Tags: 18+, MDNI, Chief Jim Hopper x Reader, Eventual Smut, Reader is female (sorry I didn’t do it a little more gender-neutral), Jim (and reader?) have a little bit of a praise kink
A/N: This is so wayward and out there - this is my first time posting any kind of fanfiction on Tumblr. I have written on AO3 under a different username previously, but nothing for Stranger Things before and honestly, not for a long time so I’m a little out of practice.
I might start posting more one shots, Marvel and Stranger Things. Apologies if this isn’t your cup of tea however I had this idea and it wouldn’t get out of my head until it was all written down.
Also my first time writing smut of any kind. Sorry if it’s unreadable!!
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The front desk at Hawkins Police Department had a permanent smell to it. You’d noticed that pretty quickly.
Burnt coffee, old paper, cigarette smoke clinging stubbornly to your own jacket as well as the countless others thrown haphazardly on the hooks near the door. You couldn’t even distinguish which officer owned which jacket at this point - you were fairly certain they couldn’t either, and it was just a case of grabbing whichever one was closest when they headed out the door.
The smell itself settled into the walls as well as the filing cabinets, the chipped countertop where you sat every day answering phones and sorting reports beneath the lazy spin of the ceiling fan that squeaked every few rotations. It had annoyed you at first, but now became more of a comforting background noise as you filed through paperwork, shuffling through documentation as if it was second-nature, which, by now, it kind of was.
You’d only been working there four months.
Four months, three typewriter ribbon changes, two coffee burns, and one memorable incident with a young college kid handcuffed to the bench in holding after trying to fight Officer Miller who’d dragged him through the doors.
Honestly? You liked it more than you’d expected to when you applied for the job. The station had rhythm to it, sort of a predicable chaos.
The constant ringing phones, the crackle of dispatch radios. The sharp clack-clack-clack of Powell’s typing somewhere in front of you. Deputies were constantly drifting in and out with muddy boots and tired eyes paired with the buzz of the fluorescent lights above you that never really stopped humming.
On this particular morning, Hawkins was waking up slow beneath a grey Indiana sky. The windows at the front of the station fogged faintly from the crisp October cold whilst the few passing cars hissed over damp roads.
“You’re tellin’ me,” Callahan’s familiar drawl sounded from where he leaned against the counter as he so frequently did, nursing his third coffee of the morning, “that you really beat Powell in an arm wrestle?”.
You snorted as you noticed Powell’s head appear from over the clunky monitor he was hunched behind, the older man’s eyebrows furrowed quizzically. As you stamped one of the few up to date stacks of paperwork, you smiled slightly. “I didn’t just beat him. I humiliated him.”
Callahan barked out a laugh, while Powell shook his head, not quite sure if you were doing this to wind him up or if you genuinely believed the arm wrestling competition you knew he’d let you win at on purpose the day prior was real.
“Now, Y/N, let’s not get ahead of ourselves here-“ Powell started, standing up and heading over to the clunky copier in the corner, the faint ghost of a smile on his lips.
Instead of backing down, you continued, meeting Callahan’s eyes in a “watch this” kind of stare. Since working at the station, you’d found Powell and Callahan to be probably the only two officers you really got along with. The others were okay, but Miller had a tendency to be nothing but short and abrupt with you, likely because you were a woman, and Stevens had wandering eyes (and hands) which you tried very hard to stay away from. You were quite content in having the two men stood near you now, and Flo, the secretary who seemed to have been there since the building opened. She was a permanent fixture, bustling around, checking on you, barking orders at everyone, even the Chief listened to her sometimes.
As the thought crossed your mind, you quickly glanced up at the clock above you, showing 08:17. Chief Jim Hopper was, as predicted, late for work again. You couldn’t remember when he was last on time. Usually he’d come stomping through the doors, cigarette between his lips, offer a gruff “morning” and shut himself away in his officer for hours at a time, only resurfacing for coffee and to leave to attend a call.
As you turned back to Callahan and your eyes flicked towards Powell again, “He challenged me and still lost.” You grinned, as Powell shook his head, a smile on his face this time as he pointed at you.
“Don’t make me regret letting you win, kid.”
You shook your head, laughing as the the station phone started ringing in front of you. You answered automatically, voice smooth from repetition.
“Hawkins Police Department, how can I help you?”
Callahan watched you in mock-amazement while you scribbled down a message one-handed, phone nestled between your ear and shoulder.
As you put the phone down, he took another sip from his mug, “You do that scary fast now.”
“Four months ago you almost transferred a call from Mrs Edwards to the morgue by accident.”
“In my defence,” you said, pinning the note you’d just scribbled down, a message for the Chief you’d probably hand to Flo to give him when he got in on your monitor “nobody labels anything round here.”
Callahan was about to answer when a voice cut through the air, making you both grin.
“That’s because labels are for cowards and the poorly organised” Flo tutted as she wandered over to where you were sat, laying a weathered hand on your shoulder before grabbing the note you’d scribbled down moments prior from your desk, no doubt to thrust at the Chief when he finally lumbered through the doors. You were grateful for that - even though it was more your job to pass on any messages he’d missed, Flo was harder to argue with and more insistent he act on them than you.
