Chapter Text
Most of the time, Hopper forgets he’s married to a vampire.
It just isn’t something that crosses his mind anymore, not as the years have gone on. She’s nothing like the fictional vampires in the movies Jonathan sometimes picks up from the video rental store around Halloween, just to get a laugh out of how exaggerated they are. It’s easy to admire the little quirks rather than hesitate around them when you’re madly in love. Anything that somebody else might see as a bloodsucking vampire is something he just sees as Joyce and nothing more.
(The fact that he and Will are the only humans in the house only crosses his mind nowadays is when El emerges from her room–delicate and cranky and always acting like every tiny mishap is the end of her thirteen-year-old life–, usually to complain to her mom that her fangs hurt like crazy. Hopper knew puberty was an asskicker, but vampire puberty didn’t even cross his mind until Jonathan had been that age, and even still, whatever the hell is happening with El right now is arguably worse, he’s sure of it.)
(“Patience,” Joyce had told him the other day after a shouting match and the slam of the door with the girl’s mind, patting the side of his arm. Not even Joyce can do that, move shit with her head.)
There’s not one thing about Joyce that scares him in the slightest, (except for when she hollers ‘James’ from downstairs–that’s when he knows he’s in deep shit) and he thinks it’s ludicrous that anyone else would feel differently. The rumors and plain gossip that had spread throughout high school have stupidly carried into adulthood, pushing her and their family away from most with dirty glares and gossip.
Joyce Anne Hopper is the furthest thing from a standard, murderous vampire. Her vampirism comes out in little quirks and oddities that he can’t help but fall in love with.
It’s happened too many times to count, the way he’s had to anchor her back down to her spot beside him during movie nights when the film drags on for too long and she zones out, slowly levitating upwards.
That warm, happy noise she makes most nights when she’s sated and relaxed, so subconscious he doesn’t think she notices it; a purr, almost.
Joyce had rolled off their bed in her sleep a couple nights ago and Hopper had woken up to a bat floundering on the ground in a pile of her own clothes. Drowsily, he’d scooped her up with hushed words and cradled her to his chest, her webbed wings sprawled out against him as he stroked the top of her head until they both fell asleep.
Tonight, she’s not floating or a winged critter, but there’s definitely something off about her. He’s not the smartest tool in the shed, he knows that, but it doesn’t take a genius to notice how antsy she’s been lately, like a cloud hanging above her head, just too far out of reach to shoo away.
When he shuts the sink off and moves from where he’s been washing off the dirty plates, Joyce, standing beside him and drying them off, doesn't notice at first. Hopper moves up behind her and places his hands on her shoulders, feeling her flinch beneath his palms.
She grumbles. “Jesus, Hopper–”
“Hey,” he murmurs, bodies flush together as he pushes her brunette curls to the side before he begins to knead out some of the tension in her shoulders. It’s a half-surprise when he doesn’t get shrugged away and is sent a step or so backwards–Joyce is tiny but every once in a while, Hopper gets a firm reminder that vampires are strong–and instead, she begins to lean into his touch. They both remain quiet until they don’t. “I think you’re hungry,” he comments neutrally, quietly.
Joyce frowns. “We had dinner, like, an hour ago–”
“‘Other hungry, hon.” His movements of his hands don’t stop, but Joyce’s do.
Hopper doesn’t know too much about her needs in terms of drinking and it’s only because she doesn’t usually concern him with it. Most of the time, she just slips from their bed at night a couple times a month and returns early enough so that he wakes before she does, but he knows because there’s sometimes a dried trickle of blood that hangs from her lips. He’ll brush it away but he doesn’t comment, not normally.
El and Jonathan don’t have that craze because they’re only half vampire.
With Joyce, he suspects it’s a little more primal than that.
She hesitates, exhaling through her nose. “I’m not– starving for it,” she says, shrugging. “I’m just…I dunno. I don’t want to deal with it tonight.”
“But you are hungry?”
“I guess. Yeah.” She sighs, drying off the last plate and placing it in the rack before she turns around in his hold. There’s something in her eyes but he can’t quite place it, but they’re dark and sweet, blinking up at him as his mouth parts in hesitance.
“You can drink from me, y’know,” he tells her lowly.
Joyce’s mouth twitches ever so slightly as her lips part, the tips of her fangs just coming into view. Her gaze falls and lingers on his neck briefly, like the mere idea being spoken out loud has allowed for her natural instincts to kick in just a little, but at the same time, she’s shaking her head–torn. “Hop, it’s fine,” she assures him.
It probably is, but he presses anyway. “You sure?”
She nods easily. “You know I get by just fine on what I do already.” She turns around, reaching for another dish, resuming her cleaning. “And, you’re my husband. Not a blood bag.”
Hopper snorts at her wording as he holds her closer, resting his chin atop her shoulder. “Why can’t I be both?” he asks, a tease against the shell of her ear and Joyce shudders.
