May 23, 2025
rainy day in Hawkins
seen from Ireland
seen from United States
seen from Saudi Arabia
seen from Belarus
seen from Kazakhstan
seen from Belgium
seen from Türkiye
seen from Romania
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom
rainy day in Hawkins
Callahan: *remembers when he was dating Steve’s kindergarten teacher and she said that Steve had trouble reading*
Callahan: *remembers how his cousin was Steve’s fourth grade teacher and she said he struggled with the assigned reading*
Callahan: *remembers when he joined a game club and Randy Clarke kinda implied that Steve was the reason he stopped having students read out loud*
Callahan: *has been waiting in line behind Steve for what feels like forever while he squints at the menu*
Callahan: Do you still not know how to read?
Steve: ?
Dustin: He’s dyslexic, you asshole.
Dustin: Wanna make fun of Max’s wheelchair next?
Callahan: Oh, I. No-
Dustin, loudly: Hey, everyone! Gather around. This guy is gonna make fun of a girl with a wheelchair.
Callahan: I’m not gonna-
Max, doing the funniest thing she can do: *starts crying*
Steve Harrington, got arrested by that dork, Callahan.
All he did was throw a graduation party.
Okay, maybe he was a tad drunk, a bit high, and decided to mouth off a little.
The things he said to Callahan didn’t help his case, but they were totally justified!
The drive to the station was silent, yet tense.
Steve sobering up a fair amount, by the time they arrive.
As he’s being escorted into a holding cell, he sees that someone is already in there…
Eddie Munson.
“Well, isn’t this interesting. What is Hawkins’ royalty doing slumming it in my neck of the woods?”
“Can it, Munson. I’m not in the mood,” as he sits down on the complete opposite side of Eddie.
“Of course, your majesty,” he stands, bored look on his face, to theatrically bow before Steve.
Steve just folds his arms and rolls his eyes.
Half an hour goes by, and Eddie is surprisingly quiet.
Steve fancies a glance at his cell mate.
Eddie is already staring at him.
Steve sighs, “Alright… What you do want, Munson?”
“I’m bored. Wanna make out or something?”
Steve, with his recent questioning of himself, and with the added boredom, he says with a shrug, “Sure. Why not.”
So, they pass the time by making out in a jail cell.
Until the much more responsible adults in their lives, come to bail each of them out.
“See ya around, Harrington.”
“See ya, Munson.”
Who knew, that in about a year, they would see each other around…
“Alienate.” Flo mutters, the first thing Phil Callahan hears when he enters the station. “No, that's eight letters. Darn.”
“How’s the crossword, Miss Flo?” He asks, as he always asks, every morning.
It’s part of a little routine he’s established with their doting receptionist, partly out of boredom, mostly because she sometimes asks him for help.
If there’s one thing Phil enjoys doing, it’s helping.
(It’s why he became a cop, after all.)
“Hi, hun. I’m stuck.” Flo responds, staring down at the New York Times spread out before her.
It’s a quiet Friday morning and a quick glance at the open and dark-empty office of the Chief says the man’s not in yet, and so Callahan rounds the big wooden desk to stare at the puzzle over Flo’s shoulder.
“Which one?” He asks, seeing most of it’s already been filled out.
Flo jabs a finger at the offending clue, her nails painted a light pastel blue. “Pushed away through inattention.” She reads dutifully, then traces her finger to the blank section of the crossword, tapping at it. “Nine letter word.”
Phil cocks his head, thinks it through.
“It wasn’t alienate.” Flo says, non-helpfully.
“Ignored?” Phil tries.
“That’s seven letters.”
They both stare down at the puzzle, the black and white squares taunting them.
“Neglected.” Phil says suddenly, triumphant. “It has to be neglected--the word has to end with a D to make sense in the puzzle. See?”
One of two words that crosses over with their missing piece is ‘abandoned’, which fits nicely with the apparently gloomy theme of today’s crossword.
“Doesn’t work with the other word that goes through it though.” Flo points out, defeating the proud little glow that had been building in Phil’s head.
The other bisecting word is ‘isolated’, making him wonder if the puzzlemaker is in the middle of a rough divorce.
(Or maybe just a rough day, and he’s the one projecting…)
“Well, hell.” Phil grumbles, staring down at it.
“Try estranged!” Powell calls as he passes by with a mug full of coffee.
Flo carefully pencils in ‘estranged’ and makes a pleased noise when it fits.
“Thank you, hun!” She calls, and Phil huffs at himself for not seeing it, but also refuses to let Powell’s one upping ruin his day.
The man himself offers their receptionist a smile, before tossing a casual reprimand Phil’s way.
“Callahan, get to work, would you?”
“Yeah, yeah, smartypants.” He says, going to fetch his own cup of coffee. “Save the bitching for the Chief.”
Powell rolls his eyes at him, and Callahan makes a face back, and the two of them go on to have a very boring, small town cop sort of day--right until a legitimate call finally comes in.
Well.
Sort of.
“The Harrington residence is having a too-loud party again.” Hopper says, having finally shown up sometime between nine and noon. “Drunk teenagers are throwing up in people’s lawns.”
“It’s not even dark yet.” Powell mutters, staring at the clock as if he couldn’t imagine a party taking place before 8 pm.
“Teenagers don’t care about that shit, that’s why they’re getting the cops called on them.” Hopper snips back. He’d been in a mood all day, and not the fun, jolly kind.
“Come on Callahan, let’s go remind Harrington Jr. that it’s his daddy that owns this department, not him.”
“I wish you wouldn’t joke about that.” Phil says as he follows Hopper out the door, waving goodbye to Flo as he goes. “People are going to think you’re serious.”
(Sometimes, Phil thinks as he swings into the patrol truck, that Hopper is serious.
That they are being paid to look the other way.
Then he takes a sip of their god-awful coffee and hears Hopper’s ancient truck cough to life, and figures, if anyone was getting cash here, there would at least be evidence of it.)
xXx
Harrington Jr.’s party isn’t quite the chaotic disaster it was made out to be, though there are a handful of tipsy teenagers stumbling around the lawn.
“One of these idiots is going to drown in that damn pool someday.” Hopper complains through gritted teeth as he storms up the driveway, kids scrambling into action the second they spot him.
One loudly screams; “Cops!” and the rest of them scatter, running in so many directions it makes Phil’s head spin. He briefly moves as if to give chase before deciding there’s simply too many to bother.
(Knows that it’s unlikely they’ll arrest anyone but Harrington tonight, anyway.)
“If the right kid bites it, Dick Harrington might even have to come deal with it personally.” Over his shoulder Hopper tosses Phil a shark’s smile, barging up the porch to bang hard on one of the two front doors. “Wouldn’t that be a sight to see?”
“No, not really.” Phil says, because he’s thinking about dead teenagers in pools.
“Also I don’t think Richard likes to be called Dick.” He adds cautiously, just in case the man himself happens to be home.
