his neck. Feeling the thud of his own pulse, “Both.”
He groans, loud and low, letting you tug at his belt, fingers working open the button. Hips shifting into your hand as you cup the hard bulge, your other hand tugging at the zipper.
A noise of disappointment as he rolls off you, the smallest hint of a smirk as he rids himself of his pants, boxers, “I’m right here. It’s okay.”
And he is, your fingers skating over his thick shaft, barely able to circle around it. It’s big, the fat head glistening with a bead of precum, and it smears across your thighs as he settles between them.
You wiggle against him, lining your hips up, but his hands are gripping onto your waist to hold you still.
“Easy, baby. Gonna hurt yourself.”
Taking a moment, his fist wrapping around the base. Sliding himself against you, you body flexing against the hand still holding you as he lines himself up.
Making sure he’s soaked with you before he starts to press in. Eyes bouncing between your face, trying to see if it’s too much, and unable to resist seeing the tip disappear into you, stretching you wide.
Your moan breaks his concentration, the feeling of him splitting you open almost too much. He feels even bigger than you imagined - making room for himself as he nudges into you. Stealing your breath with every small flex of his hips.
So much of him still left as he carefully thrusts his hips forward, the delicious slide of his cock against your walls before he withdraws. Breath heavy as he does it again, each time sinking a little deeper into you.
Almost flush now, his hands on your hips again. Keeping you pressed to the bed so you don’t try to take too much. Perhaps also to keep himself in check as well.
It’s overwhelming, how warm and tight you are around him. Squeezing him already, even with your come coating his cock, slicking him up. He’s afraid to move, thinking that if he starts thrusting, starts fucking you - that this will be over before it’s started.
His lips part as you wiggle against him again, trying to ignore your pretty pleas. The rough gravel of his voice drowning your sighs out, “Hold on, baby. I just need a minute.”
Fingers flexing against your skin, where the flesh pillows between them. But you need more, and you take matters into your own hands.
Your hand slides down, one lingering at your breast, cupping and squeezing the soft skin, pinching at a nipple. Sending a jolt racing down your spine as your other hand follows, drifting until you’re brushing between your thighs again.
Some of your wits now back, maybe enough that you can get yourself off - just like this.
Eyes on his, watching him watch how the tip of one circles your clit. The small rock of your hips that just barely causes him to move, buried in you. But it’s enough.
Your head tilting back as you set a pace, rolling your hips, again - again. Touching yourself, his name peppered in with the panting of your breath.
“Hopper, oh my god-“
And finally he finds his voice, fingers so tight you think they’ll leave bruises. The words skittering across your skin, as his head tilts up to yours, words coaxing, “That’s right sweetheart. Take what you need.”
Eyes fluttering open as the pleasure builds again as pressing your fingers harder, circling faster.
He’d been worrying about you dying earlier - just for a moment. Now he’s worrying about himself, heart pounding in his chest, listening to each little mewling gasp from your lips as you use him.
Fucking yourself with shallow thrusts on his cock, your pretty face screwed up in concentration. Each breath growing shorter and shorter - he can feel you starting to tense underneath him, the clench of your pussy around him as you squeeze in anticipation.
Keeping himself still, letting you get off on him - thinking that he’ll throw you off your rhythm if he moves, desperately wanting to see how it feels when you come on his cock.
He doesn’t have to wait long. Your eyes all but roll shut as your release hits you. The heavy shudder of your body, surprising him with the sharp jerk of your hips. Taking him even deeper - almost all the way as you flutter around him.
Even better than how you felt on his tongue, better than he’s imagined. The sounds you make louder and rougher when you’re stuffed full of him - as he lowers himself down, hands easing off you.
Letting you wrap your arms around his shoulders, face buried in his neck as you drift back down. Holding you until your hips stop moving - waiting until you relax before he slips from you.
You frown, not understanding until he rising up, nudging at your hips. Giving you room to flip over, his palm warm as it slides down your back.
“Hands and knees, baby.”
Wobbling only a little as you push yourself to your knees, back curving as your torso slips back down, pressing against the mattress.
Shifting until your ass rests flush against his front, letting you feel the thick curve of him pressing against your swollen lips.
“You want more sweetheart?” He asks, a thrust of his hips nudging his cock against you. “Or are you all worn out?”
Again putting the choice in your hands, though he wants nothing more to bury himself in your tight cunt again and fuck you proper.
“More.” You sigh, pressing back against him. Feeling and sounding more lucid - the desire more firmly situated in your thoughts, feelings, rather than chemical stimulation, “Want you to fuck me, Hopper.”
