#hopper drabble

[margottenenbaum222]

The concept of hopper lighting a cigarette whilst you suck him off.

[winterarchives]

Shivers n' Aches. hopper drabble

Shivers and body aches were not your forte. Everything hurt, and you couldn’t get warm to save your life, having already cocooned yourself under three comforters. 

To make matters worse, Hopper wasn’t even home to cuddle you or wrap you in your favorite blankets, having to instead work. 

You’re nearly asleep when your stomach grumbles loudly, aching for any sustenance obtainable. 

“Sn’noooo.” You huff, congested and more exhausted than you’ve ever been before. 

Your stomach, however, is relentless in its hunger, and it’s all of five minutes later before you acknowledge that without Hop, you’ll have to get up and search for the soda crackers yourself. 

Alright, Y/N, you can do this, slide the blankies off. Ah, okay, that’s not too bad. Sit up, slowly, slowly, slowly. I’ve got this. Aaaand, stand. 

You topple a bit as you raise, having to very slightly readjust your stance. 

Okay, that only hurt a bit. One foot in front of the other, and go. Ouch, ouch, ouch, why the hell does every step have to hurt so bad?

Your stomach growls in frustration again, and you pout, having a whole hallway’s length to go. 

One step, two step, red step, blue step. Ha, okay I’ve got this in the bag, wait- oh god- nope.

You crumple to the floor, energy spent, and mentally curse at yourself. 

“Jus’ want some crackers…” You whimper, lying against the rough carpet. 

S’not so bad. Just use my arms as pillows and ahhh, alright. This is ok. Nap time.

You can’t tell how much time has passed when you hear a car door shut outside. Your head fills with profanities because, damn, Hopper is going to either be a) mad at you for venturing out of the confines of the bed or b) make fun of you. You’re hoping it’s the latter. 

The door clicks open, and you can hear Hopper putting up his gun, hat, and jacket. 

“I’m home.” He gently calls out, and his footsteps are nearing the hallway. 

“M’here.” You groan out, aching everywhere.

“What?” Hop asks as he rounds the wall, now in the hallway. “Jesus, Y/N, I almost stepped on you! Why are you out of bed?” 

“Crackers.” You grumble. 

“Get back to bed, before I carry you back myself.” 

You pout into the carpet, “not to take advantage, but I don’t think I can move.” 

“Wait, really?” Concern laces his voice, and immediately you feel him kneel against you, carefully so as not to hurt you. 

“Mmmmm.” You mumble, hand finding his and weakly squeezing. “Alright,” he hums, “stay still, ok?” 

He’s a large man, easily a foot taller than you, so he scoops you up with ease, and my god, he’s warm. You nuzzle into his neck and barely feel him kiss your fevered forehead. He’s even walking slowly to avoid jumbling your sick brain. 

“Beeed.” You groan against his beard. 

“Yes, ma’am.” He answers you, gently settling you into the soft mattress, coiling the blankets around you. “Your fever’s back, so I’m going to get some of the cold medicine again. Do you want anything else?” 

“Juice,” you whimper, “crackers,” he smiles at that, “and cuddles, please.” 

He chuckles a bit, pinching your chin between his thumb and pointer finger. “Anything you want, doll.”

[gripefroot]

Jim Hopper romancing the waitress at his favourite diner; Jim Hopper and a cozy, romantic Christmas setting; Jim Hopper finally following his true dreams and opening a food truck; Jim Hopper doing anything. ANYTHING.

(Anything? Deeply considered an 1800s!Whaler AU, so thank you for that.)

It was difficult to pick out the worst part of her evening. 

Her soaking-wet apron and skirt from a spilled milkshake; docked tips for a burned cheeseburger that she hadn’t even cooked; only delivered; or her ex-fiancé that had shown up at the back door of the diner. He’d hollered for her for hours, apparently, until a cook hollered at her to get rid of him or he’d call the police. After spending twenty minutes physically shoving that menace away from the door, the manager had chewed her out for taking too long of a break. An extra ten minutes to sob in the bathroom had been necessary after that, mopping her tears with her stained apron until her cheeks were sticky from sugar. Then she’d straightened her hair and the jaunty hat of the diner uniform and gone back to work. 

