This could be read as a companion piece to "Black (Make My World Go)," or could be read as a standalone.
This story is titled from the Sharon Van Etten song "Every Time The Sun Comes Up."
Beta: Grammarly.
Any mistakes found are my own.
I do not own these beautiful characters.
/movieholic92
Hopper wakes with a sharp snuff, bleary-eyed, and lips parted. He blinks hard, trying to shake the last vestiges of sleep still desperately clinging to heavy lids.
The crown of his skull aches, his head pressed against the headboard after their night of lovemaking. He can see the edge of his pillow, wedged between the bed frame and the end table. He can't grab it with his left hand, the slim cushion too far back for his arm to bend; his right is wrapped around Joyce.
He looks down the bridge of his nose, down the length of her body; she's a comforting weight against him, solid and snug, her leg thrown over his - he can feel where their fluids had pooled from within her, settling against his skin; it's stiff and crusted over where it's gathered.
He'd be disgusted if he didn't find it so damn arousing.
Her naked body pressed against him, head resting on his shoulder, strikes him with a proper sense of déjà vu. He cuts his gaze to the side, shielding his eyes from the glaring white starburst in a startlingly clear sky. He squints against its brightness.
What was it she had said?
"You'll get me when the sun comes up."
He can feel a smile tugging at his lips, the thumb of his dominant hand sweeping back and forth against Joyce's skin as she sleeps on; her bare chest steadily rising and falling, breasts squashed against him.
With bated breath and careful, deliberate movements, Hopper pulls his arm from beneath her body until it's free. He lies on his side for a moment, taking in her parted lips and long lashes, before he dips his head and presses a firm kiss against her temple; wispy hairs brush his nose.
He shimmies until he's face-to-face with Joyce, cognizant of how much he's jostling the bed. He leans in again to press a kiss on her cheekbone, then the side of her mouth.
He wakes her tenderly - she's had too many things taken from her against her will - he won't take this, no matter how many reassurances she gives. So, he continues to pepper her neck and face with his lips until her eyelids flutter. After a moment, she finally cracks her eyes open and meets his.
Hopper holds her tired gaze, thin slits taking in his face, unfocused and uncomprehending, her mouth opening and closing as her brain tries to keep up.
"Hey," he breathes when she finally offers him a sleepy smile. He crowds in then, suckling the column of her neck as she turns her head into her pillow to allow him better access.
He pushes himself up onto an elbow, using the leverage to reach every inch of skin he can with just his mouth, nipping and reveling at the flush of arousal that erupts across her pinking skin. He places a gentle kiss on her closed eyes. She turns her face upward, and he slots their lips together, fusing them as he shakily exhales through his nostrils.
Hopper's only half-surprised to find that he's cupping her face; he doesn't remember lifting his hand, but now he's aware of the delicate skin beneath the callouses of his palm; he tilts her head up to deepen the kiss.
She moans into his mouth, and he can't help the involuntary stab of arousal that lances through him. He pulls away, breathing hot and damp against her red, swollen lips; they're wet, slick with their saliva, and he can't stop himself from licking into her inviting mouth once more.
"Hop," she finally gasps, breath uneven.
The heady stench of sex permeates the room; sweet, pungent, the smell of them. It makes his head spin with lust.
"Lie back," he demands hoarsely, palming at her shoulder until she rolls on her back and stares up at him with dark, drowsy eyes; pupils blown with desire as he shoves the comforter off the bed and throws his weight over her supine form.
He hovers above her, knees bracketing her hips, palms on either side of her head. The long, wild strands of her hair tickle the backs of his hands; he can't help but stare, eyes large and wondrous as he drinks her in. Disbelief furrows his brow.
"What?" Her voice is husky, low, and wrecked. She crinkles her nose in puzzlement. "Hop, you're staring."
"It's just-" He cuts himself off, eyes continuously roaming over her exposed frame; he takes in the striped stretch marks, the occasional smattering of freckles, the nearly imperceptible discolored blemishes. "You're so beautiful, Joyce."