It’s unlikely, doubly so given all the drunk minors, but that just means Phil isn’t surprised when it’s not the Vice President of Indiana Corporate Consulting, LLC that opens the door but his son, Steve.
“Officers.” The kid drawls, shirtless in swim trunks, not a single strand of his perfectly styled hair out of place. “What can I do for you?”
He leans casually in the doorway, as another kid screams out a warning inside.
“You can cut the shit.” Hopper says. “You know the drill. Turn around and put your hands behind your back.”
Harrington does neither of those things, instead tilting his head and making a face like he just smelled something foul.
“I’m not drunk. And anyone who is drunk brought it without telling me. You should go arrest them.” Steve jams a thumb over his shoulder, pointing at the rapidly emptying house.
Then he smirks at both of them, every inch the newly crowned King the kids insist on calling him.
“You think your old man is gonna believe that?” Hopper snarls, infuriated. He never was one that dealt well with teenagers. Or at least, these kinds (and that damn Munson kid, who just loved stealing everybodies lawn flamingos.)
“I think you’ll find ‘my old man’,” Steve mockinly mimics, “doesn’t care.”
“He will when the neighbors start calling.” Hopper tosses back as Phil pushes past Harrrington Jr. to begin the process of trying to wrangle drunk teenages. “That’s Janet Wilkinson’s prized hydrangeas Hagan’s been throwing up in. You wanna see what happens when she talks to your mother?”
“She has to get a hold of my mother to talk to her.” Steves snarks, instead of pulling out his usual charm. “Why do you think she called you instead?”
This isn’t Phil’s first call to the house, but it is the first time Harrington Jr. has been this combative. It’s new, but not exactly unexpected.
Not when Steve Harrington has been hurtling towards this ever since he started hosting parties.
“You think your parents won’t care when I call them?”
“Well they haven’t before, so--”
Phil rolls his eyes as the kid and Hopper trade more barbs, the adult’s growing sharper and sharper as Steve makes a couple of arguments about being held accountable for other people’s actions (and something else about unreasonably high standards and making his own bail.)
Let's them argue it out as he quickly realizes he will definitely not be catching teenagers, and pivots to scanning for too-drunk stragglers in need of help.
“Keep running your mouth, Harrington, and I’ll let you cool your heels overnight in a jail cell. That what you want?”
“You already did that, remember? Swore you’d never do it again because I was too annoying.”
“You can’t annoy me if I’m not the one there watching you--”
Phil tunes out the rising voices, his attention snagging on something else.
The Harringtons’ entryway was sparse, and the rooms beyond weren’t much better. The whole house had the sterile feel of a museum; untouched and unlived in.
Not even a swarm of teenagers had managed to leave much of a mark. Or at least, not in these few rooms, anyway.
Which is what makes the scraggly note stand out.
It’s taped to the wall right above the phone, but slightly askew, like it’d been thought of last-minute. A little crumpled, like someone half-heartedly tried to peel it off before giving up and pressing it back down.
‘Who puts a phone in the entryway?’ Phil wonders, but then, it is the Harrington’s.
Maybe they need it to find each other in this huge fucking house.
He leans in to read the note, spotting the bold letters at the bottom informing everyone the entire notepad had been custom ordered for RICHARD HARRINGTON, VP.
‘Darling,’ beautiful cursive starts, at odds with the footnote, ‘Sorry that we couldn’t get a hold of you. Your father had a business opportunity, you know how important those are. I’ll send you a postcard. Take care of the house, remember that Martha is coming on Wednesdays now to get the dry cleaning. Do something fun for your birthday!’
It’s signed XOXO, Muffin.
Muffin is, of course, Richard Harrington’s wife, and also a walking punchline. Or at least she is when people aren’t tripping over themselves to stay on her good side.
Weird that she signed it as such instead of with ‘Mom’, but then Muffin always has been a bit…much.
More importantly (besides the fact that they skipped out on their own kids birthday) is the date at the top, which says the note was left Tuesday, March 17th.
It’s currently the middle of May.
Flo’s crossword springs to mind, each guessed word clicking into place beside Steve’s own, still warm, spoken just moments ago.
Abandoned, and ‘She has to get a hold of my mother to talk to her.’
Ignored and ‘I think you’ll find my old man doesn’t care.’
A cold realization sweeps through Phil, as he recalls the things they’ve all heard other kids say about Steve.
No parents.
Big house.
Always down for a good time.
(‘Neglect is the failure to give somebody proper care or attention.’ Powell had argued on their lunch break, as Phil complained that ‘neglected’ fit the stupid crossword better than ‘estranged’ had.
“Estranged works because it’s when you’re not really talking to someone. Hence the pushing away part. They’re different. Similar! But different.”
“That’s dumb.” Phil argued back.
“You’re dumb.” Powell replied, then laughed when Phil gasped in mock offense. “It’s why you’re getting taken to the cleaners in your divorce!”
“Hey man, come on, too far!”
“Sorry, sorry--” )
All cop’s develop intuition, even the small town ones, and Phil’s kicks in as he stares at the note.
Neglected might be a hard sell for a fifteen year old that drives a BMW, but estranged definitely fits the bill.
(He’s pretty sure neglect does fit the fucking bill no matter how much money the kids parents have, but he’s been on the force long enough to know how these things go.)
He turns on his heel and marches over, sticking himself right in between his boss and the only remaining teenager.
“Where are your parents at, again?” He asks, right over whatever point Hopper was butchering.
“What?” Steve and Hopper both say, before giving the other a look for it.
“Do you know where your parents are at?” Phil asks again, switching up the wording a little just like they’d taught him in the academy.
“Uh…No?” Steve says, seeming too startled to lie. “You’d have to call dad’s receptionist.”
“Okay. And when are they coming back?”
This time Steve tosses a look at Hopper, like Phil’s the one being weird here.
“When they get back.” He says, and it’s like he’s trying to still sound tough, to put forth that King persona, but is fumbling a little now that it’s not Hopper who's asking the questions.
“So you have no idea, at all.” He clarifies, and feels his stomach sink a little.
“I mean, I could also call dad’s receptionist.” Steve says, like that makes it better.
“Whose in charge of you while they’re gone?” And yes he knows it’s a stupid question, knows that Steve is fifteen (he thinks, anyway) and is perfectly old enough
“...I am.” Steve says, right over Hopper’s annoyed; “What the hell, Callahan.”
“Chief, can I talk to you?” He says, turning to face his boss.
Hopper stares back at him in disbelief, before making a show of summoning the last of his patience with a loud sigh.
“You.” He points at Steve. “Sit. Stay.”
“Want me to shake too?” Harrington Jr calls out in an attempt to recover, but Phil’s got a hand on Hopper’s elbow and is dragging the older man away before he can get sucked back in.
“You better have found something good Callahan.” Hopper warns, as Phil snatches the note on the wall as they pass by.
“Hopper,” Phil says quietly, leaning in as he pulls Hopper all the way into the kitchen, kicking empty solo cups as he goes. “I don’t think his parents have been home in a while.”
