keeptheselights | (no subject)

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hopper

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It takes her so long to get ready that she might as well be a teenager again. She dresses carefully, layering the lingerie that she'd cricled back to buy with a black velvet dress that's fitted across her chest and flared slightly around her thighs. She puts on heels and agonises, for a long moment, about which lipstick to choose before she goes for red.

She wants to be as far away from how worn down she's felt for a long time as she can. She wants to feel like she did when she was young, and full of promise.

Hopper wanted to pick her up but, because Will hasn't headed out yet, she'd said she'd meet him at the restaurant. She arrives early, standing outside with her arms folded against the cold, a cigarette between two fingers.

She's so nervous she actually laughs at herself.
Jesus.

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"Jesus."

There's not much else Hopper is even capable of saying, not at the mere sight of Joyce's back, the way her underwear sits, the stockings, the lace against her skin. His hands skim down her back and then he places his palms on her hips and turns her to face him.

It feels a bit indecent, being fully dressed while looking at her like this and it sends a thrill through him. "Christ, you're beautiful."

"I'll take that as a compliment," she says, her face heating at the warm reverence of the way he breathes that single word. His broad, rough hands skim down her back, ovoer her bare skin, and then they're resting on her hips and he turns her. Joyce is forty-four years old, a grown woman, and she still has to fight the urge to cover herself with her hands when she turns around. She finds herself suddenly shy. Instead, she tousles her fingers into her dark hair, her eyebrows slightly raised as she studies his face. The fact that he's still wearing all his clothes makes her warm. So does the fact that she's still in her heels.

"Your turn?" she says, reaching up to start unbuttoning his shirt.

The way she touches her own hair, then his shirt, it sends a bolt of tension coiling down his spine. It settles low in his stomach, a burning ember of want that’s been simmering since the moment she arrived. He hasn’t wanted to bring any expectation into what they’re building, but he would be lying to say he hasn’t wanted her.

“My turn,” he agrees, letting Joyce take control of unbuttoning his shirt. When it’s open, he shrugs the material off his shoulders and lets it fall to the floor.

She saw him without a shirt in Russia, but he'd been beaten, bloodied, starved. Now, he looks healthier, wholer, and Joyce finds her breath catching as his shirt slips from his shoulders. She looks up at him as she leans in, presses a kiss against his shoulder as her hands drop to his belt and start to open it.

"Is this okay?"

“Christ, Joyce,” he answers, one hand coming up to the back of her neck, the other on her hip as he leans down to kiss her. There’s more heat in his kiss this time, a pounding in his chest, and he presses closer to her, to the heat of her body.

“It’s okay,” he answers in a rough voice. He can’t imagine a situation in which he wouldn’t want Joyce to be touching him.

He kisses her like he means it, this time, like he wants her just as much as she wants him. Her hands are pressed between them, but she keeps working on his belt with a purpose, leather snapping as she manages to get it undone, as she thumbs open the button on his pants and unzips him before she pushes them down, sliding both hands over his ass and squeezing as she does.

If he's ever felt like a teenager again, it's with Joyce. Her hands on his ass make him grunt in surprise and arousal both, and he uses his hands on her to spin them, to walk them toward the bed. As they go, he kicks off his shoes, his pants, somehow manages to get his socks off at the same time.

It's as much grace as he's probably capable of today.

"You're so beautiful," he murmurs into her mouth as the backs of her knees come up against the mattress.

The sound he makes goes right to her liquid core, and Joyce finds herself desperately wanting to hear him make it again, to make him make it again. He nudges her back against the bed and Joyce sits easily, scooting back onto the mattress so that she can lean back on her elbows and spread her legs. Her face flushes, slightly, but she doesn't look away. She doesn't want anyhting but this.

"You're biased," she says.

“Nah,” he answers. No one would be able to look at Joyce and see anything but the beautiful woman she is.

Slowly, Hopper leans down onto the bed, one knee on the mattress between Joyce’s legs, the other on one side of her. Even right here, he can feel the heat coming off her body and when he plants his palm beside her shoulder and ducks his head, it isn’t immediately for another kiss. Instead he brushes her jaw with his mouth, then the line of her throat, kissing her soft skin and breathing her in.

Here they are, after so long.

She doesn't have an answer for that. Hopper's lips graze against her jaw and, when he drops to her throat, she tips her head back to give him all of the room he needs. She shifts, her knees grazing against the bare skin over his ribs. She arches her back slightly, her breath catching.

She feels like she's dreamt about this exact thing.

He’s always conscious of his size, his weight when it comes to women. Part of it is self-consciousness, but part of it is just knowing he’s a big man. And Joyce is small beneath him. Tough as hell, but still so small under the hand he slides up her side, over her ribs, along the swell of one breast, cupping it through her bra.

“I’ve waited for this,” he murmurs against her collarbone, kissing her skin. “For you.”

