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Joyce has been held before - by others' hands.
Some had been cruel; their touches meant to hurt. Their grasp on her was angry and harsh and she’d flinched underneath their hands. She’d found her own way away from them; protected herself and her family.
There were others too. Hands that had been gentle - eager to please and attentive; earnest in how hard they’d worked to please her.
Those touches; soft and light and hesitant; pleasant, but not enough.
And if, sometimes; when it hadn’t been enough; if she’d had to squeeze her eyes shut and picture different hands roaming her body, then it was fine. If Joyce had called to mind a set of rougher hands, hands that were more calloused and hardened - hands that could cover her belly with the splay of their fingers; hands that would just know - know what was too little; and what was too much - if that is what she’d had to picture; those hands on her body, to push herself over the edge, then nobody had to know.
No one had to know that she pictured a set of hands that could map her body; have her writhing and falling and crying in pleasure and relief. Hands that would find her, know each part of her body by instinct and catapult her over the edge, never too soft or too hard or too much or too little - hands that would recognize what she needed because the person behind them just knew.
Hands like his.
—
Jim Hopper is an affectionate man.
It’s not something she would have guessed; if you’d asked. Her only chances to observe him with other lovers had been brief - high school flings that he largely tried to ignore in public; and a few women around town, the ones who’d approach him at Melvald’s; a hand on his shoulder and a smile in their eye; slinking away in disappointment when he’d reposition himself out of their space. He’d always been quick to physically distance himself from women that have wanted nothing more than to lay some tangible claim to him; however small it was.
But here; together - he is a man of touch.
It starts early.
They seek each other out. Mornings dawn, all early spring and cool air; a drafty house with leaky windows, and they find themselves waking most days, like this one; together.
His body; tight against the back of her. One arm draped around her waist; he finds her hand. Slides it over hers, fingers threading through, and Joyce wakes slowly. The mattress dips, lowers as he scoots himself closer. It’s old and small but she doesn’t want to get rid of it; not yet. The little valley they create here is warm - secure and happy with his body surrounding hers; the chilled soles of her feet against the warmth of his shins; the weight of his hand spread over hers - it’s a comfort, one she’s sure she’s never felt before. Not like this.
Hopper’s hand slides lower; toying with the ties on her cotton pajamas. He props himself up one forearm; ducking his head down to find a spot on her neck. He lowers his mouth to it; and she murmurs; sleepy and happy and soft, a quiet yes.
His hand slides lower; down the front of her; into the soft warm space between her thighs and it’s lazy, this little game. His hand, spread; against the thin fabric of her night clothes, he bends his thumb just enough. Lines it up against the seam of her pants; nips at the warm skin of her shoulder as she presses down; rolls her hips slowly against it.
He doesn’t move his hand much; just lets her quietly grind against him; the width of his thumb and the space of his hand a hard counterpoint to the soft center of her. Hopper brushes her hair back, and she can feel him smile against her shoulder as he presses his mouth to her, whispering soft encouragement into her skin.
“That’s it.”
She answers with a soft moan; squeezing her thighs together around his hand.
“Let’s just make you feel good this morning.”
Joyce rocks back into him; tries to seek out more, and he gives a little; pushes up against her just a little. She doesn’t need much; the length of his thumb and the strength of his hand; the pressure of his forearm on her lower belly; all of it is just enough.
“So close, you’re so close.”
Her eyes flutter shut; and she feels herself falling; feels the build up starting to crest; and he nips once again at her shoulder. She’s so close; she’s chasing it and she’s almost there; and then, suddenly.
It’s a loud clatter from the kitchen and a teenage boy swearing and she jolts forward; him back. They untangle themselves, Joyce catching her breath and him moving. Legs swing out over the bed; and they share a grin across the room.
“Later?”
He asks the question, and Joyce nods.
“Later.”
__
His sentiments continue through the morning.
It’s his hand, on the curve of a hip, palm turned in; fingers spread and curling against her, as he comes up behind her in the kitchenette. She pours the coffee and he lingers, for a moment, his touch light. He slides his fingers up, past the hem of her worn t-shirt; his voice low as he asks.
“Half and half or milk?”