You were about to answer when, as if the mere thought of him had summoned him, the front doors all but slammed open with the force they were pushed. Cold air swept through the station first.
Big. Broad. Grumpy enough to make the entire bullpen subtly quiet for half a second as everyone looked up.
He shrugged out of his Sheriffs jacket with visible irritation, muttering something under his breath as the coat was tossed onto one of the hangers, a cigarette dangling precariously from his lips as per usual. His boots thudded heavily against the tile as he crossed the station floor, damp from outside as he carried the sharp scent of smoke and cold morning air with him like a storm cloud.
That was another thing you’d gotten accustomed to working at the station for four months.
When you’d first started, you’d made an effort to greet everyone politely. You’d been warned about Jim from the start - about his mood swings, his irritability and the tendency for him to be a bit of an asshole from day to day, for the most part anyways.
What nobody had warned you about, however, is how handsome he was, and which probably severely impacted you making a good first impression.
Flo had introduced you as the new receptionist as Jim had burst through the doors in a similar fashion as he had done this morning. Jim had stopped, his eyes meeting yours for a brief second before looking away. He grunted something about not realising they’d hired anyone yet before shrugging his jacket off and hanging it up.
Jim had then turned to you, offering a hand which you very much had to try and look unaffected by how big it felt and how it dwarfed your own when he gave you a quick handshake. You’d barely been able to squeak out a polite “Nice to meet you Chief” without going red.
You’d always been attracted to older, male authority figures, it’d had been a common theme throughout your life and you figured it was just one of those things. But as you took in the man in front of you, and god, he was all man, you realised you’d never been in this close proximity to one you found so attractive before. Large shoulders, large hands, large everything, really. That scruff of a beard slightly unkempt and dark hair which looked like he’d combed it backwards although some part was always out of place, you’d noticed. Piercing blue eyes and a deep voice you thought about more than you cared to admit at night.
“If y’need anything, my office is down there. I trust Flo can probably show y’what you need to do though” was what you’d got from him when you’d first met before he stomped through the his office and shut the door.
Again, that was four months ago, and since then, that was probably the most conversation you’d gotten out of him. You’d always been perfectly pleasant, and you knew he wasn’t the most approachable of guys with anybody, that much was clear from the way you’d seen him act round the station to his deputies, but he barely even looked at you, much less spoke to you, and it left you wondering constantly what you’d done so wrong for him to completely blank you.
Nevertheless, you kept being polite, always offering a small smile and a “good morning” as he walked through the doors. You did the same as he walked past you, Flo, Callahan and Powell, who was lingering a few feet away. Taking in the scene briefly, he grunted “What’s this? Some kinda mother’s meetin’?”
Callahan looked at you, before directing his gaze back to Jim who was now stood in front of the younger man. Callahan shook his head, finishing his coffee before replying carefully “Just a bit of friendly morning conversation, Chief-“ He started.
Jim exhaled through his nose, before his eyes landed briefly on you. You didn’t notice the way his gaze softened, only slightly, as he took in the fresh flowers you’d put on the desk as you’d walked in this morning in an attempt to brighten the place up. As quickly as it had flitted towards you, his stare was then redirected towards Callahan as he muttered “Get back to work” before stomping through to his office and, as predictably as always, slamming the door. You huffed slightly, body relaxing into the chair you sat in as Flo rolled her eyes.
“What’s gotten into him this morning?” You asked - it was more of rhetorical question as you knew this was mostly always the way Chief Hopper was, but the older woman shook her head.
“He’ll never change, that man - needs to quit that filthy smoking habit inside the station too-“ She started, walking to the filing cabinets behind you and rooting through them for god knows what.
Your shoulders slumped further into your chair as you absentmindedly fiddled with the hem of your dress, the scent of him lingering in the air. Or maybe it hadn’t, and you’d just become that accustomed to it in the station.
“I’m telling you, Flo,” you started, deciding to pick up your pen and fiddling with the stationery on your desk. “I must have done something wrong. Maybe I filed the quarterly reports wrong - I know he gets a lot of stick for that. Or maybe he just hates my face? He treats me like I’m some sort of annoyance.”
You heard Flo chuckle lightly behind you. This was the first time you’d voiced your feelings to anyone about the way the Chief treated you - for the past few months you’d just sat and dealt with it, but it had really started to irk you more than ever.
“Honey, look at you. You’re sweet, attractive, enough to give someone a cavity. Now look at him. He’s a forty-somethin’ year old grump who lives on caffeine and nicotine and probably forgets to wash his socks half the time.”
You frowned. “That doesn’t mean he should hate me.”
“He doesn’t hate you, sugar,” Flo all but whispered as she stood behind you, her voice dropping slightly as if scared somebody might hear. “He’s terrified of you. I’ve seen that look on a man’s face before. Jim’s got a crush that’s probably eating him alive because he knows he’s a grump and you’re a breath of fresh air. Now he’s not ignoring you because hates you - he’s ignoring you because if he actually looked at you for more than two seconds he’d embarrass himself. And there ain’t nothin’ Jim hates more than that.” Flo finished, a smile on her face.