“What is this about?” Joyce nudges him away with little effort as he kisses the cool skin of her neck, but he only moves in closer with a soft c’mere. “Hopper–”
“Have you ever wanted to bite me?”
It comes out in a gruff whisper, hanging in the suddenly thick air as quiet follows them.
“I don’t think I’ve ever not wanted to bite you,” she admits after a beat, almost sheepish, cutting through the silence.
He lifts his head just enough to watch her swallow and wet her lips. As her gaze remains downcast at the plate and sponge in her hands, he can’t pin her expression; all he can tell is that she wants it, just by the way her fangs have popped considerably since a couple minutes ago. They jut out a bit when she talks, and her lips sit in a thin line as if to hide them when she’s through.
Something settles in Hopper’s stomach and he presses a kiss to her temple. “Then why don’t you?”
“I have," she shoots back, not unkindly, because she has.
Of course she has, a couple times, and never has he once been opposed to it. The first time, they’d been screwing around like the stupid teenagers they were back in the day when she’d accidentally drawn blood in what was supposed to be a playful nip. She’d spent the rest of that night apologizing, and she’s drank from him a couple other times other than that.
“Why don’t you do it more often?”
“Hopper, I don’t like hurting you,” she exclaims like it’s obvious, finally turning to look at him.
He softens. “You’re not hurting me,” he promises her lowly. “Don’t worry ‘bout that.”
She blows out a breath, picking at her nails. “I worry about everything.”
Tilting his head, he smiles weakly down at her as he brushes a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I know that.”
A beat passes where Hopper’s hand lingers at the side of her face, just holding her jaw before his thumb comes to brush across her lower lip. Joyce meets his gaze, but there’s something different there from what it was only moments ago. Her lips part as if on instinct, fangs peeking out, and with a shuddering exhale through his nose, he grazes the pad of his thumb along the tip of one of them. Red begins to pool at his finger, but he instantly forgets the vague sting that comes along with it when Joyce swipes the tip of her tongue along the cut before pressing a kiss to it.
His wife’s abilities don’t involve spell casting, but sometimes, Hopper wonders if that’s actually true; one moment, he’s still standing in the kitchen, and in the next, he’s being straddled on the couch in a string of messy kisses they probably shouldn’t be engaging in on the living room couch, but he can’t be bothered to move when this woman is above him and nipping at his bottom lip like she’s hungry for him. He doesn’t remember the in between, not really.
He’d be an idiot to do anything but let her do whatever the hell she wants when she begins to kiss down the side of his face, hips rocking just enough to make him have to stifle a groan.
“Are you sure?” Joyce whispers against the shell of his ear.
Hopper nods dumbly, threading his fingers through the mess of curls at the back of her head. “Yeah,” he gets out, sounding a little weak. He is weak, for her.
He flutters his eyes shut as he tilts his head over to the side but he can still feel her hesitancy floating around in the air, and right as he’s about to ask what’s wrong, she licks a strip up the side of his throat, fangs grazing his neck before a sharp sensation of pain erupts in the place where she sinks her teeth into his flesh, blood trickling down his neck.
He blows out a hiss of pain and tenses at the imminent pain, biting on his lower lip on reflex. He hears his heart beat in his ears and warmth circle up to his cheeks as she lingers for just a moment longer before pulling away with a sweet little moan. He hadn’t realized how tight he was grasping her shirt before he lets go and begins to caress her back in little circles as she laps up the trail of blood up to the mark she’d left on him, beginning to drink him. He shudders.
“There you go,” he encourages lowly, bringing his other hand up to move her hair out of the way.
Never had Hopper thought of something like drinking another’s blood to be a very romantic thing, but Joyce’s hand is caressing his jaw, tender and so sickeningly gentle, and the other is on his chest, against his heartbeat, and there’s that noise he’s gotten used to over the years, that little pur, and he can’t help but crack the weakest of smiles.
After a short moment or an hour, he doesn’t know, Joyce pulls back with a kiss to the mark, head against his shoulder. “You okay?”
Hopper looks down at her. Joyce looks drowsier than she had a few minutes ago; eyes heavy and her smile genuine but sleepy, red stained on her lips. She looks milk drunk–blood drunk?–and it might be a little morbid if she didn’t look so adorable, with her cheek smushed against his shirt.
“Mhm. You okay?” he echoes gently as she presses another lazy kiss to the skin, her face hidden away.
The wrinkle of her nose as she grins tiredly is all he needs to know, but she gets out a ‘yes’ around a yawn; too sleepy to give anymore.
“You think we should head to bed?”
She hums. “Gimme a second,” she murmurs into his neck, inhaling deeply. “You smell good.”
Hopper just chuckles quietly and leans down to press a kiss to her forehead through her bangs.