They’re happy here; most mornings. Real life hasn’t found them quite yet, Hopper still a dead man to the outside world; her still half a country away to most. In time, she knows it will change - there’s a hellscape threatening to burst through half a mile away; and their kids can’t stay here, forever, hidden. But for now, the days pass in an uneventful monotony; both finding respite, finally, in the close proximity to the other.
His hand rests on her thigh as they sip coffee; a ghost of a touch when the kids join them that deepens as they leave; go about their own days. She slides her own hand down; links them, and looks down.
There’s a scar on his knuckle; new and fresh, still pink. She runs her thumb across it, and Hopper follows her gaze, watches her slide it softly back and forth.
The worst of his wounds are in places only she sees; raised ridges on his back; an ankle with stitches just removed. This one though; this is a visible reminder of where he’s been; how far they’ve come, just to circle back to this simple affection.
The night he’d left; the night she’d thought she lost him forever, she’d held on to him. Reached for his hand on a silly fair ride; let him curl his fingers around hers and ground her; tether her to him. His hand had been unmarred then; and now; now it’s simply not. Now it bears a permanent reminder of a journey they’d taken back to each other.
He’s fought to come back and she’s fought to bring him back; and she lifts their joined hands up; presses a soft kiss against the freshly healed skin, before she drops it and stands.
“Bacon?”
She asks him; a smile on her lips as she sees his eyes dance. There’s breakfast, and then there’s second breakfast just for him; and if he knows what she’s doing, know that this is intentional; a ploy to add heft to his body once more, so she can breathe easier; he never says. Just plays, along; and lets her.
__
Joyce watches him later.
This house; the one Owens’ team had found, is small; remote. It’s taken one spring storm in the Midwest, hours of wind and rain and now tree branches litter the driveway, blocking them in. She’d headed out on her own after breakfast, intending to clear the way.
“Joyce?”
He calls out to her from the porch, his fingers buttoning up the flannel he’d pulled over his shirt on the way out.
“What are you doing?”
She looks up, a hand over her eyes; shielding them from the sun.
She hadn’t wanted to bother him. He’d dozed on the couch, after breakfast, full and happy; and she’d slipped away.
His ankle was still unsteady. She knows he tries to hide it; little winces when it rolls, two fast steps as he shakes it off, but she sees it. She hadn’t wanted to task him with this; a chore she’d done on her own for years anyways.
“I got it, Hop.”
Hopper shakes his head as he comes down the steps, gravel crunching underneath his feet.
“I can help, you know. You don’t have to do this yourself.”
His statement is simple; direct. They’re standing there, both with the same end goal. To lighten the load of the person they love; to make it easier on them.
Which is how she ends up now; sitting on the porch, a warm Diet Coke in hand as she sits and sips and watches him snap the branches in half; tossing them into the ever-growing pile. Joyce had done the leg work, dragging each branch to the edge of the path where he stood. He does the muscle work now; breaking down each piece into something smaller; tinder for a fire they may never have.
He’s taken off his flannel; warm even in the mild spring air. Despite the loss of muscle and mass when he was away; he’s still big; a heft and girth to him that she’s taking the time to observe, and appreciate.
His arms are huge; wide and thick. She thinks back to the other night; the half moon bruises she’d left on his bicep as she’d tried to hold on; tried to find purchase against his slick body; finding his arm too broad to grip as she’d rode him; hips rocking into one another. Her face flushes, red creeping up her neck as she recalls; the way he’d pushed inside her, moaned her name into her mouth as he came and had her falling apart; shaking and shuddering around him.
It’s a view though; watching him work. Muscles glistening, arms rippling - the way his hand covers each limb; thick and large and hidden underneath the sheer size of the palm of his hand.
Joyce can feel her mind wandering; drifting again to places that it never has before during something as simple and mundane as yard work. It is something, she thinks; the way she fits into him, when they’re together; the way just one hand can reach for her; can cover the soft valleys of her belly; how another can wholly cradle her head. Fingers can splay across a thigh; broad and firm and hold her there tight; letting trembles and aftershocks run through her; grounding her. How he can absolutely cover her; his body a safe haven, a shelter; a home.
“What?”
He catches her looking; and there’s a half grin on his face - one side drawn up at the sight of her; lost in a daydream as she ogles him.