Your heart jumped slightly at her words, but you masked it with a laugh, the sound bright and clear in the now silent office. A few officers looked up as to see what had gone on, but as your giggles subsided slightly, they faced back down and got back to their rhythmic typing.
“Flo, that’s ridiculous. He’s the Chief of Police - he’s not “terrified” of his receptionist.” You said, strategically leaving out the part where she’d mentioned his hypothetical “crush”. Not because you were embarrassed, but because part of you wanted to believe it was actually true.
Just then, the office door opened again, and Hopper stepped out, looking just as agitated as he had when he walked in a few moments before, fresh cigarette now clamped between his teeth. He made a beeline for the coffee pot in the corner, but as he passed Flo who had moved from behind you to just in front of your desk, she reached out with practiced ease and plucked the cigarette from between his teeth.
“Not in here Jim! You’ll stink up the place! And all this smoking ain’t good for ya’,” she tutted, holding the cigarette away from him like a naughty child’s toy.
Hopper stopped dead in his tracks. He looked at Flo, and then for one brief second, his gaze dropped to you. You were still giggling slightly, a stray lock of hair falling across your face.
For that one heartbeat, the grumpiness vanished, his expression softened into something you couldn’t quite place, eyes sweeping so quickly down your body you’d have missed it if you hadn’t have already been looking at him.
Then, as quickly as it appeared, the mask he wore previously slammed back his handsome features, jaw ticking slightly. He let out a loud, annoyed huff but made no effort to grab the cigarette back and continued to the coffee brewing not far from you, his back to you and Flo as he poured himself a mug.
As she retreated back to her own desk, Flo shot you a quick look, one of raised eyebrows and a quick, knowing smile before she too turned round to resume whatever she had come away from.
You reached for a stack of files that had been sat on the edge of your desk since Monday morning and began to sift through them, your eyes glancing up to Jim’s large frame as he retreated back to his office, door shutting in a slightly softer manner this time.
The day unfolded in a reasonably quiet fashion as it usually did, deputies coming and going and the soft whir of the copier going every few minutes. Hopper hadn’t resurfaced since earlier this morning, and you didn’t expect him to until it was time to leave.
The peace, however, was short lived. Powell and Callahan kicked open the station door just after two in the afternoon, struggling with a man who looked like he’d just spent the last forty-eight hours with several bottles of cheap bourbon; he was sweaty, smelling of stale vomit and liquor, screaming obscenities that made the air itself feel dirty.
You were standing just a few feet away when they’d burst into the station, clutching a stack of files you’d just taken from the printer that needed to be delivered to the dusty records room. The walkway was narrow, narrower than you realised, especially with three fully grown men taking up most of the room as they pushed through, and you found yourself more or less pinned to the wall as you attempted to give them a wide berth, especially how the drunk was now attempting to flail his arms around get break from the grip of the two officers.
The drunk stopped fighting the officers for a minute as they drew closer to where you were stood, back against the cold plaster in attempt to let them through. His bloodshot eyes locked onto your own as you surveyed the scene in front of you. A slow, disgusting grin spread across his face, his gaze travelling greedily across your chest and dropping down to your legs. You suddenly felt very uncomfortable.
“Well look at this,” He slurred, voice thick with the alcohol he’d obviously recently consumed. “Didn’t know the Fuzz started hiring little treats.”
“Keep moving, you piece of shit!” Powell barked, shoving him hard in the shoulder in attempt to push him past you and further into the building.
The sudden movement triggered a violent reaction from the man, as he growled, twisting his body with a sudden, erratic burst of strength neither Powell or Callahan had been expecting from someone so poorly coordinated. He fought against their grip, his arms coming free and moving wildly as he went to move further from them.
As the man jerked backwards, his heavy arm swung out like a club. You barely had time to register anything before his elbow made contact with your face as you were still pressed against the wall.
The impact itself was sickening. A sharp, blinding pain exploded across your cheek and lip, sending the fresh files you’d been clutching scattering across the floor beneath you like confetti. You gasped, the world spinning for the moment as you tried to compose yourself while the two officers desperately tried to regain their grip on the drunk who seemed to be none the wiser he’d just hit you square across the face.
“What the fuck is going on out here?!”
The roar came from the direction of the Chief’s office, and sure enough, Hopper came flying out, obviously to see what all the noise had been about.
He took in the scene before him; the scattered papers, your shocked expression, and the man still struggling against Callahan’s grip he now had on him.
Hopper didn’t hesitate. He moved with a speed that belied his stature, stepping past you and grabbing the man easily by the collar of his jacket. Hauling him to his feet, the man’s boots barely touched the ground as Jim dragged him down the hall with practiced ease, leaving Powell and Callahan stood pathetically in the hallway, panting and adjusting their uniform.
As he was moving towards the cells, you heard Hopper roar with more intensity than you’d heard come from him before “You think you can just come into my station and lay a hand on my staff?!”
Hopper looked like a predatory bear, his tan uniform straining under his bulk as he used all his strength the haul the guy the final distance and into the dingy cell, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated fury. The man’s bravado vanished, replaced by a whimpering fear as he was hauled away.