He shoves the note in the Chief’s face.
“No shit, kid.” Hopper spits, and the nickname sits badly, now that Phil’s heard it spat at Steve the same way.
(Hopper doesn’t mean it, Phil knows he doesn’t.
Hopper’s the best boss Phil’s ever had. The guy’s just a little rough sometimes, gets lost in the little things and needs to be brought back down.
‘He’s got a lot going on, hun, but we’ll get him there.’ Flo says when he’s been really mean, and Phil knows they will, he’s seen it himself, but sometimes he wishes whatever the Chief was healing from would let him go a little faster.)
He grabs the note, eyes scanning over it, and Phil talks a little faster.
“No, I mean, look at the date, Chief. They’ve been gone for months.”
Hopper looks up from the note and gives him the world’s flattest state. “So?”
Phil gapes a little at him. “Isn’t that abandonment?”
In response, Hopper simply steps more into the kitchen, then throws open a door next to the stove. Reveals a huge, walk-in pantry, piled high with all kinds of food.
Stands next to it like it’s a party trick he just unveiled.
“Given the lights are on and that fancy little car of his seems to have gas, I’d say they’re providing for the kid just fine.” He says crossly.
Which isn’t wrong exactly, but it’s not right either.
“Yeah,” Phil protests, “but--”
“Trust me, things could be a lot worse.” Hopper cuts him off. “Save all the pity for someone who actually needs it, and not a kid whose parents’ lawyers will cut both our balls off for even suggesting they don’t care about their kid.”
“Harsh, Chief.” Phil mutters, stung. There’s a small, growing voice in his head that says Steve Harrington does kind of need someone.
That a kid, even one as old as Steve is, shouldn’t be left like this.
“Life’s harsh. Now unless you’re volunteering to watch the kid all night in a cell, I say we call the brat’s parents and this time, we’re gonna hit them with a citation when they get home. See if they ignore that.”
“Please do!” Steve calls loudly, from where he’s still seated on the couch. “It’ll be funny, trust me.”
Hopper goes to pinch the bridge of his nose, before glancing sideways at the island counter covered in solo cups and bottles.
Changes course to pluck an unopened whiskey bottle from the pile, tucking it under his arm.
Storms back out to whatever the Harrington’s call the room Steve’s in, pausing only to stop in front of him.
“Hey.” Steve says, spotting the bottle.
Hopper holds it out. “Oh, I’m sorry, is this yours?”
Steve’s mouth opens, before he catches Callahan’s shaking head. Thinks better of it, and slams it back closed.
Grumbles; “No, sir.”
“Oh it’s sir now, is it?” Hopper says with a snort. “Since you’re so good at eavesdropping, you already know what I’m going to do. Congratulations Harrington, you get out of jail tonight, but,”
He leans forward, putting himself almost nose to nose with the surely teenager, “I will be making sure that this time, your parents pay attention.”
Quick as a shot he’s up and out the door, slamming it close behind him like he forgot Phil was there.
“Good luck!” Steve shouts after him, but it’s clear even he thinks the Chief won their little sparring match.
“Have your parents really been gone since March?” Phil says when the coast is clear, and watches Steve blink at him like he hadn’t realized the younger officer was still there.
“Yeah.” Steve says with a shrug, like it’s not a big deal. “Every kid’s dream.”
It’s not. Even Phil can tell from the way Steve’s face looks just then, that he knows it’s not.
He doesn’t know what exactly posses him, but the next words out of his mouth are; “You ever get too lonely here, you can stay with me.”
“What?” Steve says, eyes snapping right to Phil’s face like he misheard him.
He’s embarrassed for two entire seconds before deciding, fuck it.
He already offered, he’s not taking it back.
“It’s a big house, kid. You shouldn’t be alone for that long.” Phil thinks about his impending divorce. On the emptiness of the house, with his soon to be ex wife long gone. How that eats at him, sometimes. Adds; “No one should be.”
Harrington Jr. stares at him like he’s lost his mind. “Whatever.” He scoffs, but it’s not quite the waspish tone he’d used before.
“You ever need help either, you call me.” Phil says, because that seems important to say too.
He points up at one of the chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, impossibly high over both their heads. “Even if it’s just to hold a ladder to change one of those lightbulbs.”
Steve’s eyes go up with him then back down, like he’s still not sure this isn’t a joke being played on him.
“I mean it.” Phil says, right as one of the front doors whips back open. Reaches into the pocket of his uniform, and pulls out his card. “You need me, you call.”
“Callahan!” Hopper bellows, and Phil calls out a loud; “Coming!” before making eye contact with Steve once more.
“Take it.” He says, holding out the card, and hopes he sounds like a proper adult when he does.
(Phil often does not feel like an adult, least of which because he’s the youngest in the department by two decades, nevermind the failed marriage.)
“Okay.” Steve says dismissively, but he reaches out.
Takes the card.
It feels like a victory and Phil lets it be one as he leaves the Harrington residence and Steve behind with it. Feels the rot of that be soothed by the fact he at least did something.
(Also see’s Hopper didn’t wait for him, but is instead sitting in the driver’s seat of the truck.
Knows his boss is gonna be pissed at him, but faces the noose anyway.)
“Puppies are expensive.” The Chief tells him darkly, the second Phil opens the door. “And they shit all over the floor.”
“What?” He asks, not always used to his bosses nonsensical ramblings.
He eyes the thermos the Chief’s holding, and wonders if already dumped the whiskey he stole in it.
They all thought the Chief had been getting better, but maybe not…
“Puppies,” Hopper stressed, jamming the hand holding the thermos in Phil’s face (no liquor smell, thank God.) “who have very rich owners, are typically well cared for, even if their idea of care and your idea are different.”
Phil’s face contorts in confusion, eyes following Hopper’s finger pointed middle finger to the fading tail lights of Steve’s BMW.
It takes him a second, but he gets there.
“Steve isn’t a puppy.” He says instantly offended, because teenagers and puppies are very, very different, thanks, and yes okay, he knows it’s a metaphor, but it’s a stupid one.
“Acts like one.” Hopper says, before taking a noisy sip of the thermos.
“He really doesn’t?”
Phil wants to say he complains right back at his boss, but really it comes out as more of a question--because Steve Harrington has never acted like a dog. The kid’s not clingy, or whiny or even loud.
He’s a kid, sure, a teenager that’s obnoxious, but aren’t all teenagers that way, by default?
Phil’s mother certainly said so, though she’d been teasing about it.
(She also said something about how kids who can’t get what they need the right way, will revert to trying out the wrong ways instead.)
“Whatever. Just don’t come running to me when you get too close and Mommy and Daddy show up to remind you it’s none of your business.”
Hopper starts the cruiser, expecting that to be that.
And normally it would be. Phil would leave it alone, even if he disagreed, but today he finds he can’t.
