Chapter Text
He shouldn't be thinking about her like this.
Joyce was a friend, nothing more. She'd made that quite clear when she'd turned down his invitation to dinner earlier that morning, stuttering about pre-existing plans while her big brown eyes darted nervously every which way. The rejection had stung; a particular sting he hadn't felt in a long time, as almost all of the many women he'd casually bedded after his marriage and life fell apart were more than eager to accept his advances, and he didn't give much of a damn about the few who weren't. There was always another warm body waiting in the wings to dull his pain, if only for a night or two.
But he hasn't relied on that self-medication method for several years at this point. Not since Will Byers went missing in that fucked-up dimension the kids called the Upside Down. Hopper’s been too busy running around putting out fires set by that damn laboratory and attempting in his own frustratingly inept way to raise El up right. Keeping her safe, fed, educated and away from Mike fucking Wheeler was a full time job in itself. Between all that and the more mundane tasks that kept a small town chief of police occupied, sex - let alone romance - was very low on his list of priorities. Or at least, it had been.
Things have been calm for awhile now after the successful exorcism of poor Will and defeat of the latest Lovecraftian horrors to crawl out of that otherwordly gate, now closed thanks to Eleven. Sometimes Hopper isn't sure who was put through the wringer worse that time: El or Will. But now that the supernatural dust has settled, hopefully for good, he finds his mind wandering back to those softer subjects he's been neglecting: namely a woman in his life and in his bed... and more specifically, Joyce Byers.
He'd been silently nursing feelings for her that were not-quite-platonic for longer than he even consciously realized. Hell, some of those feelings even stretched all the way back to high school with the two of them sharing smokes and skipping class together. Then he’d been sent off to war and started a whole new life, and while Joyce remained a fond figure in his memory, he expected her to forever remain in his past. By the time he’d come back to Hawkins he was a broken man, too far down in his dark cave of grief and self-destruction to feel much of anything; but when Joyce lost her boy and things got weird he had to step up, reactivating detective skills and protective instincts that he’d long since let lapse. The more he could be of service to her, the more he started to come back to life and he was grateful for it. Grateful for her. But still he tried to stick to acting as a slightly distant source of strength and support throughout the fear and conspiracies, never letting on just how personally invested he was becoming in the safety of her and her boys.
Looking back now he can recognize when those not-quite-platonic feelings finally turned a corner there was no going back from: the jealous twinge in his chest that he'd tried to convince himself was concern when he heard she was dating Bob the brain. He'd told her he was happy for her, but that was a lie. He wished he could be happy for her, though, so surely that counted for something? God knows she deserved happiness after all she'd been through, deserved a good man who would treat her right unlike that no good piece of shit ex-husband of hers. And Hopper had no doubt that Bob was a good man... but was he good enough? Could short, rotund, bumbling Bob provide everything that a remarkable woman like Joyce deserved? Poor, clueless Bob who hadn't the faintest inkling of what she and her boys had gone through before he showed up late to the scene? Sure Bob was safe in a no doubt boring-as-hell kind of way, but he couldn't understand her the way Hopper can. The kind of understanding that only shared trauma can bring. And Hopper's sure as hell that Bob couldn't make love to her the way that he could. The way she deserves.
The thought springs into his mind unbidden like it's been doing more and more often lately. Hopper knows he's good in the sack. He knows how to meticulously unravel a woman till she's trembling and pleading for him despite his feeling completely devoid of emotion while doing so. Just going through the motions has them confessing he's the best they've ever had, and if he wasn't so dead inside he'd feel sorry for them for getting their hopes up that they'd be anything more to him than a distraction from how fucked up his life was. He was broken, after all. A black hole, his self-loathing too intense to entertain the notion of letting anyone get close to him again. They couldn't handle the wreck of a man that he was. They'd be scared off if they really got to know him... but he can’t help but feel that Joyce wouldn't be. Tough, spitfire Joyce, the strongest woman that he’s ever known. Probably the only woman on earth who can deal with his bullshit and sling it right back at him. The only woman who's managed to reignite that spark of life that he'd thought he'd lost for good.