Flo rushed to your side, her face pinched with worry. “Oh, honey, you alright? Let me see,” she urged, reaching out to steady you.
You blinked back tears of shock, forcing a small, shaky smile. You didn’t want to seem weak, especially not in front of Hopper and the echoes of his rage still ringing through the air of the station. “I’m fine Flo, really. Just a bit shaken,” you lied, although the corner of your lip was throbbing and you could feel the warm, metallic taste of blood filling your mouth.
A few moments later, the heavy clang of a cell door being shut cut through the steady silence that followed the little outburst that had occurred minutes prior. Heavy footsteps could be heard and Hopper returned, chest heaving, eyes still portraying that wild fury that had been there as he’d grabbed hold of the drunk right in front of you. For the first time ever, Chief Jim Hopper made a beeline for you, stopping a short distance away, eyes scanning your face properly for probably the first time ever.
His blue eyes didn’t look past you - he didn’t grunt and walk away. He looked at you - really looked at you - and the fury in his eyes shifted into something else entirely. Something that looked a little too much like concern.
He stepped closer, invading your personal space. The familiar scent of him filled your nostrils as you tilted your head slightly up to meet his gaze. It took all of your willpower not to let your eyes flutter shut as his large, calloused hand reached out and gently tilted your chin further up with his thumb and forefinger. His touch was incredibly light, lighter than what you thought possible for him, as if he was afraid you might break.
He leaned in further, thick brows furrowing as he examined what you assumed to be swelling on your cheek and the small cut on your lip. His eyes darkened slightly, before he pulled away.
“He hit you,” Jim murmured, his voice dropping to a low, rumbling vibration you felt in your chest. “You’re bleedin’.”
The way he said was a statement, more than an observation and filled with a surprising tenderness, dare you say it. For a long time, neither of you moved. His thumb stayed there, grazing the skin just above your injury, his gaze searching your own with an intensity that made your breath hitch slightly. In the silence, the conversation you’d had with Flo a few hours ago now felt very real, which is why the suddenness of his retreat was almost jarring.
One moment, you were drowning in the heat of his gaze, the space between your bodies feeling very minimal, and the next he snapped away from you like a taut rubber band, hands recoiling from your skin as if he’d been scorched. The tenderness vanished, replaced by what you could only describe as a frantic, clumsy energy you’d never seen from the Chief before.
He marched towards the cabinets behind you desk, heavy boots thudding along the floor before rummaging through one of the drawers, muttering something unintelligible under his breath.
When he finally produced a dusty first aid kit which looked like it had been there since the dawn of time, he marched back over to where you were stood - and for a moment, he paused. It almost looked like he was fighting a war in his own head, although that could have just been wishful thinking on your part. He glanced back at you, eyes lingering on your swollen lip, and for a brief moment, you actually thought he was going to tend to the wound himself in front of the entire station.
The hope was short-lived.
Hopper stiffened, his jaw locking as he remembered where he was. He didn't step forward. Instead, he practically thrust the kit toward Flo, who had been watching the entire exchange unfold directly in front of her.
"Here," he muttered, his voice returning to that low, gravelly rasp. "Get her cleaned up. Make sure it doesn't get infected."
He didn't wait for a thank you. He surged past you, the wind of his movement brushing against your skin, and immediately shifted back into "Chief mode." His voice exploded into a roar as he rounded the corner toward the cells, his fury now redirected at both officers who were still stood in the exact same position he’d left them in after taking charge.
"Callahan! Powell!" he barked, the sound echoing off the walls. "What the hell was that? You two couldn't hold a toddler in a playpen! If I see a suspect get a free swing at my staff again because you're too damn lazy to use a proper grip, you'll both be on traffic duty for a month! Get that piece of shit locked down and get me the paperwork on my desk in no less than twenty minutes!"
The officers scrambled, their voices barely audible over Hopper's relentless shouting. Callahan shot you an apologetic look over his shoulder before scurrying to his desk.
You stood there, frozen, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. The physical pain in your cheek had faded into a dull throb, eclipsed entirely by the electric aftershock of his touch. Your skin still tingled where his calloused fingers had held your chin—a touch that had been far too light, far too gentle, and agonizingly brief.
Flo let out a soft, humming sound as she took the first aid kit from Hopper's hand, glancing from the retreating, shouting Chief back to you. She leaned in close, her voice a conspiratorial whisper.
"Did you see that, honey?" she murmured, popping the latch on the kit. "What did I tell you? That man is absolutely terrified of you.”
You looked down at the scattered files on the floor, feeling a flush that had nothing to do with the blow to your face. You didn't want the kit, and you didn't want the professionalism. You wanted him to come back and finish what he started.
The walk from your car to the station the next morning felt like a trek through a minefield. Your cheek still felt slightly tender, a dull reminder of the previous day's chaos, but the physical bruise was nothing compared to the emotional turmoil swirling in your gut. You had spent the entire morning debating the merits of a "thank you" gesture for Jim. Was it too forward? Would he see it as an attempt to flirt? Or would he just grunt and ignore you, leaving you feeling foolish and exposed? You guessed the latter, but felt you had to make an effort anyways.