"Oh." Her mouth creates a perfect little circle, her brows drawing together as she looks up at him. Then, her face creases into a broad smile, like a new dawn breaking. If the sun never shone again, he thinks all he would need to see through the darkness would be that gorgeous grin, the sparkle in her eyes rivaling the stars on a cloudless night.
"Yeah," he huffs, an aborted laugh lodged in a throat tight with emotion. He doesn't know how to put into words, how to express to her, how unbelievably lucky he feels.
He lifts his hand and cradles her jaw within his palm, thumbing her bottom lip, but before he can lean down to capture her mouth again, she turns her head and sucks in the digit.
He stills, eyes hazy and unfocused as she suckles, his hand pliant, resting against the smoothness of her jawline until she raises her own to guide him down: lower and lower until he gets the hint.
Joyce squirms as he presses against her clit with the thumb glossy with her spit; she cants her hips, trying to adjust and get him exactly where she wants him. She must not realize she's whining, needy and restless in the back of her throat until he presses his lips against hers as he slips his thumb through her folds.
Hopper usually likes to work her up, ratchet the pleasure higher and higher until she's practically begging for release. But, she's clearly on the precipice and ready to go, left unsated after their midnight coupling.
So, he drags his lips down her face and neck as she throws her head back then down her clavicle, ignoring her dusky nipples (they've found teasing them did nothing for her.) He continues down the smooth expanse of her belly, bestowing featherlight touches of his lips along her abdomen until he's burrowing his nose in the dark curls of her pubic bone with a deep inhale.
He pushes his body down lower, scraping his teeth against her sensitive skin until he's finally where he wants to be: between her legs, his nose pressed into the sweat-slicked junction of her thigh and wet, hot cunt.
With quick, deliberate movements, a man on a mission, he pulls her right leg over his shoulder and settles over the lower half of her body.
"Pillow," he grunts.
She hurriedly pushes one toward him, his own that was previously stuck. He urges her to raise her hips so he can slide it beneath her. He hums in satisfaction before he settles back between her legs again.
Without a moment's hesitation, he delves into her glistening cunt like a starving man set before a five-course meal. He doesn't follow any rhyme or reason. He merely sucks and licks at her, lapping at wet folds with a broad and gentle pressure, swiping his tongue in circular motions, not settling for anything in particular until she gasps and places her hands atop his head.
There it is.
"It's not going to be enough," she manages to gasp, pushing his head harder against her, rutting against his face until he digs his fingers a little harder into her hips; a warning. She pries his fingers from her hipbones; she'll have bruises (she won't mind, but he will.)
Hopper takes the unsubtle hint and runs the knuckle of his index finger against the mess of her cunt; he likes to think he can see some of what he left behind in her last spilling over his fingertips now.
He unfurls his hand, dipping his finger inside her; she's so slick and soft that a groan spills from his lips unbidden.
"Hopper, please," she begs, body undulating and trembling with need, desperate.
He inserts another finger, steadily scissoring them in and out of her as he resumes suckling on her swollen clit; the rigid tip of his tongue swiping at the nub when he pulls back to take a heaving breath. She bucks at the sensations, the nails of her fingers biting into his skin; they'll leave red welts, but he'll wear them pride.
(He won't mind, but she will.)
"Oh," she grunts, and fuck does that sound punching out of her flood his body with endorphins, a dizzying high that he never wants to come back down from.
He's half-hard, his pelvis shifting restlessly as he sucks and licks into her. He doesn't think he can go another round, not so soon since the last, but a voice in the back of his mind tells him he'll have no trouble if she keeps making sounds like that.
He knows she's craving more, needs it, but as much as he wishes he could will his cock to fully harden on command, he's not as raring to go as he was back in his youth. He could probably get there if they had time and the house to themselves.
