Rebel, Rebel - Jim Hopper x Reader

v. Bent, Not Broken

You sighed heavily through your nose, drumming your fingers against the hard leather of your steering wheel as the notes of some random song blared loudly through your car speakers. Your attention was divided evenly between the roads leading to Hawkins High School and the dilemma you currently faced. While you had wished to break things off with Larry over the phone to avoid looking him in the eye, his mother informed you that he wasn't home. As per tradition, you knew the likelihood of the football team returning to campus to drink a few beers under the bleachers was very high. No one would ever discover them there so late on a weekday. Theoretically, you could wait until tomorrow to talk to him, but you knew you wouldn't be able to sleep until you did it.

After fifteen minutes deep in thought, you pulled your car up onto a curb near the football field before removing the key from the car's ignition. You seemed to be on auto-pilot as you exited the vehicle, your eyes darting around the field in search of a sign of life. Nothing.

After looking under the bleachers, you started to become confused. Maybe they weren't as predictable as you had thought them to be. All of the go-to areas of the school for late-night drinking were abandoned. No sign of life whatsoever. You huffed disappointedly, crossing your arms as the night air began to chill your body. It seemed as if you would be in for a sleepless night, after all. You began to walk back to your car when you saw it, the familiar shape of Larry's beat-up Mustang, which was parked a few spots away from the entrance of the gym.

You stalked over to the car, your palms beginning to sweat as the reality of the situation began to take hold of you. If Larry was anywhere on property, this would be your best bet. There would be no more worry of maintaining a power couple status, nothing in the way of what you needed anymore. This decision would alter the course of your next year, but you couldn't bring yourself to fear it any longer. You were actually relieved that you would be cutting yourself away from this. Larry only existed as a metaphor for everything that was wrong with your life right now: false popularity and sense of a safety net, the painful deliberation of partaking in a sport that made you miserable, the illusion of perfection. Your preconceived ideals of happiness had changed; you now knew what real happiness felt like. It was Hopper. Being held in his arms, goofing around with him...Jim Hopper was happiness.

As you approached the car, your confidence began to lessen, your throat suddenly becoming dry when you saw the shape of two bodies in the back seat. As you got closer, you soon realized that the car was bouncing lightly and the windows were fogged. You inhaled sharply in your nose, the pieces of the puzzle before you coming together as you stopped in front of the passenger's side of the car. Your heart beat rapidly in your chest as you heard familiar noises...moans. Larry's moans. You swallowed down the ball in your throat before knocking on the window harshly.

Larry's face popped up in your vision behind the fogged-up window, and you could detect the blushing tint on his cheeks along with his lipstick-stained lips from the woman below him. He began to curse under his breath when he recognized you, quickly fumbling around to regain his composure before scrambling out of the car. As he sat up, the other figure became visible, her bright blonde hair causing you to fill with a quiet rage. Chrissy Carpenter.

Larry tumbled out of the driver's side, yanking his jersey on and attempting to zip up his fly as he began to panic.

"(Y/N)!" he shouted, running over to where you stood. He attempted to lightly grasp your arm, but you yanked it away as soon as his fingers brushed your skin. "This...this isn't what it looks like."

"So, you're not fucking another girl in your back seat?" you asked cautiously, sarcastic tone biting behind your voice.

He looked down at his feet dejectedly as Chrissy emerged from the car while attempting to fix her hair, her clothes far-beyond dishevelment.