The bakery had been sort of a compromise, with yourself more than anything. By buying a large assortment for the full station, you created a convenient smokescreen of sorts to hide behind if things went embarrassingly wrong, which they frequently did.
To Powell and Callahan, you were just the thoughtful receptionist who looked after them. But the small, separate brown paper bag clutched in your hand - containing two glazed donuts with maple frosting, the ones you'd seen Hopper devour in silence during his rare breaks - was a targeted strike.
The reception area was a buzz of activity. As you set the large box of treats on the counter, the officers practically swarmed.
"God bless you, sweetheart!" Powell exclaimed, already reaching for a chocolate sprinkle.
"You're an absolute diamond," Callahan added with a wide grin, giving you a friendly pat on the shoulder. "Seriously, you're too good for this place, especially after the shit that happened yesterday.”
You smiled politely, though your mind was elsewhere. Your gaze kept drifting toward the closed door of the Chief's office. You could hear the muffled sound of something clattering round, as you imagined him hunched over his desk, scowling at the papers set out in front of him on his desk. Conveniently, he was in before you today - probably to do with the fact you’d spent twenty minutes having a meltdown in the bakery before coming into work deciding what dessert to buy your boss.
Taking a steadying breath, you stepped away from the officers crowding the box full of treats and walked toward his door. Your heart began that familiar, frantic drumming against your ribs. You stopped in front of the heavy wood, the small bag of donuts feeling like it weighed a hundred pounds.
You finally knocked on the door.
You pushed the door open slowly. The office smelled of stale coffee, old paper, and the faint, masculine scent of tobacco and cedar that always clung to him. Hopper was slumped in his oversized chair, his tan uniform unbuttoned slightly to reveal the white undershirt, sleeves rolled up slightly as both arms were placed either side of the papers in front of him. As you predicted, he was staring intently at a report, his brow furrowed in a deep scowl, a pencil gripped tightly in his hand.
He didn't look up immediately. "If this is about the filing for the Mervin case, I told you I'd get to it by noon," he grumbled, his voice gravelly and tired.
"It's not about the filing, Chief," you said softly.
That caught his attention. Hopper paused, his gaze shifting upward. When his eyes landed on you, they immediately flicked to your face, scanning for the bruise. The intensity of the look made your breath hitch. For a second, the grumpiness vanished, replaced by that look of what you could definitely now deduce as concern from yesterday.
He leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking under his bulk, and looked at the small bag in your hand.
"What's this?" he asked, his voice dropping an octave, sounding less like a boss and more like a man who was suddenly very aware of a woman standing in his doorway.
You stepped further into the office, the scent of him enveloping you as you extended the small brown bag. Your fingers trembled slightly, a detail you hoped he wouldn't notice. "I... I just wanted to say thank you. For yesterday. For helping me," you murmured, your voice small but steady enough to convey your sincerity.
Hopper didn't take the bag immediately. He stared at it, then back at you, his expression returning to that familiar, guarded mask. "I don't need a thanks," he grunted, his voice like grinding gravel. "I was just doing my job. Part of the job is making sure the staff doesn't get pummeled by drunks in the hallway."
You nodded slowly, the rejection stinging just a little, though you expected it. You started to shift your weight, preparing to make a quick exit and retreat to the safety of your desk, when you saw it.
Jim reached out, his large, calloused hand dwarfing the bag as he pulled it toward him. As he peered inside and saw the maple-glazed donuts, the hard line of his jaw relaxed.
For a fleeting second, the corners of his mouth quirked upward, not a full smile, but a ghost of one - and he looked up at you with a raised eyebrow. "These are my favorite," he admitted, his voice losing some of its edge.
That tiny crack in his armor was all it took. Something inside you snapped—a mixture of the adrenaline from the day before and a sudden, desperate need for clarity. The boldness surged through you, overriding your usual shyness in front of the man.
Surely if there was ever a time to ask, it was now.
"What did I do wrong?" you questioned, eyes shifting between his face and the paper on his desk, suddenly feeling very exposed stood directly in front of his desk.
The question hung in the air, heavy and unexpected. Hopper stopped chewing, his eyes snapping up to yours in genuine surprise. He didn't answer immediately, his gaze searching your face as he slowly finished the bite of the donut.
Instead of backing off, however, you refused to let him off the hook. You took a step closer to his desk, your eyes wide and searching.
"You barely speak to me, Chief. You don't look at me, you grunt when I ask questions. You've been like this since the day I started. I've spent months trying to figure out what I did to make you hate me."
The silence that followed was deafening. Hopper didn't snap back. He didn't tell you to get back to work or even change his expression to one of anger like you’d expected. Instead, he leaned back in his heavy leather chair, the material groaning under his weight. He suddenly found the paperwork on his desk incredibly fascinating, avoiding your gaze as he shifted uncomfortably.
For the first time since you’d known him, Hopper looked conflicted and somewhat unsure of himself. His chest rising and falling in a heavy sigh. The sight of him - this massive, intimidating man suddenly rendered speechless by a receptionist - sent a thrill of electricity through you. He wasn't angry at all.