Not when the words from Flo’s crossword are still haunting his head, ‘abandoned’ and ‘neglected’ and ‘pushed away’ lighting up like little warning signs, all pointing towards one very sad kid.
“If they come back.” He finds himself saying.
“Oh, they always come back.” Hopper snorts right back. “Just not when any of us ever want them too.”
Phil doesn’t like that answer, but this time he does leave it alone.
Figures the best he can do for Steve is what he already did. Let him know he saw him. Let him know he understood.
If Steve needs someone, he now knows Phil will come.
He won’t let anyone make him feel bad for offering that, either, because this is the exact thing he signed up to do, when he became a cop.
Even if Harrington never reaches out to him, at least Phil can say he did something. At least he can live with himself.
xXx
Weeks go by.
A month.
Two months and more.
By a year Phil has kind of forgotten about his promise to Steve Harrington, and by the time the Chief has gotten them all involved in some kind of--poisoned pumpkin patch problem, he’s too caught up in trying to figure out what the hell is going on in Hawkins to really think about it.
That is, until the kid himself shows up on his doorstep, with a black eye and a hand hugging his ribs.
Which would be concerning on its own, but it’s worse given that known lawn flamingo thief and constant pain in the police department’s ass, Eddie Munson, is right there with him.
“Hi Officer Callahan.” Munson says, and he, Phil quickly realizes, looks perfectly fine, despite clearly being the only reason Steve seven on his feet. “Uh…Harrington said I should take him here?”
He does not sound certain, and frankly, looks two seconds from bolting.
Given how much Steve is bleeding on him, Phil can’t blame him for it.
“What the hell.” He says, shocked and loose tongued for it. “Did you two get in a fight!?”
“No!” Munson yelps, then immediately stills when the act of it jostles Steve. “I found him like this. He was fucking trying to drive and was weaving all over the place--I got him to stop, and get in my van, but the only thing he’ll say is that I needed to bring him to you!”
Like it wasn’t bad enough the chief had been out of contact all night or that there had been weird people swarming all over town, nevermind all those damn phone calls about loose dogs and--
“You said.” Steve interrupts Phil’s spiraling thoughts, voice sounding oddly strangled, and he'd pay more attention to that if he wasn’t finding new and concerning injuries every second he looked.
“You said I could go to you, for help. If I needed it. Cause Hopper--Hopper’s busy,” Steve’s slurring, Phil realizes and oh god a lot of that blood is on his head, “An’ I didn’t want the kids to worry, but I think…i was wrong, I don’t--I think I’m…I don’t wanna be ‘lone--”
“Okay, okay.” Phil reaches out, tries to take Steve’s weight off of Munson. “Get in here. You too, Munson.”
Expects the latter to protest and is a little surprised to watch as the kid instead helps Steve hobble inside.
“Put him on the couch while I get my first aid kit.” Phil orders, trying not to panic and failing. He has first aid training--more than, actually, because he took it as an elective back when he thought he was going to go to medical school, but that was years ago and Steve looks like he went head first through a blender.
‘Stabilize him now, panic later.’ He orders himself, as Munson settles both of them down on the couch.
“Am I dying?” Steve asks vaguely, to Munson’s increasingly panicked face.
“Nope.” Phil says, voice as firm as he can make it. “Not today.”
He comes over, looking over Steve once again
“You staying Munson?” He asks, more an out for the kid than anything else.
Watches as the older teen clocks that for what it is.
See’s Steve unintentionally lean into his chest, breathing a little weird.
“No man, you’re going to need an extra hand.” Eddie says. “I’m staying right here.”
“Me too.” Steve slurs nonsensically.
“What the hell, me too.” Phil says, just to lighten the mood a little.
Then he drops to his knees and goes about stabilizing Steve.
(At some point Munson decides to help tell his latest flamingo heist story. Phil let him, even if no one had realized he’d pulled off another one again.
He got Steve to laugh, so Phil figures it was worth it, at least. )
Part Two
Phil Callahan and the bad bitch he pulled by being not so smart / Calvin Powell and his loyal puppy
Stranger Things Incorrect Quotes - Part 4
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officer callahan……….
raise your hand if you agree
tis the season for a little Christmas office party and a jealous hopper?? maybe he calls reader “naughty” and we get some smut too??
maaaaybe I was inspired to add this to my fic thunder & lightning, but we’ll just call it a half chapter (I guess 2.5?) bc I really did run away with this 😭
t’is the season, indeed!!!
Chapter 2.5: Naughty & Nice
Pairing: Chief Jim Hopper x (Non Descriptive!) Female Reader/You, Phil Callahan x Reader/You, AU
Rating: Explicit, Mature, NSFW
Warnings: jealous!Hopper, language, alcohol, smoking (cigarettes), shameless smut, slow burn, teasing, age difference, boss/employee relationship, oral, choking, spanking, crazy passionate sex // breaker credit
Summary:
Existing in the context after Smoke & Mirrors, you find yourself getting bored by Hopper’s mood swings and entertain the idea of possibly a new office romance. Jealous and drunk at the Hawkin’s PD Christmas Party, the Chief makes sure you never make that mistake again.
The way winter hung in the air was leaving a sharpness in your lungs with each icy inhale that was both piercing and cleansing to your overworked brain.
As the holidays continued to pick up, the station received more calls in a day than you had seen a full month compared to the earlier days of your internship. You worked late, you were overtired, and you were so occupied with the stress of a nightmare induced small town that you barely had time to remember how your boss tasted.
You would both continue to pretend nothing had happened—not the first time, not the most recent time either. It was easier to convince yourself there could be a third time as long as you behaved how the Chief expected you to and that started with being quiet.
Occasionally, you would meet his eyes and there’d be a shared glance, nothing longer than a minute at most before continuing with your predicted idle work task.
Sometimes you would linger by his desk before giving him messages from varied concerned townies or turning in another report for his multiple cases, but he wouldn’t so much speak to you as much as he would just grunt in acknowledgement or give you a mocking response to one of your questions. It was starting to get teeth-gritting levels of frustrating as the weeks passed with zero progress and here we are now, at the end of the year approaching already and you’re still mentally stuck in the back of his Ford outside the bar.
Wind continues to whips through your hair, an icy chill graces your cheeks where you know you’ve already gone more rosy. A cigarette finds its way to your lips as you continue to disassociate on your lunch break outside the station.
Lost in another daydream, you hardly notice the other person who has joined you despite the weather.
“Not exactly a Winter Wonderland, is it?”
A man’s voice cuts through your fantasy. Typical.
You curse from the scare, the jump from the sudden disruption to your silence nearly causing the cigarette to tumble from your lips.
There in front of you stood one of the younger officers, his round glasses gleaming from the reflection of the snow that covered the rather depressing parking lot view from the station. The snow half melted and mixed with dirt, there’s a sludge-like consistency framing the sidewalk and the trees haven’t quite frosted yet so they just look barren and dead.
His hands were on his hips as he looked out in disapproval and repeated his opening line since you might have been too startled to hear him the first time.
