The Big Game
Modern AU where Jim Hopper is at your parent’s house for a Super Bowl party. That isn’t a plot so much as it is a very flimsy excuse for me to write out some dirty thoughts I have after seeing this photo of David Harbour looking like an absolute DILF.
Content Warnings: Rated M for age gap, kissing, over-the-clothes touching, a bit of Daddy kink, a little physical intimidation. All that good stuff. Female Reader. Slightly OOC for the sake of funsies. 1.6k words.
Tagging @t-u-m-s. Anyone else want to be tagged when I post something new? Let me know.
“I know you said not to bring anything,” you announce as you walk into your parents’ house from the garage, “but mom told me the doctor said you should be watching your diet.” You place the tray of vegetables on the kitchen counter and turn towards the living room. “So I brought you some ve-” your words are cut off by the sight of an unfamiliar man sitting on the couch.
He’s wearing jeans, a dark grey polo shirt, and a black baseball cap that’s on backward. Just his profile alone is stunning. Thick eyebrows, an adorably pointy nose, and a strong jaw covered by a short, scruffy beard. He turns to look at you and it feels as if your heart stops.
“Hopper, you’ve met my daughter before, right?” your father says as he stands up from the chair to greet you.
“No,” the man answers coldly, eyes now fixed on the tv.
Your father comes into the kitchen and gives you a hug. “That was very nice of you, sweetie, but your mom’s been making me eat vegetables every day. This is the Super Bowl. All I want today is wings and potato skins.”
You hear his words clearly but they don’t register in your head. You’re much too distracted by this Hopper person you’ve never seen or even heard about before.
“Where’s everybody else?” you wonder aloud.
“They’re not here yet. This is just the pregame stuff,” your father clarifies.
Hopper glances at you again and you feel like you’re melting as you lean into the countertop. He’s so hot. Nothing like the boys you go to school with. Nothing like a boy at all. He is one hundred percent man.
“You wanna get a snack and join us?” your father requests in a jovial tone.
“Um, I have to, uh, put this other stuff away,” you point to the bag of groceries on the floor next to you.
“Oh, right,” your father acknowledges.
“Where’s mom?”
“Getting a couple of last-minute things for the party. She’ll be back soon.”
You roll your eyes. “I told her I would do that.”
“You know your mother, “ he says, walking back into the living room. “She never listens.”
You take a moment to admire Hopper before removing the food you’ve purchased from the bag. His arms are tantalizing, with the type of muscle not built from going to the gym, but from moving furniture, fixing cars, and other forms of manual labor. Seeing the veins in his hand as he drinks a bottle of beer makes you lick your lips. You can’t stop yourself from shooting him more glances as you finish putting the remainder of the groceries in their rightful place.
There’s no way you can sit in there with that gorgeous man and pretend to be calm or make casual conversation. Instead, you slowly and carefully make your way upstairs to your bedroom, or rather, what used to be your bedroom before you started college. Leaning against the inside of the door and taking a deep breath, you pull your phone from your pocket to distract you.
Your mother arrives about ten minutes later, with a football-shaped ice cream cake, and you admonish her appropriately. Soon after, more people show up to the party and the game starts.
With increasing frequency, your eyes drift over to the handsome stranger still on the couch, and within time, his begin to drift towards you as well. You try to keep busy by topping off people’s drinks, refilling the chip bowls, and putting more snacks in the oven but it’s ultimately no use. You can’t avert your gaze for longer than 5 minutes at the most.
Every time you catch him looking at you, heat rises in your chest and radiates out through your limbs. Under normal circumstances, you would welcome this feeling, but with so many sets of eyes surrounding you, the feeling is almost embarrassing. You don’t know how much more of it you can take and you have to get out of there. Not necessarily out of the house, but just away from Hopper.
During a detergent commercial, you try to sneak back upstairs. When your mother asks where you’re going, you tell her that you’re not feeling well and you need to lie down. It is at least partially the truth.
Sitting down on the small bed, you begin to scroll through Instagram to get your mind off of him and you quickly lose track of time. A while later, you hear someone ascending the staircase. Standing in the doorway of your room and looking down the hall, you see Hopper’s impossibly long legs lumbering up the steps.
“What are you doing up here?” you question quietly.