"I don't hate you," he finally muttered, his voice low and strained, still refusing to look up. "God, kid... you haven't done a damn thing wrong."
You almost felt a weight had been lifted off your chest when he uttered those words, and usually you’d have been more than content with that admission, turning and retreating from his office. However, something about Hopper’s conflicted expression made you stand your ground, as you crossed your arms over your chest. You stance and tone were perhaps a little petulant, but at this point, did it really matter?
“So why are you the way you are with me?” You asked carefully, voice slightly quieter than you intended it to be.
The tension in the room shifted, becoming something thick and electric. You could see the internal war raging behind Hopper's eyes; he looked like a man trying to navigate what seemed to be in his head some kind of battlefield. His was jaw tight and his brow furrowed. He clearly hadn't expected you to corner him, let alone demand an explanation for his coldness.
"It's... it's complicated," he finally grunted, running a hand over his the long stubble that covered his face, the words sounding like they were being dragged out of him. He shifted once more in his seat, his large frame seeming too big for the office, his voice strained as he tried to find a way to explain himself without sounding completely undone.
You didn't move. You just stood there, your eyes wide and searching, your expression one of genuine, innocent confusion and longing.
What you didn’t realise is how devastating that look was to him, to a man like Hopper, who lived in a world of cynicism, your softness was like a blinding light.
Suddenly, the chair screeched against the floor. Jim was up in an instant, the movement sudden and powerful. He didn't stop until he was towering over you, his massive 6'3" frame blotting out the light from the office window. You had to tilt your head back significantly just to meet his gaze, feeling tiny and fragile in the shadow of his bulk. Your heart began to hammer against your ribs, a frantic rhythm that made your chest ache, but you forced yourself to stay still, refusing to shrink away.
The silence between you was heavy, charged with months of unspoken desire. Then, without warning, he moved.
One of his hands—large, calloused, and smelling of tobacco and old coffee—rose slowly. His touch was surprisingly light, almost hesitant, as he brushed a stray lock of hair behind your ear. His fingertips grazed your skin, sending a jolt of pure electricity straight down your spine similar to the one you felt yesterday when he had manoeuvred your chin with surprising softness.
"I'm old," he rasped finally, his voice dropping to a low, rough rumble that vibrated in your own chest. "I'm too damn miserable. I'm full of more issues than you know" He paused, his gaze intensifying, his blue eyes darkening as they scanned your face. "And you - you're a sweet young thing. Too sweet for someone like me."
He let out a heavy, defeated sigh, his hand lingering near your temple. "I've been keeping my distance because I can't help it. I'm attracted to you. God, I'm attracted to you so much it's been driving me fuckin’ crazy for months."
Your breath hitched, a small, sharp sound in the quiet office. The admission hit you like a physical blow, knocking the wind out of you. All this time, you had felt like a nuisance, a ghost in his periphery, and all the while he had been fighting a war against his own hunger for you.
Looking up at him, seeing the raw honesty and the flicker of vulnerability in his eyes, you felt a surge of heat bloom in your lower belly. He was rugged, weathered, and completely overwhelming, and you had wanted him since the moment you walked through the doors of the station all those four months ago. You had kept your crush a secret, buried under polite smiles and professional nods, but now, with him standing so close that you could feel the heat radiating off his body, the secret felt impossible to keep.
You stepped back slightly, giving him room to pull away until you were inches away from the door. Hopper kept with you though, eyes flickering up to the door itself. Both of you were silent for a moment amid the sound of both of your breathing.
His gaze flickered toward the door, his eyes narrowing as the muffled sounds of the precinct - the distant ringing of a phone, the low murmur of officers in the hallway - filtered through the wood. For a second, the conflict was written all over his face; he looked like a man fighting a losing battle with his own conscience.
He felt dirty, reckless, and entirely out of his depth, but the sight of you, looking up at him with such raw desire, snapped something inside him.
He reached behind you, his arm brushing your shoulder, and the metallic click of the lock echoing through the quiet office sounded like a starting gun.
The sound sent a violent jolt of heat straight to your core, making your thighs press together as a sudden, sharp ache bloomed between them. Your breath hitched. He had actually done it. He had locked the door. The fantasy you’d played on loop in your head for months while you were home alone at night, imagining the grumpy, imposing Chief of Hawkins Police claiming you right here on his desk or against the door, was suddenly becoming a reality.
Hopper leaned in, his face inches from yours. You could feel the heat radiating off his skin, his warm breath smelling of tobacco and that musk that was uniquely him, something like old leather and pine. He didn't kiss you yet, he just hovered there, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that vibrated against your lips.
"Tell me to stop," he murmured, his tone thick with a desperate kind of restraint. "Tell me right now to get the fuck away from you, or I'm not going to be able to stop myself."
You didn't say a word. You couldn't. You just stared into his hungry eyes, your lips parted, practically begging him to take what he wanted.
The silence was his breaking point.