You genuinely smile at his sarcasm and commitment to making sure you heard his joke, sometimes he was funny.
“Hey, Callahan,” you greet him and exhale another cloud of smoke as you take in his taller frame compared to your rather slouched posture up against the brick wall. His boyish attitude was both charming and annoying at the same time, but you have been bored for weeks and he’s been consistently trying to get to know you since you first arrived at the station.
“That’s not a meal,” he nods towards the torch between your fingers.
At first you think to roll your eyes, but you do wish you had something warm instead of just the burning in the back of your throat.
Embarrassed by your latest bad habit, you frown once you follow his gaze and begrudgingly agree to ash the remains on the wall which makes the corners of his mustache curl upwards.
“Lemme buy you lunch,” the twang in his voice stammers a bit which is endearing but his stance had remained confident.
Despite how cute Phil was being, this created a complicated crossroad. On the one hand, this is lunch with a coworker who is close in age, probably has a lot in common with you in hindsight, which is arguably more “normal” than some of the calls you’ve had to take in the last couple of days between stolen Christmas decorations and one woman buying out all the holiday lights to decorate the inside of her home.
It could be really nice to share the pain with someone who gets it.
However, this is also posing as a complicated work environment where you entertain another man’s crush in the office, one that has no idea the other man who you are actually wishing is asking you to share your lunch break with is also his superior.
You lose the ability to speak, still obviously unsure of what to say as you weigh the consequences to that kind of offer and Phil starts to lose his confidence. His arms drop comically with a sigh before he runs one of his hands through his already messy hair.
“It’s just Gus’s, I’m not askin’ you to steak and lobster at The Ritz,” he almost laughs to relieve the tension and it manages to charm you enough that you’re already standing up from your post against the wall, now facing him directly.
Have his eyes always been that blue?
“Let’s go,” you smile and the pink on his nose and cheeks can’t just be from the freezing temperatures.
————————————
“Would y’all like a refill?”
You and Callahan speak over each other to thank the server offering more coffee at the same time and a knowing smile grows on her lips as she looked between the two of you.
The booth wasn’t very small, but it wasn’t very big either. Maybe it just felt that way because he was so tall that you could feel his bony knees bumping yours every time he nervously adjusted his posture.
He was really good at talking, sometimes too much, though it was still refreshing considering your cold shoulder current circumstances.
However, watching him eat was kind of a test of patience as you saw him still struggle to take smaller bites.
Your chin found its place comfortably in your hand as you studied him in curiosity.
Callahan saw your expressions change as he told you about one of his officer stories involving a rifle, a drunk in a tree, and their guard pig and before he could finish telling you the best part, you’re already laughing at his delivery and dramatizations of the characters in his story.
It’d been a long time since you got to laugh like that and the more he told his stories, the colder your soup became as you gave in to entertaining his set up questions and the conversation seemed to flow for hours.
The realization hitting you like a brick that not only are you enjoying your time with him a lot more than you planned to, but that your lunch break was definitely over ten minutes ago.
“Thank you,” you say sincerely as you wind down from your laughing fit.
Callahan is shaking his head as he signs for the bill, his grin is unmistakable.
“The pleasure’s all mine, ma’am,” he replies in an unexpected cool way that almost made the heat rise to your cheeks.
The way he’s looking up at you forces you to admire the way his jaw is tilted at just the right angle to define it and you wonder if his eyes are even brighter from behind those glasses.
You’ve seen him as the immature dork of the office for so long, that seeing him be so charismatic with his dark tousled curls and Southern charm was an interesting change of pace.
As you reached the doors of the station again, Callahan was a couple steps behind you and tried to catch up before your mittened hand found the door.
“Maybe our next meal doesn’t have a curfew?” he rushes out, his shoulders nearly up to his ears to brace the impact of the snowy wind and disguise his soft attempt at asking you out.
While you had fun at the diner, your head could not be more in the clouds.
Phil was sweet, stable, and simple. Getting involved just seemed like a bad idea, but it’s hard to ignore a puppy on Christmas if he’s showing up to your doorstep with a ribbon around the neck the way he managed to pick you up out of your own lonely winter blues.
“Oh, I-“ you started, cautiously tucking hair behind your ear and trying to formulate a non-rejection-rejection before the station’s double doors swing open and the familiar bell interrupts you.
Then he’s standing there.
He first looks down at you, then over at Phil, before straight ahead and above you like usual.
Your heart sinks at the feeling of both guilt and shame, though you have no reason to feel either.
Your heartbeat is so loud in your chest that you can hear it in your head, completely drowning out whatever small interaction the Chief shared with Phil before you brushed passed his massive frame to dodge both Phil’s proposal and the frigid stare of the Chief (maybe that was just the gush of wind), escaping safely into the warm station.
You had never been so eager to return to your desk job.
———————————————————
“A little bit higher,” Flo suggests.
Your eyebrows knit together as you concentrate pinning the garland just high enough above the station’s windows that Flo approves, which is seemingly impossible.
Your legs wobble a little as you stand on your tippy toes atop an office chair and you feel a sudden supportive grip on the back of your calf to steady you.
“Woah there,” Phil laughs, he already has a festive elf hat on and his teeth are gleaming at you.
His hand didn’t immediately leave your leg, but you gently shake it off anyways.
“Hey, you,” you try to sound cheery, returning a smile.
You can’t help but feel guilty about dodging his question earlier and you’re really hoping his bright smile wasn’t about to bring it up again.
Even as he awkwardly stuffed his hands back in his pockets, you could feel the ghost of his handprint through your hosiery and the realization hitting you just how badly you wished it was someone else’s.
“Callahan.”
As if on cue, a deep, huskier voice calls from across the room and your heart begins to race.
Phil kind of jumps from the sudden shout but calls back nonetheless, still never really looking away from you as you try to fluff garland and layer tinsel, pretending to not feel him as your audience.
“You don’t have anything else you should be doing besides harassin’ a woman?”
You hear the Chief’s heavier footsteps clad closer towards you and Phil as he confronts his subordinate in front of you. Your cheeks and ears get hot from the secondhand embarrassment, but there’s a flutter in your stomach hearing the echo of the Chief referring to you as a woman. Not kid, not young lady, but a woman.
Phil, on the other hand, scoffs in disbelief.
“Now I was helping ‘em out! She, well, she could’ve taken a real fall without me standing here!” His tone growing higher and defensive now, “Tell ‘em! Isn’t that right, Flo?”
From over your shoulder you can see that Flo has already turned her back to him as well, barely waving a hand in his direction to dismiss him.
“Do not involve me in this,” she mutters before walking off towards the coffee pot for another fresh pour if this was the kind of energy we were dealing with for the next hour.
Phil throws his hands up in defeat and saunters in an opposite direction, bickering about interruptions and his cursed timing, then you’re suddenly alone with the Chief again.