“Yeah?” He growls out, thumbs digging into the curve where your ass meets your thighs, spreading you wide.
“Yeah.” You confirm, the word turning into a moan when you feel the tip press against you again, and then he’s slowly sliding back in.
It’s still a stretch, even though you’ve already taken him, the angle so much different. He can see so much more like this, the tension strung tight in your back and shoulders, your fingers fisting in the sheet.
“Relax, sweetheart.” His hand smooths across your hip, thumb rubbing across your skin, easing forward until his thick thighs are pressing against yours, the curve of his stomach flush with your ass.
His first thrust is experimental - shallow, fingers gripping onto your waist. Rocking you with his movements as you groan, so sensitive that you think you can feel every vein, each ridge.
Again, and then again - until your cheek presses against the mattress so you can look at him, your eyes heavy lidded.
The peek of pink tongue between teeth as he concentrates, a hitch in his chest when you clench down around him. Shoulders flexing as your lips part, the words moaned out - a plea, “Harder. I won’t break.”
Fingers digging into your skin, as you add a soft, “Please.”
It tips him over, hands jerking your hips back - all but impaling you on his cock. Sinking himself deep, filling you completely.
Your gasp is low and loud, head tilting back. Urging him to do it again, and so he does. Gripping your hips as he starts thrusting, your panting moans mingling with the wet squelch of your pussy as he pounds into you.
Shifting, his thighs bumping into yours, lifting your hips, pressing you further into the mattress.
Changing the angle, his cock dragging along your walls. His forward thrust nudging against a spot that makes you cry out, muscles clenching, pleasure flooding your senses.
“Yeah?” He asks through clenched teeth, voice like gravel.
Finding it again, and then again. Your fingers gripping the sheets, lips parted as the moans are pushes out of you. Hurtling towards the edge, your hips rocking back to meet him the best you can.
And when his hand moves, fingers pressing against your slick, sensitive clit, it only takes a few flicks of his wrist until you’re trembling, your words a jumble of begging pleas.
“Oh god yes, Jim, please, please-”
Soaking his cock as you start to flutter, tight and hot and almost overwhelming him. His name sounding so goddamn good on your lips as you chant it, the little jerks your hips make as his fingers keep moving.
Your eyes shut as you ride out the waves, your body relaxing into his grip. Realizing he’s still thrusting, drawing your pleasure out, still pressing against your clit.
“Come on honey, one more.” You just catch the rough rasp of his voice, raising goosebumps across your skin, “Let’s get it out of your system. I want to be the only one helping you.”
Quickly working you up again, until his own thrust starting to stutter. Your tight heat too much, he’s not going to last much longer. Trying to hold himself back a little longer, but it’s he thinks he already too far gone.
“Fuck baby, I’m close,” Hopper pants, and thinking about him coming makes you moan. “Where do you want me?”
“In me.” You beg, already close again - from his touch, his words.
“Fuck.” He repeats, “Goddamn-”
His groan low, hips snapping forward, the slap of his balls against your pussy before he grinds himself deep. The sharp thrusts sending you over with him, your own orgasm washing over you as you feel the hot pulse of his ropes painting your walls.
Basking in the sweet feeling release as he ruts against you - until you’re filled - until his hips finally start to slow.
Chest heaving as he catches his breath, fingers carding through his hair, brushing it back. Your thighs burning in a nice, used way - your head pressing against the mattress so you can peek up at him.
Taking a long minute, and then another. Until your breathing finally slows, until the tension melts from both of you. A hand rubs your lower back, above where you are still joined.
“More?” He asks, his gaze heavy as he meets yours.
You clench down around him, squeezing him as his release gets pushed out, dripping down your thighs. He twitches inside you.
“More.”
———
Evening has fully settling in when the two of you finally collapse - his head hitting the pillow with a heavy, satisfied sigh. Your body going limp against his, pressing yourself flush against him.
Your cheek scrubs against the hair sprinkled across his chest, your movements slow and sated. The fire - finally, completely - quenched, the only warmth now coming from your sweaty, sticky skin.
The humor returning, now that the danger has passed. A rumble of laugher beneath your ear, the click of a lighter, his voice a low rasp before he takes a drag of his cigarette.
“If you wanted me that badly, sweetheart, you could have just asked. No need to go through all that trouble.”
Unbelievable.
Your head tilts upwards as you fix him with a glare, “You’re lucky I’m too tired to move.”
His hand lifts to cup your chin, thumb scrubbing tenderly across your cheek. Another breath that takes you with it, rising and falling as you sag against him.
“‘Lucky’ is goddamn right.” He tells you, his teeth flashing with his smile.
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