With a guttural groan, Hopper closed the distance, slamming his mouth against yours. It wasn't a gentle kiss, it was a collision. He kissed you as if he were starving and you were the only thing that could save him, his tongue forcing its way into your mouth to claim you with a possessive intensity that left you breathless and the scruff of his beard scraping deliciously as your hands flew to his shirt, grasping him tightly as if he was going to disappear if you suddenly let go.
He shoved you back, pressing your spine firmly against the locked door. The impact wasn't hard, but it was dominant, pinning you in place under his massive bulk. His large, calloused hands didn't stay still, they slid down from your waist, gripping your hips with a bruising strength before sliding further down. He cupped your ass, his fingers digging into your cheeks, and hauled you upward and forward, crushing your pelvis against his.
That was when you felt it.
Hard and thick, the unmistakable outline of his cock pressed firmly against your thigh, straining against the fabric of his trousers.
He was huge, massive, even through his tan uniform pants, and the sheer size of him made your head spin. You let out a small, needy whimper into the kiss, your hands moving upwards to grip those broad shoulders you’d so often fantasised about grabbing, clutching the fabric of his shirt up there as you arched your back, trying to get even closer to him.
Hopper broke the kiss for a second, trailing his lips down to your jawline, his breathing heavy and ragged. "God... you have no idea," he rasped, his voice sounding completely wrecked, that low, gravelly timbre you craved, "how long I've wanted to feel you under me."
Both yours and his breathing were a series of ragged hitches, his large chest heaving against yours. The restraint he’d maintained for months, the cold shoulders, the grumpy barks, the calculated distance, had finally snapped, and the floodgates were open.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark with a hunger that felt almost predatory, yet softened by a profound, aching tenderness.
"I've been losing my mind, sweetheart," he rasped, his voice a low, gravelly vibration. "Every time you walked into this office, every time you smiled at me... I wanted to throw you on this desk and ruin you."
His large hands slid from your ass to your waist, spinning and guiding you effortlessly and until you were pinned against the edge of his heavy oak desk instead of against the admittedly thin wooden door.
He didn't let go, his thumbs brushing against the skin of your hips. He looked at you—really looked at you—his gaze sweeping over your figure, fully this time, not those fleeting, short looks he’d given you prior. He almost groaned seeing your desperation mirroring his own, your own eyes wide with lust, breasts moving as you almost panted with want.
"You're so fucking beautiful," he murmured, the praise sounding like a prayer. "So sweet. I didn't think I deserved a girl like you."
He stepped back just an inch, his hands moving to the buckle of his belt. The metallic clink sounded loud in the locked office. He stripped his trousers down, and as he freed himself, you gasped. He was massive, a thick, heavy cock that pulsed with a life of its own, the head a deep, angry red. He looked down at himself and then back at you, a flicker of doubt crossing his rugged features. He knew he was big, and he knew exactly how much of a challenge that would be for you, but it was almost as if he was checking, having to full confirm this is what you wanted and he hadn’t tragically misread the situation.
"Do you want it, sweetheart?" he asked, his voice dropping an octave, laced with list but also as a genuine question. "Do you want to taste me?"
You didn't need to be told twice. You slid off the desk, dropping to your knees on the thin office carpet. As you leaned in, the scent of him you loved, tobacco, musk, and raw arousal, filled your senses. You wrapped your small hand around the base of his shaft, your fingers barely meeting around the girth. When you flicked your tongue over the tip, Hopper let out a loud, guttural groan, throwing his head back and squeezing his eyes shut.
"Fuck…yes, right there," he hissed.
You took him into your mouth, your cheeks stretching to accommodate his size. You worked slowly at first, swirling your tongue around the head, sucking deeply. Hopper’s hands came down to rest gently on your head, his fingers weaving through your hair. He was trying to be careful, trying not to overpower you, his voice a constant stream of low, encouraging praise.
"That's it, good girl...you're doing so good for me, sweetheart... fuck, your mouth feels so fucking good…"
But as you picked up the pace, sliding your mouth further down the thick shaft, the gentleness vanished. The months of repressed longing surged back with a vengeance. Hopper’s grip on your hair tightened, his hips beginning to thrust instinctively. He wasn't just enjoying it anymore, he was starving for you.
"I can't…fuck, sweetheart, you’re gonna have to slow down…” he growled. He hadn’t expected it to feel this good, and he was going to cum down your throat too quickly like a horny teenager if he didn’t stop you now.
Suddenly, he reached down and hauled you up by your arms, the force of it nearly lifting you off your feet. He spun you around with a dominant efficiency, slamming your chest down onto the cool surface of the desk. He swept a stack of folders and a stapler aside with one large arm, clearing a space for you. He bent you over, your ass pushed high in the air, leaving you completely exposed and vulnerable.
He didn't go in immediately. Instead, he pressed the head of his cock against your soaking wet folds, rubbing the thick length of himself along your slit. The friction was electric. He leaned down, biting the nape of your neck, his voice a dark whisper in your ear.
"Look at you, dripping for me. Such a dirty little girl, wanting the Chief to fuck her in his office."