You’re expecting him to walk off and ignore you like usual, but he decides to keep getting closer and you can no longer hear Jingle Bells playing over your own heartbeat.
You’re pinning the last bit of garland when the sound of a lighter flicks from behind you and that ache in your lower belly grows deeper.
You gently prepare your dismount from the office chair but the Chief’s already helping you down, his calloused hand in yours as he uses the opportunity to pull you in close and speak at a volume only you can hear.
“If I didn’t know any better,” his thunderous growl purrs by your ear, hidden by the curtain of your hair. “I’d say he just likes the view of your legs from down ‘ere…”
A shiver travels down your spine at the feeling of his lip barely grazing your ear, but it burns like fire.
“Be careful next time,” he warns sternly while steadying you on your feet, completely unaware that it’s not the sudden change in attitude that was going to make your knees give out.
You hope your gulp isn’t audible as you try to play the role of nonchalant-professional-grown-woman; one who is very suave and not at all bothered by the fact this is the most he’s flirted with you since hooking up in the bar parking lot nearly a month ago. He was really good at tug-of-war, but you’re still a pretty good tease too.
“I wore these for you,” you murmur as you briefly pose your legs that have been hugged by the sheer black fabric you were hoping he’d notice.
He hums in response and you feel your growing heat remembering how it felt to feel that hum against you.
You’re fixing with some holiday table decorations as a useful distraction to bore possibly any other spectators when your lashes flutter in his direction and see the lit cigarette’s embers glow bright with his inhale.
The Chief’s eyes turned to a darker navy, his pupils getting larger as he relieved a smoky exhale and studied your body shamelessly. You felt so vulnerable as his eyes scanned your every curve, his lips parting as the cigarette dangled.
Just as he was about to say something else, Flo is demanding he take a call up front and it sounds urgent. Shit.
The Chief hardly gives you a second glance before brushing past you, leaving you feeling flustered and disappointed.
You roll your eyes at the predictability of his emotional whiplash and carry on with creating a Winter Wonderland out of this dreary beige office. Nonetheless, you still make sure to keep your toes nice and pointed as you lifted your leg for balance the next time you were reaching for something high, just in case he was watching. Surely, bending over a few times from “accidentally” dropping a few ornaments won’t hurt either.
———————————————————
Your routine since getting home has been the same over the last couple of weeks. Come through the front door with an exasperated sigh, shed at least four layers of clothing while hanging up only your snow soaked jacket and throwing the rest of the layers haphazardly on the floor or across the couch, immediately start a hot bath, and bring a glass of wine to join you in the tub.
Today could not have been more exhausting.
As if you weren’t jumping through hoops professionally on the phone with these Hawkins locals, you now live in paranoia and anxiety over how the Chief interpreted seeing you outside with Phil coming in from lunch this afternoon, plus seeing his hand on your leg must’ve looked so intimate without context.
You sink deeper into the steaming water, letting the heat engulf your tense muscles and soothe your chilled skin. Your nose just barely hovering over the water as you replay the moment over and over in your head.
Why did Callahan have to ask you that? Why couldn’t it just be lunch to be lunch? Why did you kind of want to say yes? Why did the Chief have to walk out right at that second and make your core clench with an unmistaken ache as he looked at you like you were going to be in trouble? What was he going to say before Flo interrupted like that?
Your eyes close as you allow yourself to gently float in the bath while fantasizing about what could potentially happen tonight.
The holiday party wasn’t for another hour, yet you were capable of only focusing on your racing internal thoughts. The anticipation of a confrontation, whether that be between you and Phil or maybe you and the Chief, or Hell, it could be between Phil and the Chief, it all made you dizzy.
With a desperate deep sigh, you’ve finally managed to feel drop your shoulders and feel more relaxed knowing that there’s at least plenty of wine to disguise your cowardice.
———————————————————
It was picture perfect, really. The frost on the windows, everyone’s festive attire, and the red and green decor mixed with the amber lighting of the station. You and Flo had created quite a party.
She looks adorable in her green sweater, husband linked in her arm as she keeps trying to force another mug of hot toddy in your hands.
“You’re supposed to drink at these things!” Flo encourages, her free hand swatting your arm to lift the ceramic to your lips already. You were already tipsy, but this was going to be your third one.
Her husband is laughing along with you, charmed by his wife’s demanding nature and you ultimately give in, letting the warmth of the alcohol soothe your growing nerves.
You’d been mainly in their company since you arrived as the rest of the station mingled; some of the wives using the opportunity to gossip together about the local crime drama in peace without being scolded by their husbands, who would be currently throwing cards at one another across the table and drunkenly yelling over lost bets.
However, your eyes continued to scan for Phil or the Chief. So many ugly sweaters, so hard to tell the differen-
“Mistletoe!”
Your eyes widened recognizing the voice, but you’re relieved when you see Phil is holding it above Flo and her husband, who is peppering her cheek in multiple kisses as she laughs.
Flo ultimately snatches the mistletoe from Phil’s hands, claiming he “isn’t responsible enough” to wield it during the party, causing you to erupt in your own laughter as the couple disappears to torture others with mistletoe.
Phil is still shaking his head in disapproval once again, but you’re laughing, so that’s something he can smile about.
“Hey, I wanted to ask you somethin’…” he starts, swirling his own cocktail concoction in the red festive cup.
Here we go.
To be fair, the alcohol has you feeling good. Your nerves are melting away like the candlesticks on the shitty office table centerpieces and you’re starting to think Phil looks actually pretty cute with that stupid elf hat on. His dark curls peeking out of the sides, his cheeks flushed from the alcohol and winter air, his tall frame leaning close to yours making you feel shy.
“Shoot,” you say while bringing another, rather large, sip to your lips.
“D’you wanna…” he mumbles, almost chewing on the lip of his cup, the plastic crinkling.
Yeah?
“Uh, maybe….” He huffs, “listen, I mean…” he strays off, his feet kicking around at nothing on the carpet.
Yeeeah?
Your eyebrows remain raised, hinting at him to spit it out but something catches his eye from behind you and he’s walking away again. What the hell?
Your hair whips around your neck with the quickness as you turned to see what could have possibly made him leave like that.
Then, he saw you.
Instinctively, you drew in a sigh.
His broad shoulders in matching symmetry to the brim of his Chief hat, complimenting his narrower hips and strong center. You didn’t need the alcohol to know how good he looked. He wasn’t saying anything, just watching the two of you with an infamous cigarette between his fingers.
In your drunken state, your stubbornness is only heightened and you felt like two cowboys in a standoff from across the station.
You finish your drink while holding his stare, confidently (maybe dramatically) letting your mug smack on the table and begin to turn on your heel to find Phil.
The Chief really was unbelievable.
He was capable of flirting with you on the clock earlier, but now that he sees you in your off the shoulder holiday cocktail dress, similar black tights as before, talking to another man (let alone his own officer) in front of him, he won’t even approach you. He just wants to scare off the men who entertain you because he wants to be the only one who can actually have you, despite not having you.