“It’s halftime,” he declares as he closes the space in between your bodies. His scent is so manly, like tobacco and aftershave.
You take a step back. “Don’t you want to see...whoever it is that’s performing?”
“No,” he answers, entering the room. “I want to see you.” His voice is low and deep, causing your thighs to gently quiver.
“H-Hopper, right?” you stammer, breath getting caught in your throat.
“You can call me Jim,” he offers. It's not until you're this close up to him that you see how incredible his eyes are. They're such an unusually dark shade of blue.
“Okay...Jim.” You can feel your cheeks flush as you utter his name.
He looks around and takes a sip of his beer. “Is this your old room?”
“Yeah,” you answer, “haven’t lived here in years though.”
“Who’s Troy?” he asks you with a slight chuckle.
You give him a confused expression, completely unaware of who or what he’s referring to. He points to the wall behind you and you turn your head to look.
“Oh,” you laugh nervously, seeing your old Troy Bolton poster. “It’s Zac Efron. I used to have a crush on him.”
He nods his head in recognition.
“My tastes have…matured since then though.”
“Have they?” he asks with his curiosity piqued.
You nod vigorously as he approaches you like a lion stalking a young gazelle. Attempting to be coy, you back away, until your legs hit the bed and there’s nowhere else to go.
He puts his beer bottle on the nightstand. “What’s your taste in men like now?”
“Older,” you admit, looking up into his beautiful eyes.
“How much older?” His hands clasp around either side of your waist.
“I don’t know,” you answer breathlessly as your hands move up to his shoulders. “About 20 years?”
As soon as the words are out of your mouth, his lips are on yours in a fiery kiss. Something about this feels wrong, but at the same time, oh so right. You do have a genuine preference for older men, but one that’s friends with your father is really pushing it. As much as you hate to admit it, part of that excites you. It turns you on that he’s in his 40’s and there are a dozen or so people downstairs who could catch you two together at any moment.
Your mouth gasps against his when he shoves you backward and you both fall onto the twin-sized bed. He tastes like beer, a flavor you’re not fond of, but the absolute last thing you want to do right now is to stop. Suddenly, his left hand pulls your hair, yanking your head to the side to give his mouth better access to your neck. He kisses and sucks your sensitive skin there, making you squirm with equal parts pleasure and arousal.
“Oh, Daddy,” you breathe as he nibbles on your earlobe.
“Did you just call me Daddy?” he whispers.
“Yes,” you confess. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. I liked it.”
You moan as his teeth graze your skin. The way he’s biting and sucking on you, it feels like he’s going to leave a mark, and at this point, you don’t even care. You don’t care about anything at all other than the way your body feels underneath him and his wanton mouth.
Another moan tumbles from your lips as run your fingers up his hairy forearms and grasp onto his biceps.
“Not so loud, huh? They’re gonna hear us.”
“You should have shut the door,” you reprimand halfheartedly. The sensation of his beard scratching the flesh over your collarbone has you pushing your hips into him.
“Too late for that now,“ he dismisses as his palm presses just below the zipper on your jeans.
Again you let out a moan, this one strained as you try and fail to be quiet.
“Why haven’t I seen you here before?” he inquires, his fingers now massaging against the denim.
“I’ve been at school,” you pant out.
“Well, you’re just going to have to come over here more often, aren’t you?” he prompts.
“Yes, Daddy!” you moan as the fingers of his free hand start to slide up the back of your t-shirt towards your bra.
“Hey, Hopper. You up there?” your father calls from downstairs.
Slapping a hand down on his head to keep his hat in place, Hopper jumps up from the bed and sprints to the door. “Yeah, I’m, uh, just looking for the bathroom.”
In a daze, you close your eyes and stay on the bed. It’s not until now that you notice how much your blood is pumping and your heart is pounding. With a resigned whimper, you realize that you’re aching with an overwhelming need left by his immense hand rubbing you through your jeans.
“Hurry up. The game is about to start again.” The sound of your father’s voice is a massive buzzkill.
“I’ll see you later, alright?” Hopper suggests to you as he stands in the doorway.
You don’t know what that means exactly but you’re looking forward to finding out. “Alright,” you sigh.
READ PART 2 HERE!