Wear that cap like a crown, Grandpa had coached her long ago. He’d thought, as she had, that a year or two of working at the diner between beauty pageants would earn her enough to splurge on the prettiest gowns. And then he’d died and she’d stopped competing and it had been a good ten years since she walked through the diner door bright-eyed and full of dreams. 

Only three hours until closing. She could do anything for three hours. 

Why was it so packed? It was a Monday night, usually one of the slower shifts, but after seeing elbow-to-elbow customers at the bar and shrieks from families in the booths, she nearly started to cry again. 

You’re a princess, don’t forget that, bunny. Whatever you wear, make it your gown and crown.

Gown and crown. A dirty uniform and an itchy hat. 

A deep, trembling breath rattled her lungs. Pad and pencil in her pocket, and she marched to a table of new customers. 

Two hours left. 

Ninety minutes left. 

One hour left. 

Not that she had much to look forward to at home. Home had lost its hominess after Grandpa died. Now it was four walls and a roof, paid for and inherited, with blankets crocheted by a grandmother she hadn’t met and a photograph of her long-dead mother covering the only unfaded section of wallpaper in the kitchen. It was the ghosts she hadn’t known or hadn’t had the chance to love that haunted her the most. 

Time slowed. 

Fifty-five minutes left.

Fifty minutes. 

Forty-five.

Nearing closing time didn’t slow down the work. There were still tables to be bussed; dirty dishes to be stacked and cups to be dumped and more spills and stains waiting to make her dress and apron more worthy of a rag pile. She straightened napkin holders and salt and pepper shakers and shook ketchup bottles. 

With a heave, she got a towering stack of dishes to the sink behind the counter. All of her customers had left; the ones remaining were Janie’s. They’d argue, after everyone had gone, whose job was worse: convincing lingering customers to get, or accidentally plunging one’s hand into lukewarm steak sauce. 

She yanked on the faucet for a stream of water, plunging her hand in to wash off said steak sauce bit by bit. 

“Have a nice night!” Janie, at least, would get tips. Tips that rattled right into her apron pocket as she whisked away more dishes to add to the tower. “Sorry,” she muttered. “I’ll split with you.” 

She smiled, and said nothing. 

“Speaking of,” Janie went on, emptying a few glasses of ice and watered-down Coke into the sink. “That fellow over there has been looking at you like you’re on the menu.” 

“Yeah, right. I bet it’s my skirt that did him in.” Ruefully she showed Janie her stained apron. Janie’s eyes went wide. 

“Why didn’t you say anything? I have an extra apron in the back…”

“It got my skirt, too.”

“A clean apron would have covered it!” 

And then she would have had to wash and iron a second apron to return Janie’s to her. More work, more work, more work. 

“Well,” Janie said. “At least tell him whether you’re on the menu or not, then he can leave.” 

The he in question sat near the middle of the counter, a pie crust left on his plate. Her eyes went from his dishes to his elbows on the counter (rude) to massive paws of hands covering the lower half of his face. Up and up: he was watching her, just as Janie had warned. Good heavens. 

She dried her hands on the damp towel hanging by the sink, put on her well-practiced false smile, and approached him. These things were best dealt with swiftly and confidently. 

“I’ll take that for you,” she chirped, taking away his plate. 

He lowered his hands, exposing the remainder of his face. He needed a shave and a trim, but not bad looking, overall. And he looked familiar. The glint of the suddenly-visible badge on his chest confirmed it—the police officer from a few towns over. Unusual for him to come this way, but not unheard of. “Thank you,” he said. 

“Is there anything else I can get for you?” 

“Uh…yeah.” The man smiled. Not, not a smile: a grin. There was a difference, when you’d worked in a diner this long. This was a bonafide, ear-to-ear grin like a teenage boy that had just successfully hotwired his first Mustang. “I was wondering…what’s a guy gotta do to get you to go on a date with him?” 