The combination of his words and the relentless rubbing of his massive cock against your clit and through your soaked folds nearly pushed you over the edge alone. God, this was better than all the fantasies you’d had - you were aching for him, and by god did Jim Hopper know it.
“You want me to fuck you, sweetheart? You want me to fuck you right here on my desk while everyone’s out there?” His words were almost sickly sweet as he bent down to nip your earlobe teasingly.
“Yes, please…please fuck me, Chief,” you begged him, hands reached out, palms flat on the cool wooden surface of his desk as you attempted to push yourself back onto his cock, anything to relieve the ache between your thighs.
It was pointless though, as Hopper growled above you, lining his shaft up to your entrance before pushing in slowly. The feeling of him entering you, stretching you until you were completely full made your eyes roll back, as he groaned above you.
“God, you’re so fuckin’ tight…” He growled as he bottomed out, staying still inside you for a moment to let you accommodate to his size.
It didn’t take long until you were desperately pushing back, seeking some kind of friction, and Hopper was happy to comply. He started moving, and the months of pent up frustration meant he wasn’t gentle. He started to hammer inside you, cock kissing you cervix with every thrust as you moaned his name.
“Mmph…fuck…Chief…” You pathetically moaned, hands grasping the side of the desk as he fucked you relentlessly, one large hand on your ass and the other on your back, pushing you down into the desk. He was huge, his full weight more or less on top of you leaving you pinned with nowhere to go.
“God, look at you. Taking my cock like a fuckin’ champ baby…fuck, you feel so fucking good…” He praised, head thrown back as he continued to fuck you.
You realised you were going to cum far quicker than you’d anticipated, the fire building in your stomach as your walls tightened around him. Jim obviously felt it too, as he picked up the pace, grip tightening on you slightly.
“Yeah sweetheart…that’s it. You gn’a cum for me, hm?”
You nodded pathetically, not even able to find the words as you felt your climax rapidly approaching.
“That’s right..cum for me baby, cum all over my cock,” Jim growled, and his words sent you right over the edge as your walls convulsed, a violent orgasm that left you having to bite your lip to suppress a scream that threatened to leave your throat.
As your legs shook, a hot, clear spray of fluid erupted from you, soaking the desk and splashing across Hopper’s thighs and the base of his cock as he pulled up, rubbing the head of his swollen shaft up and down your gushing folds, coating it in your juices.
"God, you're soaking me!" he roared, the sight of your release driving him insane.
He didn't wait another second. He gripped your hips, his fingers digging into your skin, and drove himself inside you in one powerful, devastating thrust. You screamed into the desk, your breath hitching as your body stretched to accommodate his sheer size again. He filled you completely, hitting your cervix with a blunt force that made your toes curl until you were a writhing, whimpering, overstimulated mess underneath him
He began to fuck you with a primal, rhythmic intensity. Each slam of his pelvis against your ass sounded like a clap of thunder in the small room. He was relentless, his large body crushing you into the wood, his breath hot and ragged against your skin as he chased his own release.
"You're mine," he grunted, his voice thick with possessiveness. "You've been mine since the day you walked in here, sweetheart. Every fucking second."
He increased the pace, his thrusts becoming shorter and harder, driving deeper and deeper into your heat. You were sobbing, your head tossing from side to side, completely consumed by the sensation of being filled by him.
Hopper let out a loud, animalistic shout, his body stiffening as he hit his limit. He gave one final, deep thrust, burying himself to the hilt, and then he pulled out abruptly.
As he withdrew, he leaned over you, his cock pulsing, and pumped his heavy load across your lower back and the cheeks of your ass. Thick, white ropes of cum splattered across your skin, hot and sticky, marking you as his.
He collapsed against your back for a moment, his chest heaving, his heart drumming against your spine as you both fought to catch your breath. He kissed your shoulder softly, the grumpy Chief replaced by a man completely undone by the woman beneath him.
"Good girl," he whispered, his voice finally returning to a tender rumble. "Such a good, dirty girl."
The praise made your core ache, as you felt his cock softening as it sat heavy on your back. The only sound in the office that could be heard was both your heavy breathing, as he finally released his grip on you, now both acutely aware of how loud you’d been and how thin the walls and door were in his office.
Finally, Hopper moved, standing up slightly, allowing you to turn round so you were laid almost awkwardly on your back on the desk, blushing as he looked down at you, handsome features twisting into a tender smile you’d not seen on him before.
“Good?” He asked, as if he already knew the answer you’d give.
You nodded, pushing yourself up from the desk until you were practically face to face with him. You leaned forward, pressing a kiss to his lips which he eagerly returned. As you pulled away, you giggled slightly, looking over Hopper’s broad shoulder at the door that he’d locked earlier.
“I think we probably could have been quieter…” You laughed, as another grin split his features.
“Let ‘em here, sweetheart - they’ll have to get used to it anyways,” he started, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. “I’m hopin’ we’ll be doing this a lot more often.”
You smiled up at him, eyebrows raised in mock-surprise, “Is that right?”
He nodded, leaning back in and placing another feather light kiss against your lips before pulling away only slightly, letting your breath mingle.
“That’s right, sweetheart. Chief’s orders.”
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