Hopper sighs and drags one hand down his face from forehead to chin after parking the Blazer in front of his cabin and killing the engine. He's distant at dinner and he knows it, distractedly eating his microwave meal while El chatters on about whatever teenager drama she's picking up secondhand from her posse of friends and aggravating little twerp of a boyfriend. He keeps analyzing the earlier encounter with Joyce over and over in his mind, rotating it in his head to inspect every angle, trying to suss out what she might be feeling and what the reason for her rejection might be. He furrows his already furrowed brow even more. It didn't make sense. He been so certain she'd say yes, what with how much time they'd been spending together lately; her helping him navigate the storm of guiding a girl into womanhood, and him doing his damndest to keep her spirits up even as the number of customers that kept her job afloat dwindled thanks to the newly opened Starcourt. Even before now there'd been signs, he was sure of it: the way she'd clutched his face and chest with trembling hands when she - and Bob the brain, to give credit where it's due - had rescued him from those vines that were a millimeter away from strangling the life out of him when he'd stupidly gone spelunking in those dank upside down tunnels all by himself. He'd wanted to kiss her right then and there, to hell with her boyfriend... but he'd restrained himself for her sake despite the way she clung to him and whimpered his name. How she rested her head against his shoulder or chest when she needed comfort that he was more than happy to provide. The way she'd gazed at him with gratitude when he accompanied her to Will's medical examinations. How she didn't correct the doctors when they assumed he was the father of her child. The twinge he felt in his chest that time was something different - and far more painful - than jealousy.
Now Bob is dead and gone, meeting his end in an admittedly horrible way. While Hopper couldn’t help but be glad that Joyce was unattached now, he never would have wished such a fate on anyone, let alone someone as good-natured and harmless as Bob Newby. But that was months ago, and since El closed the gate and Will was back to about as normal as he ever was, things have been peaceful. Hopper is more than ready to move on from it all, and he can’t imagine that Joyce isn’t as well. He chews his microwaved beef cutlet slowly and thinks. Maybe… maybe it was just a little too soon for her. Maybe she really was interested deep down, evidenced by how she failed to reject him right away, but wasn’t quite free from the shadow of her late boyfriend yet. If only she’d give Hopper the chance to help her forget…
He’s brought back to the present moment by El asking to be excused from the table. He nods with a ‘sure, kid’ and she hurries to toss her empty microwave dinner tray in the trash and wash her fork before practically sprinting to her room and closing the door, no doubt to begin her evening ritual of talking to Mike on their walkie-talkies until bedtime. He grimaces and finishes up his own meal. The fact that his teenage daughter has a more active love life than himself is disturbing in multiple ways.
As he cleans up his own dinner mess he thinks back to earlier that day at Melvald’s when he’d come to rehearse the ‘heart-to-heart’ speech Joyce had written for him. She was beautiful as always, perched atop the pharmacy countertop in her usual oversized clothes, peppy and encouraging while he felt anything but. Patsy Cline crooned mournfully over the store speakers as Joyce attempted to coach him, and he was feeling rather despondent himself until she touched him and smiled when he leaned up beside her. He keeps replaying the way her soft, small hand felt resting atop his own, delicate fingers curling between his forefinger and thumb to press against his palm, her eyes huge and bright and he swore they seemed pleading, like she was begging for him to make a move so she could accept. It knocked the wind right out of his sails when she deflected, but he couldn't help getting feeling that something was there... there had to be. And if she gave him the opportunity to uncover that something, he would make sure that she wouldn’t regret it. He would make love to her the way he’s positive no one else has, like no one else could. He wants to worship her in bed the way she deserves. What he wouldn’t give to hold her slender frame in his arms and pull her close against him, but not too hard. Just enough for her to feel his heart pounding hard against her ear and feel his cock hard against her belly. That thought is enough to make his dick begin twitching to life, and if he wasn’t suddenly so damn horny it would be embarrassing that such a simple thought could get him going so easily at his age. He wasn’t a hormonal boy anymore, unlike that little turd Mike… thinking about that kills the mood so Hopper quickly shoves it out of his mind, returning to much more pleasant thoughts of Joyce and her big brown eyes and high cheekbones, chestnut hair and soft skin, and the exquisitely feminine figure she hides under those baggy clothes that he’s dying to remove…