Joyce smiles back, wrinkling her nose with a rough attempt at a wink.
“Nothing.”
She stands then, walks down the small set of porch stairs into the grass. She dusts the remnants of his work off, wet grass and old leaves; and lets her hand linger on the broad space between his shoulders. She continues, her tone light as she does.
“Just love a good show.”
—
His hands can be tender, too.
Surprisingly soft and delicate, for a man she’s seen slay monsters with the same pair.
It’s her, and him, and their tiny kitchenette. This house they’ve been lent is nice, roomy and open and there’s a spot for each of them to have their own space. The kitchen, however, is frustratingly small. Two people at once is one too many; and Joyce knows that with time, maybe, she’ll roll her eyes and kick him out when he’s on her last nerve, but for now, she likes it.
Likes him; close behind her as she stirs the seasoning into yet another batch of chicken and dumplings (because - he’s asked; and it’s his favorite, and maybe he’s just humoring her, because he knows she’s proud of how she can make this from scratch, and maybe that’s alright with her).
Hopper comes behind her, swaying into her space. The soup simmering on the stove is a pretense, she knows - a reason for him to be there, to stand this close.
He rests one hand on her hip, and pulls her gently. She sways back into his touch, spoon in hand, and he dips his head low, nuzzles it into the space between her neck and shoulder.
“Any good?”
He murmurs the words, his voice low and husky and when he shifts her; takes that one hand on her hip and backs her gently against him so her backside is flush to his front, Joyce knows he’s doing it on purpose, riling her up when he can’t deliver, not here.
Not ten minutes before she’s about to yell up the stairs for three hungry teenagers to join them.
She likes it, though. Likes that it’s easy and sweet and that it doesn’t have to go anywhere. That they have all night, because no one’s going away; no one’s leaving, not tonight, and they have time.
Joyce rests the spoon in the spoon hold, and slides her hand on top of his. She threads her fingers through his, and tilts her head back. Raises her other hand to slide up his neck and they just sway; together, for a minute.
His hand is large, underneath hers; and she knows it’s strong; knows that it can crack the face of a man in two, split it right down the middle, open and bleeding, but here, tonigh, it’s the opposite.
His touch is soft and light and he just holds her; gently and tenderly and the duality of it, of what those hands can do isn’t lost on her.
To most of the world, he’s a brute, angry and sad and ready to use his fists to fight, and she knows it’s more than luck, that it’s earned and deserved that she’s the one who gets to see the other side. The one who sees him use his hands to love, to hold, to slip softly through hers and let time stand still, wrapped up in each other.
She answers him, finally, her voice quiet as she slides her eyes shut and leans into him just a little bit more, enjoying the lingering touch.
“It’s really good.”
__
Her feet are on his lap; her eyes sliding shut, when he starts teasing her.
They’d put a movie on, and as expected; the teenagers balked at their choice. It took less than twenty minutes for them each to mumble an excuse, and beeline to their rooms.
Joyce had been tired, the yard work exhausting, and she’d slid her feet up, letting her eyes drift shut; reveling in the domesticity of it. Safe and warm; his hand on her knee - she loves this. Loves the mundane and easy way their bodies find each other during the day; into the night.
Hopper obviously has other plans though; not content to let her drift off.
He had promised her this morning after all; his ‘later’ a vow he didn’t mean to break.
He starts gently. His hand slides up; fingers dancing against her inseam. It’s slow; almost imperceptibly so. They trip up against the worn cotton, pressing down, shifting against her, and she stirs, unsure of where he’s headed. She wants to move a bit; shift her body into his. Tilt her hips up, let his hand find the place she wants it to be, but she’ll be patient, let him set this pace.
Then, he stops.
Mid-thigh; he just stops. Not a pause, not a small break; not a few seconds to shift his weight and continue - a full stop.
Joyce waits a moment longer before she opens her eyes.
He’s staring straight ahead; eyes directed at the flickering lights of the television, and a year ago, she may have missed it; missed the small tell. The hint of a smile underneath the bushy mustache, the one she knows is a tease. He feels clever, drawing her out of her half asleep state, baiting her with his light touches.
“Hmmph.”