Brazen, wasn’t he? Her smile was frozen in place. It was a thin line between chasing away customers and not opening oneself for business. She took a few steps back to the sink, running the plate beneath the faucet. 

“Ask, probably.” Not a no, not a giggle and battered lashes. Thin line. 

The man watched her a moment more. “You busy?” 

Startled, she dropped the plate in the sink. And left it there. “Am I busy?” She took another plate from the stack, scraping soggy fries into the trash bin beneath the sink. He said nothing, and she didn’t, either. Anything bound to come out of her mouth at that point would be unkind. So she took another plate, and another, and another, casting him a pointed look that missed the mark completely. 

“Yeah!” he said. “It’s a valid question!” 

Speak for yourself, was her bitter, unspoken response. Rinsing off the dishes meant droplets sticking to her bare arms, usually tainted with sticky sauce that would have her running to the bath first thing when she got home. No matter how tired she was, she was never so tired that she would crawl into bed dirty. 

“Yes,” she said at last, refreshing her smile to meet the man’s gaze square and sure. “I am busy.” 

His lips stuck out, in a purse or in thought. She didn’t know, and she couldn’t bring herself to care. A glance at the clock: ten minutes until closing. 

“I see,” the man said. “I’m sorry for bothering you.” 

That was new. She stopped, staring as he got out his wallet to tug out a few bills. He only looked at her once more, with an apologetic smile, before tossing money onto the counter and climbing off the stool. 

“Have a good night,” he said. 

Well! How about that! 

Shaking her head, she went back to the dishes. The rinsed stack grew, the trash bin filled, and her arms got wetter and wetter. The bell above the door chimed for a final time, Janie locking the door and pulling down the blinds. 

The tub was empty. With a sigh she turned off the faucet, fingers soft from the water, and started stacking the dishes back inside. 

“I’ll be back for the rest,” she said to Janie, who was closing the blinds behind the booths. Hoisting the tub up, she went to the door to the kitchen and went through elbow-first, the stink of fry oil making her tongue feel gross. 

“Sorry about that burger,” said the man at the griddle. Faithfully he dragged his spatula over the burned bits, scraping them into a trash can. 

“It’s okay, Paul,” she said. “Don’t worry about it.”

But Paul got a full paycheck without tips. She didn’t. It wasn’t worth pointing that out. 

Louis and Mike chatted by the refrigerator. Around the corner to where Mary would be washing the dishes, and—

She stopped in her tracks. 

The police officer man was elbow-deep in suds, Marry sitting on an upturned bucket as she fanned herself with an outdated menu. 

“Just put them in,” Mary said. “He won’t mind.” 

The man turned. He smiled for a split second before turning back. 

She stared at Mary. Maryjust shrugged. The dishes were getting heavy. 

“Don’t ask me,” Mary said. “He volunteered.”

But why?

Feet still planted where she stood, she could do no more than gawk as the man turned on his heel and took the tub of dishes from her. “No need to make a ceremony of it,” he said. This time he didn’t grin, but he smiled. It was a much more comforting expression. She surrendered the dishes weakly, hands falling to her sides. 

Well, it wasn’t any of her business, anyway. Customers sometimes stuck around to help with one chore or another, out of boredom or kindness or a million other things. This man’s angle—for he surely had one—could be any one of them. And it had nothing to do with her. 

“I was just telling Jim here about that crazy fellow of yours making a racket earlier,” Mary said cheerily. A break made her chatty. “He said next time he’ll remove the fellow for you.” 

“We get the deputy from Pint Nevre, when we need one,” she said. 

“I’m out here regularly, anyway,” the man said over his shoulder. “No skin off my teeth.” 

Unsure of why he was helping, or wanting to help again, or why he’d stayed or why she couldn’t tear her eyes away from his thick shoulders moving with his scrubbing each plate to put on the drying rack—she wrung her apron in her hands. Dry, but stiff, and it would make her hands smell like chocolate. 