He hears the muffled noise of El talking from behind her bedroom door as he turns on the television, but he doesn’t stay to watch it. Instead he retreats to his own room and pulls the curtain shut. The TV noise is only there to help mask what he’s about to do. He doesn’t masturbate often anymore because El is usually home and he doesn’t want to risk traumatizing her if she catches him. God knows the poor girl has been traumatized enough, he thinks wryly, the last thing she needs is to see her dad desperately choking his chicken while thinking about the mother of one of her best friends. He usually only indulges during his morning shower when he’s feeling especially pent-up, jerking off hard and fast and as quietly as he can and letting the water wash away the evidence. They aren’t the most satisfying sessions, but they get the job done. He kicks off his shoes and unbuckles his belt, already anticipating his upcoming orgasm. It’s wrong and he knows it. Joyce is a friend, nothing more - at least currently. But the shame he feels isn't enough to stop him from palming his bulge through his pants and briefs for a moment before unfastening and pulling them down just far enough to reveal his growing need.
Hopper unbuttons his uniform shirt, exposing the white henley beneath, and lays down on his bed and leans against the pillow in a way that doesn’t aggravate his back, getting himself comfortable. He makes sure to have a blanket close by his lap in case El happens to burst in and he needs to cover himself up quickly. She’s never done that before, but still, he wants that extra bit of security before he closes his eyes and takes his hardening cock in hand. He strokes it several times, imagining with a sigh Joyce doing it instead. Her small, soft hand would feel so much better wrapped around his dick than his own does and before long he’s fully erect and aching for her. When she’s perched on top of the counter they’d line up perfectly, and he bites his lip and imagines taking her right there in the store. But not before kneeling in front of her and shoving his face right between her thighs to eat her out until she’s screaming his name. Hardly anyone ever comes into Melvald's now anymore besides him anyway, so she might as well spend her time receiving a mind-blowing orgasm from him rather than tagging discounted items or hanging up clearance banners. But hot as that would be, for the sake of his knees he’d prefer to have her in his bed while her slim thighs are wrapped around his head and his mouth is against her pussy.
He squeezes the base of his cock with a grunt, not wanting it to be over too quickly as he imagines what she’d taste like: her kisses, her skin, her hot, wet core that he’d lap up like a man starved. And he is starving. Touch-starved and frustrated and too full of love and desire that has nowhere to go, no one to receive it. He wonders if anyone has gone down on her before. He just can’t - nor does he want to - imagine Bob being so forward in bed and it wouldn’t surprise him if that piece of shit Lonnie was too selfish. Hopper's never understood men who refuse to lick pussy, and any man who would turn down the opportunity to lick Joyce’s would be stupid beyond comprehension. And while he acknowledges he has many faults, being too stupid to devour her with his mouth if given the chance is not one of them. He hopes for her sake that her past lovers did that for her, but in this fantasy he imagines that he is her first… the first man to touch her and taste her that way; the first man to show her how it feels. The first man to look up from between her soft thighs to see her jaw drop open and her eyes go from wide to scrunched closed, brows knitted in pleasure as she grips his hair in her fists and trembles against him. His own fist slides along his shaft and twists over the head when he thinks about dragging his tongue through her folds and finding her clit already swollen and her slick center dripping for him. “Gonna make you feel so good, Joyce…” he mutters under his breath, quiet enough that he’s sure El can’t hear. A bead of pre-cum emerges from the tip of his cock and he rubs it along his slit with his thumb, imagining jerking himself off with one hand while he licks and sucks and eases a finger inside Joyce's cunt beneath his flicking tongue. She’s so tiny, and his stomach flips excitedly when he thinks about how he’d need to get her nice and ready to take his cock when the time came. He’d need to give her at least one orgasm, preferably two or more, with his fingers and mouth and he’s more than happy to do so. His stroking speeds up when in his minds eye he sees her shaking and writhing and bucking her crotch against his face, desperate and wanton for him to give her what she needs. “I’ve got you, baby,” he murmurs when he imagines forcing her over the edge, gushing around his tongue and soaking his mustache. “Fuck,” he hisses through gritted teeth when he envisions her reaching for his shoulders to urge him on top of her, thoroughly satisfied but not yet sated, needing him balls-deep inside of her soft, welcoming body. If he’s honest he has to admit he secretly loves when she’s assertive - even borderline aggressive - with him. Even though so far it’s only been verbally, the thought of her physically attempting to make him give her exactly what she wants from him in bed in no uncertain terms is incredibly sexy. She’s so delicate and small despite being so fierce, though she’d no doubt hate being described that way, and the fact is that he dwarfs her completely. Hopper could easily refuse giving her what she wants until she devolves from demanding his cock to begging for it. Arousing as that thought is, however, he wouldn’t deny her - or himself - for long during this first time. He’s been waiting way too long to make love to her to waste time teasing.