The alcohol pumps through your veins, sudden adrenaline to find Phil and beg him to ask you out because at least that was a man capable of doing something when he wants you enough.
Your clacking heels are halted when something that felt like as strong as a tree trunk hooks around your center and pushes you up against one of the wood paneled hallways.
The wind is momentarily knocked out of you on impact, your head feels heavier as you prop it against the wall and can’t help but breathe out a laugh at the reveal of the Chief, who seemed to have used one arm to wrap you and the other to secure his drink.
“Jus’ where d’you think you’re goin’, sweetheart?”
He’s slurring so much and it makes a mischievous smile cross your lips, remembering how it was being this intoxicated that lead you to getting thrown over his desk in the first place.
His large hand is splayed out flat next to your head as he leans on his arm for balance. He smells so good, his aftershave a little stronger than usual. You angle your head towards him slightly before playfully stealing the cigarette from between his lips.
You expect him to scold or warn you, but his eyes are glazed and he’s only looking down at you with the most devious smirk, watching your red stained lips wrap around the cigarette and your cleavage rise and fall with your exhale.
“I was going to find Phil,” you confess while going for another drag, “since someone scared him off,” you add with a pout.
“He’s fine,” he grumbles curtly, looking annoyed then wiping his mustache on his shoulder before going in for another sip. His eyes scanning around the dark hallway to see if anyone can see you two like this.
The Chief’s watchman protocol is interrupted by your drunken giggling.
“You jealous then?” you dare to tease, nearly biting the end of the cigarette as you hold it between your smile. You’re pushing your hips off the wall and towards his, making his smirk return.
“That what you think?” he challenges, leaning in closer, nearly filling all the available space between you.
You can smell the stronger alcohol off his breath and want to drink it off his tongue.
All you can do is nod, look at him with your huge glassy eyes, and it’s making his pants so tight that he knows he can’t just walk back into the party and expect anyone to not notice.
There’s a beat of silence, filled by the muffled sounds of your coworkers laughing and shouting mixed with the faint melody of Rockin’ Around The Christmas Tree before he moves.
“Hmm,” he hums, finally taking the cigarette back from you and gives you his drink to trade. One smell makes your nose wrinkle up.
“Finish it,” his voice is so serious all of a sudden and you can tell from the expression behind the ember’s lighting what you were in for.
Your stomach immediately fluttered.
As soon as you followed your orders, you were getting rewarded. The hand that had been next to your head was now reaching up between your thighs. It felt so good to feel his hand on your skin finally. Your heavy eyelids fell at the feeling and the brim of his hat nearly touching you with how close he kept getting.
His palm was rough but warm, it might as well have burned holes into your tights as it slid up your inner thigh. You were dizzy before, but you were losing sense of what was just your deprived daydream and what was reality.
His lips find your ear again and you almost whimper from his teasing.
“M’gonna take you home…cause you’re too drunk to drive…” he starts, but as soon as you open your mouth to protest, his thumb swipes over your lip before pushing it past your teeth to silence you.
He nods along as you instinctively press your tongue against his thumb and he’s ignoring his growing bulge.
“When I get you home…” he continues, his eyes narrow on your lips around his thumb before meeting your eager gaze, hanging onto his every word. “M’gonna show you what happens when you’re naughty.”
Before you can blink, his thumb is already out of your mouth and he’s spun you around by your hip, only to feel his rough palm grab your ass with a firm squeeze followed by a small spank towards the direction of the party.
“Go on,” he commands you like a dog, adjusts what’s remaining of the cigarette between his lips, “tell ‘em you’re drunk, that m’gonna get my keys.”
You’re still processing the impending plan that’s challenging how intoxicated you really are all awhile feeling the sting of his hands on you.
When you said you’d be willing to see what the humiliation ritual is all about, you didn’t think it would include the Hawkins PD Office Christmas Party.
You want to ignore the wetness collecting in the small bit of cloth it has to hold onto, but it’s rubbing against your center with each wobbly stride you take as you find Flo to explain your sudden departure.
“Oh, honey…” she coos, bringing you in for a hug.
It sounds pitiful, but if this gets you released from the party with no more questions, then playing the part of lightweight newbie was the only option.
———————————————————
Lips crashing together, heavy labored breathing in between strained moans and teeth colliding as you desperately try to open your front door.
As soon as the lock is undone, you’re already being pushed back up against the inside of the door again as the Chief’s arms find the underneath of your thighs and lift you for better leverage into your passionate kiss.
Your hands grasp feverishly at the back of his hair and side of his thick neck for balance as you kick your heels off with a clatter, locking your ankles around his middle.
A couple of your pictures fall off the wall from your spotty handiness as he collides your back into the door again for more balance, using his hands to feel your thighs and squeeze your ass hard enough that you make a little whine against his lips.
As much as the Chief would never admit it, your sounds are all he can think about when he jerks himself off. The station had been working him hard this month and he needed to release some steam fast.
His tongue tasted like cinnamon and brandy, mixed with tobacco, as he fought for dominance in your kiss. His bottom lip getting pulled between your teeth had him carrying you towards your couch, setting you down with a satisfying bounce.
Without missing a beat, your hands were tugging on his belt to free himself as either side of his uniform clad thighs were in front of you.
As soon as the belt came undone and he assisted with stepping out of his trousers, your lips attached to the waistband of his boxers and left a trail of kisses over the cotton, feeling his cock jump against your cheek each time you got closer.
The Chief’s hands had lost themselves in your hair as you gently pulled down the fabric past his knees and took him into your mouth whole, or at least as much as you could fit.
His eyes rolled back as his sensitive tip pushed against the back of your throat, earning you a low satisfied groan before he gently cradled your head between his hands. With patience at first, he started to fuck himself with your mouth and every time your throat felt more relaxed, he would pick up the speed until your face was red and your eyes had watered.
Eventually, his grip changed back to your hair and gave a gentle tug up to bring you on your feet again. His arms were so strong with muscles constricting around you like an anaconda as he embraced you into another deep kiss, tasting all of himself from your tongue.
“Bed,” he mumbles against your lips before his hand is gripping your jaw once again, lifting your chin towards the ceiling to give full exposure to your delicate skin. His mustache scraped against your neck and shoulder as you tried to concentrate on leading him towards your bedroom.
Steering him backwards, you let the back of his knees hit the side of your mattress where he’d lower himself to sit, still grabbing at different parts of your body in any attempt to figure out where the hell the zipper on your dress is.
Before he can rip your dress past a point of salvaging it, you take a step back for a little strip tease.
You can really get a good look at him now.
There the Chief was, in your bed, propped on his elbows now as he looked up at you. His eyes still looked so dark, his brow casting a natural shadow that made him look so mysterious.
As you’re pulling down the zipper (he would have never assumed under your armpit), you attempt to make your movements slow and sexy for him. His eyes stay trained on your chest that you massaged as you stepped out of the fabric.