The man looked back again. He was smiling again. “Just ask for Jim,” he said. “Jim Hopper.”

[denim-mixtapes]

Nice List jim hopper

Hiiii thank you for requesting Hopper!! I haven't written anything for him yet because I wasn't sure if there was a demand, but back before season 3/4 he's the only person I read fic for in the ST fandom so I'm happy to get the chance!! I don't really know where this lines up with the canon. Probably somewhere in season 2 but??? Let's just pretend that canon doesn't exist anyway.

Picking out a Christmas Tree with Jim Hopper w/c: 676

Join the Christmas Party!

“Are you gonna tell me why you dragged me all the way out here, Hop?” 

You wring your cold hands together, willing away the shiver that follows as Hopper digs in the back of the pickup truck. 

“You said,” he grunts, fighting with something in the bed, a fierce metallic clunk interrupts his sentence. Pulling what you now recognize as a hacksaw free from the clutter, he huffs and continues, “you said you’ve never had a real Christmas tree.” 

“Oh.”

It’s all you can muster. Your heart cracks at the gesture, the fact that something small you mentioned in passing a few days ago led here, to the middle of nowhere on the outskirts of Hawkins, surrounded by rows and rows of evergreen trees.

“Yeah, oh! Now come on, ’M already freezing.” 

He guides you up the first row of trees with a firm hand on your lower back. Something you’ve learned in your time living with Jim Hopper is that he’s a man of few words. He never has too much to say, and even when he does he struggles to say it. But that doesn’t mean he can’t find other ways to make his feelings known. In small gestures; a fresh pot of coffee before he leaves for work, or throwing your towel in the dryer so it’s nice and warm when you get out of the shower. Or in larger, more grand ones like this, he never fails to make you feel loved. 

“Do you have decorations already?” You ask, lacing your fingers with his and tugging along toward a tree that caught your eye. “I don’t remember you ever having a tree in the past, real or not.” 

He huffs a single, clipped laugh and shrugs, “I think I’ve got some lights out in the shed. Maybe. It’s, ah, been a while since I put one up, you’re right.” He didn’t need to tell you that the lights were leftover from Joyce’s predicament last year, or that the few ornaments he does have aren’t meant for the tree. Not anymore, they’re too special, handmade little things from Sara’s daycare and elementary school holiday parties, a My First Christmas ceramic teddy bear that he can’t bring himself to throw away. You can see his expression go blank at the thought, his hand tightening around yours ever so slightly, but don’t dare mention it.

Humming thoughtfully, you notice that the one that caught your eye has a bald spot in the back and move on. “Well then we’ll just have to start our own collection from scratch!” 

The smile that takes over his features is still a little guarded, but it’s warm despite his apprehension. “Yeah?” He asks, voice thick with emotion, and presses a kiss to your temple. His whiskers tickle against your hairline, cold nose pressing into your skin and sending another shiver down your spine. “I like the sound of that.” 

As you turn the corner to the next row of trees you spot the perfect one, and without thinking you drop his hand and run for it. “This one!” You shout, turning in place and bouncing on your toes. Your excitement is contagious, only encouraging a wider, joyous smile onto his face as he jogs to catch up. “This is it!” 

It’s picture perfect, almost as wide as it is tall, standing just a little taller than your head. The branches are full, evenly spread, and if you didn’t know any better you would say it was store bought. Fresh snow dusts it evenly, glittering in the winter sun.  

From behind Hopper engulfs you in his embrace, thick arms wrapping around your waist, careful of the blade in his hand. He rests his chin on your shoulder, “looks like a winner to me. This the one you want?” 

You don’t give a verbal response, only lean heavier back into his hold and nod. 

With another quick kiss pressed high on the apple of your cheek, he releases you and twirls the saw in hand with a flourish, “then it’s yours.”

