Read here or on ao3. This is a continuation to "That Night".
It is far too early when she wakes, a heavy weight draped across her stomach and it takes her a moment to register it’s Hop, his arm wrapping tightly around her waist. She shifts in his embrace, twists until their bodies are pressing tightly together and she can look up to see his resting face.
Joyce smiles, sighs with relief, and can’t help but move her hand to his cheek, her palm feeling the bristle of his facial hair. She hadn’t intended to wake him, hadn’t wanted to disturb what is certainly the best sleep he has had in months (her too if she’s honest), but her touch must be firmer than she’d realized because in the next moment his warm hand is covering her own.
Hop’s eyes flutter open, blue gaze meeting her’s, and there is a crinkle starting at the outer corners, a smirk pulling at his lips before he asks facetiously, “is this a dream?”
All of it has her shifting, moving up until she can plant a kiss to his stubble covered chin. “You tell me.” She says, her hand still firmly sandwiched between his cheek and his palm. He hums in appreciation, his own face shifting lower until he can press his lips to hers.
The kiss starts slowly, solid pressure, but then his tongue is darting out, tasting, and she parts her own lips in anticipation. She isn’t sure how long they lay there, hands roaming, lips tasting, noses bumping, but then she feels his fingers sliding their way up beneath the hem of her shirt and she can no longer take the slow pace.
A fire ignites in her, all the heat and passion she’d felt in that church in Russia so rudely interrupted. It only takes her a moment to have him on his back, a gentle shove at his bare shoulders until she could climb over and straddle him where she can feel his desire hard beneath her, only a couple thin layers of cotton separating them.
She crosses her arms in front of her, grasping at the hem of her oversized t-shirt before lifting and throwing it to the side. Hop looks up at her, an admiring gaze sliding from her face, to her exposed breasts, his hands slowly gliding up her rib cage.
He gulps before saying, “Joyce, I thought we needed our rest.” It’s a statement, not a question, but she responds with a small chuckle turned gasp when he thrusts his hips upwards. His firm length rubs against her just right, lilting her slightly off balance before he’s gripping her abdomen tighter with his fingers, steadying her with a smile pulling at his lips.
Her hands find his, fingers framing just below the swell of her breasts, and she guides him up until he’s cupping her firmly, twisting gently at her pebbling nipples. “Would you like to get back to sleep?” She asks, more breathily than she’d planned.
He shifts one of his hands to her back, palm between her shoulder blades as he pulls her face down to meet his before saying, almost growling, “Definitely not.” Then they are kissing again, one of his hands greedily massaging her breast, the other shifting lower, down her back until he is pushing beneath her cotton panties, grasping her ass as she rocks slowly against his growing erection.
Her own hands continue an impatient exploration of his neck, shoulders, chest, until she’s unbearably wet and can’t go another minute without feeling him inside of her. She moves lower, ignoring his groan of disappointment at the loss of her lips against his. “Joyce,” Hop rasps out, eager fingers grasping against her skin trying to delay her departure until he realizes her intentions and his arms relax at his sides.
She shifts until she can shimmy his boxers down his legs, taking special care around the skin of his injured ankles, before twisting out of the rest of her own garments. Joyce has known Hopper since they were kids, but she realizes as she moves back up his body, skin brushing together, that this man, the man digging fingers into her hips as she once again straddles him, isn't the same boy she knew. He isn’t even the same man she knew last year, before Russia, before the grief of the last eight months.
This version of him is someone new, and she knows, as she slides her wet core along the length of his rigid cock, feeling every contour rub against her clit, she knows that there is a reason they were never together before now. The versions of each other they have become, the people they are right now, the products of so much loss and pain, courage and survival, are the people who fit together just right. They finally have the right place and right time, but also the right people in this room, and as much as she hates what they’ve been through, she’s grateful to find herself right here, right now.
Hop grips her hips tighter, slowing her movements, and she can see in the twist of his face that he’s already close, barely holding on by a thread. He holds her still, his hand sliding between her thighs where their bodies meet until he can rub a thumb against her, using their gathering wetness to glide smoothly and firmly against her clit until she’s gasping, thighs growing tighter at his hips, and she’s so close, pressure building and coiling, muscles tensing.
“Hop,” she gasps, her hands clawing at his wrist, and then all the pressure releases, her orgasm hitting her in waves. She’s coming and he’s not even inside of her yet, and his thumb is slowing, letting her body relax.
She reaches down between them herself then, catching her breath as she grips him. She positions them, feels the tip of his erection nudging at her dripping entrance, and she’s almost ready to slide down when there is a loud pounding at the door.
“Hey,” Murray yells through the wood, “Jim, your friend is on the phone for you.” Joyce’s eyes go huge, her hand releases him and Hop pushes the back of his head into his pillow, muttering obsenities as his hands move back to her hips, squeezing and releasing like he’s not sure if he’s going to get up and answer the door or fuck her right here with Murray on the other side.
“Hop,” she breathes, braces against his chest with one hand and lifts her body from his. “It could be about our ride.”
She hates it, would like to stay right here and ride him to completion, but she still can’t let go of the nagging worry she feels for their kids. He knows as much, the same worry for El and the others mirrored in his eyes. He sighs, sits slowly.
She drops one more kiss to his lips before they hear another loud knocking, a shout of, “come on love birds”, and Hop is up, wrapping a blanket from the bed around his waist as he pulls open the door.
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