She expresses her frustration, a loud sigh escaping as she stares back at him.
Hopper looks over her; hand on her mid-thigh, and his smile broadens, playful and light and she feels herself melt, just a little.
They can be playful; now. They can take their time and tease and rile each other up; draw each other out and then slow it back down and she loves it; loves seeing him like this. Happy, a weight almost disappeared; the anchor of feeling cursed and damned lifted a bit.
Still, though; she’d like him to continue. So, she plays the game.
Joyce opens her eyes, big and wide; a smile on her face. Pulls a lip between her teeth, rolls it, and tilts her head as she looks up at him.
“Done playing games?”
Her voice drips with suggestion; a flirtatious tone she barely recognizes.
Maybe it’s not just him that feels this particular lightness these days.
Hopper rearranges himself; repositions his body so she’s closer, knees over his lap; and starts to move again. Trails the fingers of one hand up her faster this time; reaching the juncture of her thighs. She jolts when he does; hips reflexively canting up, but he doesn’t linger. Instead, he moves onwards; up to the waistband of her pants. He tugs at it, hard, pulling the strings loose, and then finally she feels him. Feels his body move; adjusting himself so he’s above her. Feels the heat of his hand slide down; his wrist pinned against the waistband; and she hears herself. Hears the whimper that escapes her lips; a whine as she tries to roll herself into him, greedy and desperate for his touch.
He laughs then; has the audacity to laugh, and she opens her eyes to see him looking at her; adoration and amusement and that something; that unshielded look he saves for her and her alone.
His voice is a rasp when he speaks; the closest to a whisper he can manage.
“You’re cute when you’re frustrated.”
__
His hands are a sin; how she wants them. Wants them all over her; touching her, driving her, holding her; always.
He has her here now; stretched out and pliant underneath him.
When things had gotten to be too much; too loud and too indecent for a shared space, she’d led him back to their room, hand in hand; shutting the door behind them. She’d turned the lock, then turned back to him; reached up on her toes, and pressed her lips to his.
She’d walked them backwards, mouth still on his; tongue nipping at his lip, until she’d reached the edge of their bed. Then Joyce had pulled away; backed him up just enough with a gentle push of her hand.
She’d watched, eyes on him as she’d pulled off her shirt, tugging it over head; then discarded her bra. She’d lowered her pants to the floor, kicking them away; then reached for him.
Joyce had taken his hand; pulled him close; and lowered it to her breast.
“I want your hands on me, Hop.”
He’d been more than happy to comply.
Now; now, she’s finally got him where she’s wanted him all day.
“Touch me.”
He complies; fingers dancing across an inner thigh; opening her up as he ghosts them across one; then the other. He lightly moves a thumb across her center; gentle pressure - steady and good, but not enough.
Soft, breathy moans escape from her; as one hand slides down the curves of her body. He takes his time, the pads of his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her; against the jut of a hip and the valley of her belly as he explores. His mouth follows the trail; fingers leading, wet hot kisses behind.
He meanders; up to a breast; palming it with his hand; a nipple rolled between a thumb and forefinger, tugging gently as he watches her respond. It’s fire; the way the gentle mix of pain and pleasure spreads through her; stokes her desire and her need for more.
“More.”
She breathes out the word; arches her body into him.
Hopper shifts; moves his body to the side and away from her; and she opens her eyes; questioning. She rolls to her side, seeking him, and he grins; eyes dark, pupils blown; and full of something close to pride.
He backs his own body up against the frame of the headboard; and reaches for her. One arm around her, he circles her waist, and Joyce gasps as he pulls her - easily - in between his legs, her back against his chest.
“Lean back.”
His words are a gentle command, one hand coming to rest on her stomach. He splays his fingers across her; his hand covering her. His other hand creeps down; the flat of his palm pressing against her, and she shudders at the closeness. He’s almost there; almost where she wants him; where she needs him to be.
Joyce leans further in to him; and he lowers his mouth to her skin. Hopper presses his lips to her shoulder; and his other hand reaches around; slides up to the curve of her breast.
“Relax.”
Joyce can feel her body moving; hips rolling slightly as she seeks him out; and she takes a deep breath in as she tries to listen; tries to let him guide her; guide them. She lets her head loll back against him; lets him hold her; truly.