[holeinthemattress]

Sam! So glad you are doing drabbles cause now I can send in a thirst request and not be judged 😂 can I get #91 with our mans Hopper? god i love him. p.s. don't stress yourself about school! your gonna totally kill it! 💞💞

Steph, you know I could never judge you. Our thirst for Hopper is equally shared and appreciated. I apologize this took a little longer than expected but I wanted to get everything right! It’s also a bit longer for a drabble, though you are my boo so I kinda had too💕

*Drabble requests are still open! Feel free to send one in~*

———————————————————————

Hopper liked to think he was a good partner. He shared the blankets, cooked to the best of his ability, and gave as much love as he could.

But sometimes, just like any other human, Jim doubted himself. Despite all the good he’d done there were times where he felt like he didn’t deserve you or just didn’t think he could keep you around.

You’d disproved his thoughts and worries multiple times but he just couldn’t help it, finding himself wondering why a woman like you was with a man like him.

Today, every one of those feelings has been amplified.

You‘re wearing a pencil skirt with that blousy blue top you’d bought at Starcourt. “It’s the style now Jim.” You’d replied when he eyed you up and down, “Besides, I like it”.

The smile on your face is genuine, not what Jim playfully called a “work smile”. This makes his stomach churn. You worked as once of Hawkin’s only librarians.

It was a perfect fit really. You adored books and were always giddy when providing others, book lovers or not, with information about reading material. No task was too big for you. Books on the top shelf need restocking? Not a problem, you’ll get a latter. Someone has a book that’s way past due? Simple, you keep track of who checks out what book so finding them won’t be hard.

Being within close proximity to the station, Jim would sometimes finagle his way out of work to come see you. Sometimes he’d even bring lunch. This would earn him a disapproving glare from Marissa, the other librarian, but he didn’t mind. You’d said once that Marissa didn’t like you very much strictly for the fact that you were with Hopper.

So here he was, standing outside of the library, ready to enter the building but instead he simply stood there. The reason for your smile is a man leaning against the counter. He’s young and handsome with unwrinkled clothes along with a pure white smile.

Hopper glances down at his appearance. The wrinkled uniform and protruding of his stomach makes him feel almost ashamed. This isn’t what you should have. What you deserve is the white smiling bastard, who’s clearly trying to flirt with you.

A particular comment from the man has you nearly collapsing in a fit of giggles while he simply smiles on. Jim takes a deep breath, puts one foot forward, and turns on his heel.

You’re home late that night. Marissa had a “date” so she couldn’t close up. El also had a sleepover planned with Max, which you gladly drove her to.

Only a few lights in the house remain on as you wedge your way through the door. “Hey, Jim? The doors getting stuck again. I’m not sure if we have anymore oil but I can get some tomorrow.” You call out, slipping your shoes off with a sigh.

An eerie quiet fills the house where Jim’s voice should be. “Jim?” You set your bag down on the table and quietly pad to the bedroom. Sliding open the curtain, you find Jim sitting on the bed. He doesn’t look up as you come in opting to stare at his hands instead.

“Jim, honey? You’re scaring me.”

At this he looks up, blue eyes watered and red. His voice wavers when he speaks. “Tell me you need me.”

It all clicks. The man at the counter, you can’t even remember his name, Hopper’s no show at lunch, and the wavering in his voice is like a complex equation that you’ve just solved.

Your face goes soft and you gently cup his face in your hands. “Oh, Jim. I’m always going to need you.” You murmur, lips finding his own.

He responds immediately, arms wrapping around your waist securely as his mouth moves with yours. You slowly move one hand down his chest. Fingers work over buttons and fabric to reveal summer tanned skin. Jim groans as your hand continues it’s decent to his pant zipper, which you make quick work of, and onto his hardening member.

You gently push him back onto the bed, slowly stripping your clothes. He watches with burning intensity which nearly has you feeling self-conscious.

Once free of your clothes, you climb onto the bed with him. Your legs fall on either side of his as you straddle him. His lips move against your neck, beard leaving a wonderful burning along the exposed skin.

Soon he rises to your own lips and the kiss leaves you breathless. Jim pulls away, chest rising and falling rapidly. He gently rests his forehead against yours, a silent moment of pure love washing over the two of you.