His hand covers her breast, squeezing, his lips brushing against her skin and Joyce feels like she's glowing, all of a sudden. She lies back further so that she can reach up with one hands, smooth over his chest, the breadth of his shoulders. She can feel how he's holding himself back.

"You don't have to be gentle with me, Jim," she says. "I've been waiting for this for a long time too, you know."

“Yeah, well, guess that’s why I don’t wanna crush you the first time you go to bed with me,” he answers, his voice rough with arousal. If it wasn’t plain in his voice, however, she would be able to feel it, where his hips press against hers. The hard length of his cock settles against the inside of her thigh.

“Between you and me, I’d like to do it again,” he says, then grins before kissing Joyce.

He's a big guy, sure, but not as big as he sometimes likes to pretend - not monstrous, not gargantuan. Joyce presses up into the kiss, rolling her hips to rock against the press of his cock against her skin through his underwear.

When the kiss breaks, she nips his lip and grins.

"Could just let me go on top," she says.

Hopper laughs, rough and happy, as he slides one hand down Joyce’s thigh, her skin smooth and warm under his palm.

“We could,” he agrees, then rolls to the side. At the same time, he gets both his hands on her waist, tugging her on top of him. This all seems impossible. He’s not this lucky, never has been.

He rolls onto his back and Joyce shifts until she's sitting astride him. In this position, his cock is pressed right against her, right between her legs, and Joyce bites her lip, rolling her hips to grind against him experimentally. She reaches behind her to start unhooking her bra.

"See? Much better."

"Much better," he agrees, distracted by everything about her. She's so beautiful. The light behind her like a halo, dim and warm, and then she's taking off her bra and Hopper sits up a little to help. The straps fall down her arms and Hopper helps to peel the bra away.

His head is swimming. He never really thought they'd be here.

"Shit, Joyce," he murmurs before he presses his lips to her collarbone again, one hand cupping her breast in his palm, thumb sweeping over her nipple.

Joyce has always been (rightly, she thinks) proud of her chest, and she arches her back a little, pressing her breast into his hand, biting her lip over a moan when he thumbs at her nipple. It's kind of refreshing, to be as old as she is, happy in her skin, confident and comfortable. She presses her fingers into Hopper's hair, cradling the back of his head as he kisses her collarbone. She smoothes her free hand over the broad line of shoulder, back to his shoulderblade.

"C'mon, Hop," she says, her voice husky. "Use your words."

“I thought I was,” he answers, laughing, the sound rough and genuine and real. For so long, he hadn’t laughed much at all, but Darrow has changed him.

He thinks it’s made him a better man. The right man for Joyce, the one he couldn’t be before.

Instead of words, he lowers his head, his lips following the swell of her breast before his mouth seals over her nipple.

His mouth is hot and wet and perfect, and Joyce moans softly, arching her back to press closer to his mouth, fingers of one hand pressed into his hair, nails on the other just scratching lightly against the bare skin of his back. She can still feel him, hard between her legs, and she rocks her hips experimentally, teasing them both through two thin layers of fabric.

"Shit," he says through a heavy exhale, his mouth still pressed to her skin. It feels like being a teenager all over again, finally getting to touch the girl he's been dreaming about and that's not all that far off. Hopper has been thinking about Joyce for years now. Somehow, he's fallen in love with her while she wasn't even here, and now he's actually getting to be with her.

How the hell has he gotten this lucky?

"Okay, come on," he says, laughing. "Get the rest of this off."

"God, you're impatient," says Joyce, but she doesn't want the extra clothes on any more than he does. There's going to be no graceful way to take off her panties and her garter belt while she's still sitting across him, so she rolls her hips one more time and then she shifts, slipping off the bed so that she can peel those things off, one thing at a time until she's standing there, naked as the day she was born. She blushes, softly.

"Everything you were hoping for?" she asks, leaning in to hook her fingers over the elastic of his boxers.

“Been waiting for this since I was seventeen,” he answers, but he’s laughing again. Christ, he doesn’t think he’s laughed this much in his entire life.

But it was always that way with Joyce.

She undresses the rest of the way and he feels struck dumb again, staring at her. At all her soft skin, the fall of her hair against her shoulder.

“Come here,” he answers.

They'd both been with other people in the interim, but Joyce thinks that, in a way, so has she. The way he looks at her, naked as she is, feels like it unlocks something in her, makes her face hot. She bites her lip over a smile, gives his underwear a pointed look.

"Take those off first."

Hopper doesn’t need to be told twice. He hooks his fingers in the waist of his boxers, then lifts his hips at the same time as he tugs them down. Maybe his body isn’t what it used to be, but Joyce’s look, her dark eyes, all that tells him it doesn’t matter the way he might think it does.

She wants him, too.

He’s hard and his cock hits his belly softly once he has his underwear off, but he’s still staring at her. “Come on,” he says again and holds a hand out toward her.