She can feel his hand moving now; fingers seeking out her center. Feels him sliding his fingers through the damp thatch of curls, and spreading her open. Feels him enter her with one finger; easily; then the second; and just when she’s sure he’ll start moving; start that beautiful rhythm that she craves from him, he stops.
“Open your eyes.”
His voice is deeper now; a thickness to it; one that alights something in her; an instinctive response.
“Watch.”
She swallows; hard and fights the urge to let her body tense; to let it flood with timidness at the thought of this. She’s not shy about wanting him, about their coupling, but this; this is new. This is different; and she knows that there’s never been anyone else that she’s trusted like this. Trusted enough to want this.
Joyce opens her eyes; and gasps. She peers down the length of her own body, where one of his hands holds her; anchored against the cage of her ribs; thumb to a nipple as the rest of his hand widens; spreads over her breast.
Her eyes travel down, to where his fingers have slid into her; where they’re beginning to move; achingly slow at first, as he starts to stroke in and out.
“You’re gorgeous, Joyce. Watch.”
He breathes into the crown of her hair; his hold firm around her as he continues. She feels her body flush; heat creeping up as she sees it; sees the way his fingers sink into her; then withdraw; the movement almost hypnotizing her.
She’s needed this. Needed to feel him; his cock hard and thick against her back. Needed him, and his fingers; thick and long and big inside of her. Needed him, pumping in and out; coated in the wet heat of her; as she watches; and he holds her against him. Needed the sound of it; slick and slippery and god; it feels so good; he feels so good.
She feels her body begin to tense, her core begin to tighten. He curls his fingers into her; moves them up against the soft patch inside of her; and thumbs at her clit again and again and again; and it’s building; hot and heavy in her belly. Joyce feels her eyes begin to flutter shut, and she fights the urge; opens them again, and it’s there, finally; her eyes watching his hands all over her; inside of her, that she finally falls apart; shuddering and shaking against him.
He holds her through it; body firm against her back as she comes back down; comes back to him.
They breath together; shaky and fast and his voice, when he speaks, wavers with awe.
“Christ, Joyce.”
She laughs; feels him brush the hair at the back of her neck away and kiss the sweat slicked skin there.
“Yeah.”
Her response is breathy; light and happy.
She moves then; slides down and away; and beckons him close.
When he’s above her; braced on each forearm, she smiles up at him.
“Needed that. Needed you.”
Hopper nods; and she’s guiding him through her slick folds; into her. He pushes into her easily; groaning when he’s fully seated; desperate to move, but waiting for her.
He fills her; absolutely and wholly; and she wonders how she can tell him this. How she can tell him that it’s never been like this; not with anyone. That nothing, no one, has ever made her feel this way; never made her crave someone like she does him; balanced with the absolute certainty of feeling desperately complete when they’re here; like this.
Joyce takes a deep, shaking breath, and finds his hand with hers. She threads her fingers through his, and looks up again at him.
She catches his eyes; and she knows then. Sees it reflected back. It’s wide open; how he looks at her. No guard rails, no safeguards or walls; just exposed and raw and here and she swallows the sob that threatens to escape at the sheer vulnerability here; tonight, between them.
“Love you.”
She says it; says it simply and then raises her mouth to kiss him, lightly.
His voice is shaky; emotion threatening it as he answers.
“Love you too.”
She arches into him then; urges him with her body to begin moving. His thrusts are shallow; then build slowly, until they’re both moving; her body a counterpoint to his. When he slides his hand between them; finds her clit for the second time that night, it’s quick; less vivid and overwhelming than it was before; a pleasant buzz that flutters through her. Hopper’s quick to follow; hips pistoning erratically until he spills himself inside her; her name quiet on his lips as he does.
Later, that night; he sleeps. One hand wrapped around her waist again; she threads her fingers through his, and looks down.
These are the hands she’s built a home in. The hands that love her; and hold her every night. The hands that revived her son; pounding on his chest until he’d brought him back into the world; brought him back to her. The hands that have reached for her; pulled her to safety again and again and again. The hands that seek hers out; finding his own home and solace and protection in her own.
The hands she’ll hold until she can’t anymore.