“I need you.” You whisper into his ear. A choked sob escape him and hot tears begin to flow down his cheeks. You kiss them away, fingers sliding through his hair.

“I need you.” You murmur as he guides himself into you.

“I need you.” You gasp as you bring yourself down on him over and over again.

“I need you.” You say softly as you lay pressed against his chest in the aftermath, tangled sheets wrapped around your bodies as you both drift into slumber.

And just before you fall asleep, you swear you can hear him say it back.

[margottenenbaum222]

𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭⚡︎˖ ࣪

key

꩜nsfw ❤︎basically prn no plot ✮super super short ⭑short ౨ৎlonger

fics that didnt fit into any of my other masterlists - all x reader -

joel millers belt꩜✮

dbf!hopper❤︎౨ৎ

john walker taco sheild❤︎✮

pope code confession꩜✮

what if pope found whitaker…౨ৎ

titus danforth fucks everywhere + loves to eat❤︎౨ৎ

titus danforth likes it rough❤︎౨ৎ

ryland grace is touch starved❤︎⭑

ryland grace eats real good❤︎⭑

solder boys assistant ꩜ ౨ৎ

bullseye is a regular at your work౨ৎ

virgin!bullseye ❤︎౨ৎ

soldier boy is a panty snatcher❤︎⭑

the masterlist of masterlists

[moonstruckbucky]

My first Hopper drabble! (Be nice)

Based off the prompt: “I can’t sleep, can I sleep here?”

Jim Hopper didn’t sleep much. Between the official adoption papers for Jane being filed and the overall trauma of the events with the Upside Down, he barely had a safe place to go to rest his mind, much less find sleep. The small cabin he shared with Jane brought too many memories despite also offering a certain homey comfort. 

He sat on the couch, the clock on the stove reading 2:31 AM, and despite the late (early?) hour, he was drinking a beer. In his restlessness, his mind wandered. 

To you.

He knew you’d be dead asleep by now, and he knew he probably had no right to even think about you after the way he brusquely ended whatever was brewing between the two of you. Truth was, Jim was so far out of his dating element that he panicked. With Jane becoming his adopted daughter, his focus had been primarily on making sure she was settled.

The girl was wary of strangers, as she should be, and Jim thought introducing you into her world would set her back. He couldn’t have that, not when she’d come so far.

And yet, here he was throwing on a jacket and grabbing his keys to the truck, thinking over what he would say to you when he saw you. Jane, after much huffing and puffing and a little object-throwing, had gone for a sleepover at the Byers’ house with the rest of the party. He’d pick her up later in the afternoon. He had to get used to being a dad again.

The truck was cold, the heater broken, and Jim’s breath came out in puffs as he drove. Smoke from his cigarette filled the truck, and he had to give in and roll the window down just a bit to let it out. He drove the familiar road to your house, but he was regretting leaving his more and more. What the hell could he even say to you?

Sorry, I have commit issues even though I just adopted a superhuman 12 year old.

Yeah, that would go over well.

A dim light flickered in your bedroom window, and Jim wondered if you had trouble sleeping too. When you opened the door, yawning and rubbing your eyes, he knew you hadn’t.

“Did you fall asleep with the candle lit again?” he asked with a rueful smile.

“Hop? What are you doing here?” Your tone went from curious to flat in a second, your brain having caught up to who was standing outside your door.

His smile dropped and he seemed to deflate. “I can’t sleep. Can I sleep here?”

“I don’t know, Hop. You seemed pretty adamant that you didn’t want me in your life.” You crossed your arms.

“I was wrong. Okay? I was so wrong but Christ, there’s so much that you don’t know but I want to tell you. I want you to know why I did what I did. So will you let me?”

You maintained eye contact with him for a few moments, turning over your options in your head. With a resigned sigh, you held the door open wider and stepped aside to let him through. The evident relief on his face made you smile a little.

If Jim Hopper was letting you in, you damn well weren’t about to let him go.