It’d been so long since you got to have each other like this and this was the first time he was on your turf. As much as he had the reins, he was still going to play a little by your rules.
His chuckle doesn’t embarrass you but encourages you, inspiring you to put your stocking covered foot over his exposed crotch, pushing on him the slightest and watching his eyes take in those legs again.
The arch of your heel feels over his hardened cock, making him sit up and rub your thigh, pressing kisses to the inside of your knee and calf. His hands are still so warm to the touch and the closer he gets towards your center, the more your body physically aches for his touch.
You seemed to forget the otherwise obvious difference in your sizes as his arms easily reach your hips, pulling you to his body closer so his fingers can hook around the hem of your tights. His hands find your chest for a gentle squeeze before they’re on the small of your back, pulling you into him so you’d stand between his knees and he could praise your breasts with his tongue.
One corner of his lips turn up into a mischievous smirk before he spoke against your skin, “L’buy you new ones…”
Before you can question what he meant, his teeth find the spot above your hip and his wet tongue is soothing the pain. It was then you heard a loud rip with his hands in tight fists between your thighs, completely tearing open the thin covering of your now dripping center.
You gasped from the shock of his urgency but also the sudden exposure where you’re most sensitive.
“There she is,” he says lowly, first slipping in one finger and it causes your jaw to fall, head tilted back as his then second finger started to rock into you at a steady rhythm.
Your eyes that had been squeezed shut finally open to see the Chief just looking up at you with so much intensity that it sends another wave of arousal through you, grabbing his shoulders for stability and forcing his fingers to go deeper inside you.
“Fuck,” he breathes out as he feels your walls tremor against his fingers. His other hand comes around the back of your neck in a firm grip to lower you into another intoxicating kiss.
As the speed of his rhythm quickens, his skilled tongue slows for a hypnotizing combination that was making your knees shake already.
Another depleted cry escapes your throat as you come, his forceful grip pulling you to the bed to trade places as he towers above you.
Your sheer black pantyhose does something wild to his imagination. As soon as you thought he’d had enough foreplay based off his now leaking cock in front of you, another gasp falls from your lips as he takes your ankles in simply one of his hands and holds them above your head.
The Chief tuts his tongue almost like a “tsk, tsk, tsk” as his two fingers enter you again without warning, making a gruff moan rip from your throat.
“What to do with such a naughty girl,” he teases you, spanking the underside of your thigh before pressing a kiss to where it stung, his mustache still managing to scratch your delicate skin the slightest.
He’s collecting your wetness and pushing it in and out of you, twisting his wrist in a way that feels euphoric inside you, watching his own actions closely. You continue to stir but the grip he has on your ankles feels like the cuffs he keeps on his hip.
“Please,” you beg as your knees rub together, desperate for more than just his fingers.
“Mm, you know the rules, sweetheart,” he purrs as he finally lowered your ankles to rest on either side of his neck before lining himself up with your entrance.
You needed to really beg for him.
Your hands reach between the two of you, attempting to grip him at least with the same strength he had, giving him a rough tug closer towards your throbbing cunt and you hear the breath hitch in his throat.
“Please, Chief, I need you,” you’re practically whimpering.
His eyebrows knit together as he strains to keep down a guttural moan.
He practically falls on top of you at how good you are at jerking him off. His precum coats your palm and you smooth it over his tip, your tongue licks his bottom lip and it sends him over the edge.
In one swift movement, your wrists are in his familiar grip, pressed down into your bedsheets as he thrusts himself up into you.
You’re both not shy with your noises, animalistic growls and cries as he continues to push himself in completely before pulling out and slamming back inside.
The Chief’s eager hands barbarically squeeze at your thighs, anything he could get a good grip on to stabilize his balance with each hard thrust. At some point, your vision got starry.
“You think he can fuck you like this? Hmm?” he pants, standing up straighter and letting his hips collide against yours.
“Oh, fuck,” you cry out as he gets rougher and harder with each new thrust.
When you don’t answer his question, his grip leaves your wrists to hold you by your neck, squeezing slightly and it’s about to bring you to another explosive orgasm. Your nails dig into his forearms but he doesn’t seem to mind.
He’s watching your eyes roll back, knowing you’re getting close. His expression is hardened, concentrated on keeping his rhythm as he adds his thumb to your clit, nearly making you crosseyed from the sensation.
“Say he can’t,” he demands, his voice is so raspy that it raises goosebumps on even your heated skin.
“He… can’t…” you can barely get out, he gives your throat an encouraging squeeze before his tongue is finding yours again inbetween your desperate panting.
“You’re gonna be good now, hmm? Good for me?” His nose brushes yours but his voice is anything but sweet, you know he’s letting you off with a warning this time and you’ve still never been fucked like this before.
“Not gonna get fuckin’ drunk, bendin’ over in your lil’ fuckin’ dresses, for everyone to fuckin’ see…” he trails off, sounding more and more vengeful as he continues to slam into you.
You nod instinctively, your foreheads touching, and feel his calloused palm leave your neck to reach behind your head to grip your hair.
You mewl against his tongue in another deep kiss, feeling him twitch inside you.
“Come inside me,” you whisper between coming up for air and he almost does right then just to hear you say it.
“Jesus,” he says under his breath, trying to focus on his movements but your walls are still so wet and they’re constricting around his pulsing cock.
“Chief,” you pant again, knowing he’s getting close with how his eyebrows are knitted together, and your swollen lips are saying his title like he fantasizes about.
Beyond his control, he’s spilling into you. Both of you watch as his cock, coated almost perfectly in his own cum, slows in rhythm while still pumping in and out of you.
“Fuck,” he swears again, collapsing next to you and making the mattress bounce slightly.
You’re both trying to calm your labored breathing on your backs, looking up at your bedroom’s popcorn ceiling.
Your mostly-sober giggle breaks the silence and you can feel his eyes burning a hole in the side of your head.
“You were jealous!” you almost sing, smug with yourself and so physically spent that you’ve reached a level of deliriousness.
The Chief rolls his eyes and goes to sit up from your bed before feeling your arms wrap around his shoulders from behind.
“Stay,” you plead, voice mimicking how you begged for him earlier and it does something to him that he won’t admit.
“I’ll be good, I swear,” you reassure, nibbling at his ear which hints at otherwise, and hear his thunderous rumble of a hum in response.
The warmth of his rough palm finds your thigh then calve, your leg extended in front of him and still clothed in the tights he seemed to love so much.
He continues to rub your leg appreciatively with tender squeezes.
“You owe me new pantyhose,” you remind him playfully, your voice still soft.
His louder chuckle surprises you as he gives another generous squeeze to your thigh.
“You get ‘em when you’re good,” he says like a warning, his appetite never fully satisfied and you quietly prayed he planned on fucking you senseless for rest of the night now that you had him all to yourself.
The Chief’s eyes find yours in that moment, a wicked smile grows on his lips confirming you were going to get exactly what you hoped for this Christmas.