He’s panting now, his release mere seconds away already, cupping his heavy balls in one hand and tugging his cock with the other, spurred on by visions of looking down at Joyce’s head tossing restlessly against the pillows and her no-doubt perfect breasts bouncing as he fucks her. Precum weeps from his tip and spills down his shaft to lubricate his hand moving faster and faster, and he squeezes his eyes shut and pictures what his dick disappearing into her petite body over and over would look like. What kind of noises does she make when she’s about to come? Oh god, what he wouldn’t give to hear her keening and cursing and whimpering his name, telling him that she’s close again… that he’s the one getting her close. “You gonna come for me, Joyce?” he whispers, and in his mind’s eye he sees her frantically nod, hears her high-pitched pleading as her pussy clenches and quivers around him. “Fuck yeah… come all over my cock, baby, let me feel it…” he hisses through gritted teeth, holding onto just barely enough presence of mind to continue to keep quiet. An advertisement for New Coke blares from the TV from the living room and El’s laughing at something Mike must’ve have just said is muffled next door, but Hopper doesn’t register either of those things. All he’s aware of now is the hot, throbbing coil of pleasure that’s been building at the base of his spine radiating outwards, his balls tightening and his jaw going slack in a silent yell as he loses it to the thought of Joyce clamping down on his cock as she comes undone. His semen shoots out in powerful pulses, rope after rope of thick, creamy cum painting the henley shirt stretched over his clenching belly. It should be painting the inside of her pussy instead, or at the very least her belly instead of his. He’d pull out if she wanted him to. Hell, he’d do anything she wanted him to… if only she’d give him the chance.
Hopper sits there gasping for a moment as his spent cock softens in his grip, then his previous guilt sets in along with the post-orgasmic clarity. “Shit,” he groans, thudding the back of his head against the wall twice before tucking himself back into his trousers and shrugging all the way out of his uniform shirt. He pulls the defiled henley off over his head and wads it up, then tosses it unceremoniously into the far corner of the room to put in the laundry at some point. He goes to the bathroom to take a piss, then changes into some sweatpants and an old t-shirt before at last sitting down in front of the TV. He watches without really seeing, too busy thinking about what he just did, the woman who inspired it, and how to get through to her. He reaches for the half-empty bag of Doritos nearby and starts eating as he thinks. He still feels a little bit guilty, but fuck it, he’s only a man, after all - and a lonely one at that, besotted with a woman who doesn’t want him… yet. Joyce might be scared of her feelings right now, but he’s confident he can woo her if given enough time alone with her outside of monster-slaying and work; she just doesn’t need to realize that he’s wooing her. Next time he asks her out - and there will be a next time, sooner rather than later - he’ll insist it’s platonic and then she’ll have no excuse, no reason to refuse. Just two friends getting together for a nice dinner that they’ve definitely earned, and if he plays his cards right, before long those two friends will be more than just that.