Instead, he curls his fingers up and strokes the swollen and raised tissue within her that has her hips arching into the air; it won't be enough, either, not on its own. He resumes sucking and nipping at her, can feel the tell-tale fluttering around his fingers. He can feel how tense she is, body bucking and rocking against his fingers until another firm press of his thumb against her clit has her stifling a throaty cry.
Hopper doesn't let up, he sucks and licks, and strokes as her fluids soak his hand and slick the creases of her thighs. She clenches around his digits, muscles contracting and pulsating as she struggles to find her breath.
He expects her to push him away now, too sensitive from his ministrations, but she whines and writhes until he gently shushes her. "It's okay," he murmurs, voice thick and ragged, "I know, honey. I know. I've got you."
"I need you," she rasps, slender fingers trying and failing to wrap around him.
"Christ," he moans, scrambling up until he's covering her sweat-soaked body with his own, the heat radiating from her rivaling the sun outside their bedroom window.
(He thinks he can happily die of heatstroke right then and there.)
He lies atop her, settles his full weight over her prone form; every inch of their perspiration-covered skin sticking together as he grips the base of his cock, squeezing as he slides it through her slippery folds until he can feed the tip inside of her.
She grinds upward, unsteady and impatient, before she grasps his hipbones and pulls him down to meet her frenzied motions. He lets her set the pace, burrowing his face against her neck, panting against her skin; unable to do anything but rock his hips until she's wrapping her legs around his waist and keening, almost painfully, into his shoulder.
His semi-flaccid cock is pushed out with the force of her orgasm, her body twitching and lurching as it rolls through her. He presses his forehead to hers, closing his eyes as he fights to catch his breath and wrapping his arms around her, holding her tightly against him until the shaking finally stops.
He rolls off her onto his back, throwing an arm over his face to block the offensive brightness of the sun; he leaves one arm out, one hand palm down on her stomach, fingers ghosting over skin prickled in gooseflesh.
Joyce shifts languidly, bringing her legs up and curling onto her side, bone-weary and exhausted. He rolls onto his side, once again face-to-face with her; he sweeps the dark tendrils of hair stuck to her sweaty skin off her neck.
He takes a quivering breath, trying to will his arousal to recede so he can properly get up and greet the day. He finds himself massaging one of her kneecaps, kneading the muscle around the bone; it shifts beneath his palm - she aches in her joints after sex, every fiber of her being straining toward a singular goal.
She hums in satisfaction, body slumping as sleep starts to overtake her.
Hopper pulls away, rolling off the edge of the mattress to plant his feet on the sun-warmed planks of the floor. He stretches, arms raised and jaw cracking with an obnoxious yawn.
He scratches at the wiry hairs on his chest.
"Where're you goin'?" She asks drowsily, cheek smushed into the pillow, his pillow he realizes; the one that was, just a moment again, shoved beneath her hips as he-
Hopper clears his throat. "To start the coffee," he replies. He reaches out, places a hand on the curve of her thigh; there are dark hairs there, and he finds he couldn't care less. After a beat of a moment, he pats her leg and retracts his hand with a put-upon sigh.
He stands on shaky legs, not entirely trusting the muscles to support him as he scoops a pair of his jeans from the floor and steps into them. He goes toward the door, feeling wobbly and flushed, before he pauses with his fingers wrapped around the handle (skin tacky and stiffening as her juices slowly dry.)
Joyce has her head burrowed in his pillow, dozing peacefully as the sun warming the side of her face dips behind a cloud; she murmurs, shifts, then says a little louder: "You're staring again."
"Yeah," he says a little too quickly. He clears his throat and nods. "Yeah, yeah," his voice noticeably going higher with each utterance of "yeah" that falls out of his mouth. He grins, boyish and hopelessly in love; he can't help the delighted laugh that bubbles up from within his chest. "Yeah," he says once more.
Her dark eyes are mere slits as they follow him. He steps out into the hallway, closes the bedroom door, and allows the back of his aching crown to thump against the hardwood.
He closes his eyes, feels his smile widening:
"I'm in trouble."
The End.
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