You Wanna Fuck Me Right Now, You Wanna See Me On My Knees. You Wanna Rip These Clothes Off And Hurt me. Stranger Things x Female!Hopper!Oc
female!hopper!oc x stranger things, female!hopper!oc x billy hargrove, female!hopper!oc x eddie munson.
genre—a lil angs, but i think just that???
synopsis—after sarah death and her mother absence, solange hopper move to hawkins, living with her father. quickly she understand everything and everyone on that place are just fake. everyone has a dark side, even her. and whats solange dark secret? just she and the shadows know.
warnings—STRANGER THINS SEASON 3/4/5(?) STORYLINE some events are set moths before season 3 plotline. mention of death, prostitution, drugs use, characters death, misogyny, alcohol, sexual items, maybe smut¿, fisical and sexual violence. If you or someone you know is going through a similar situation, seek help as soon as possible. I don't normalize any of this.
Nelly's Big Thoughts—so, I just wake up and this shit pop out of my head and here it is. I'm just learning tarot for the eddie munson one. Repost & like if you like. REQUEST ARE VERY OPEN, DON'T BE SHY.
The sun shone on the horizon, bursting through the windowpanes and flooding the room without mercy. It hit the young woman’s face and body directly, cruel in the way only morning light could be—exposing every small detail she’d rather keep hidden. Her blonde hair was spread across the pillow, wild and tangled, leaving no room for anyone but her head.
Her body was slightly hunched, hands drawn up against her chest as if she were still protecting herself from whatever had chased her through her dreams. Her lips were parted, a soft, steady breath slipping through them.
She wrinkled her nose as the warmth settled over her skin. Rolling onto her side, she let out a small groan of irritation when her forehead knocked against the wall to her right.
“Shit…” she muttered, pushing herself upright with effort.
Her eyes scanned the room. Clothes on the floor. Empty cups. Half-open drawers. A familiar disaster. She was used to it by now. No matter how many times she tried to fix things, it always ended the same way.
Every fucking time.
She tugged a lock of hair over her shoulder, ready to collapse back onto the mattress, when voices and an insistent knock at the door snapped her fully awake.
“What the hell, Lizzy?” she snapped. “Let me fucking sleep.”
“Your dad’s been calling all morning, so I didn’t sleep either, bitch!” Lizzy shot back from the other side of the door, her voice sharp with irritation.
At the mention of her father, Solange rolled her eyes and dropped back onto the bed for a second, staring at the ceiling.
Of course he had.
She forced herself up again, suddenly aware that she’d gone to sleep without even bothering to put on pants—just a tank top clinging to her skin. Typical.
She padded into the kitchen, grabbed the milk carton, and poured it into a bowl without looking up.
“What did he say?” she asked flatly.
“Something about you going home when you wake up,” Lizzy replied. “And honestly? If you want the fucking sheriff of this town showing up at my place, you should probably go back to yours, Sol.”
Solange closed her eyes, resting her forehead against the archway of the kitchen door.
“That fucking old man”
This time, there were no excuses left.
Not for Jim Hopper.
The drive to Hopper’s place felt longer than usual.
And it wasn’t because she didn’t feel like leaving Lizzy’s, nor because of the exhausting night before—but because she knew there would be questions.
A lot of them.
That was Jim. Especially Jim.
Hawkins passed by in familiar fragments at the corner of her vision. Every place looked abandoned, as if people had simply vanished. Like they had never really been there at all.
She furrowed her brows—and then remembered.
Starcourt Mall had made people forget that Hawkins wasn’t a normal place.
And that felt… normal.
Because now they had something else to ignore: that Hawkins was many things, but it had never been safe.
She tightened her grip on the steering wheel, her knuckles whitening slightly.
Hopper’s cabin came into view a while later.
It looked the same as always. She stepped out of the car and walked toward the door, but before she could knock, it opened.
Inside, the air smelled like wood and coffee—maybe beer, too.
“Solange.”
His voice came from the bedroom. Calm. Too calm.
She closed the door behind her and took off her sunglasses. Hopper stepped out moments later, arms crossed over his chest. He looked like he’d forgotten to take off his uniform before going to sleep.
The thought made her smile unconsciously.
That earned her a low grumble.
“What’s so funny, huh?” he asked. “You wanna tell me where you were?”
She dropped her keys on the table, a little harder than necessary.
“I was at Lizzy’s.”
“At Lizzy’s,” he repeated, unimpressed. “You didn’t come home. You didn’t answer the phone. I called your job.”
She shrugged, brushing it off.
“I don’t have to report every fucking move I make.”
Jim raised an eyebrow, nodding slowly, mockingly.
“Is that so?” he said. “You live under my roof.”
She laughed—short, bitter. “Barely.”
That did it. Hopper stepped closer, his boots hitting the floor in steady echoes.
Tap. Tap.
“I worry about you,” he said, lowering his voice until it was almost a whisper meant only for her. “You go to work, then you disappear. You come back exhausted, and you expect me not to ask questions?”
She crossed her arms this time, instinctively defensive.
“Well, bad news, Dad,” she snapped. “You don’t ask questions. You interrogate.”
Silence slipped between them, tight and
suffocating, pressing against her ribs.
Hopper rubbed a hand over his face, worn down. At this point, even he didn’t know if it was exhaustion or frustration weighing on him more.
“Look…” he sighed. “I just want to protect you. Keep you safe.”
“I am not Sarah, Dad,” she shot back.
He didn't answer right away.
Instead, he looked at her then—really looked this time. The shadows under her eyes. The tension in her shoulders. The things she would never let him see completely.
And that scares him. It was so easy to see the difference this time.
He swallowed.
“I know… “ his voice came out calm, almost shy. “I know you're not”
“But that's the problem, isn't it?” she answered quickly, in her voice he could notice the anger.
He turned away from her, stopping with his hands braced against the kitchen counter.
Silence.
She waited.
And silence.
“You have Jane now, no?” she said, breaking the silence. “Just… worry for her, she really needs you.”
He heard her footsteps toward her bedroom, then the click of the door and… silence.
He didn't turn. Didn't stop her. He just… stayed in his place.
Behind her bedroom door, she leaned against the wood and closed her eyes, breathing.
Maybe she cross a line with her words.
But, was that or tell him the truth.
And if he knew the truth.
He'd break.
Just like with Sarah.
So for now, it was better to keep him hanging on lies.
The lights hit her face.
This time, it wasn’t sunlight spilling through her window, warming her skin.
It was that cold place.
The place where she didn’t belong to herself.
Where she belonged to men.
Here, her skin wasn’t hers—not even her breath. It all belonged to them.
She was used to it—That was normal.
Now, standing in front of the large mirror, she barely recognized herself. There was no innocence left in her gaze.
It was gone.
Just like everything—and everyone—in that fucking town.
Her makeup was impeccable. Her cheeks were flushed, though under the harsh lights it went unnoticed. Her lips were painted a soft, pale pink, paired with blue eyeshadow. Long lashes framed her eyes, enhancing an innocence she no longer possessed.
Her hair was perfectly styled into two ponytails, brushing against her shoulders.
She examined every detail carefully. The makeup.
The hair.
Then the clothes.
That was the worst part.
What would Jim Hopper think—the sheriff of this shitty town—if he ever found out that his innocent, perfect daughter was nothing more than a hooker?
If he saw the short blue dress that barely reached mid-thigh, leaving little to the imagination.
The stockings squeezing her legs.
The heels.
If he knew that beneath it all, she wore nothing but black lingerie.
He wouldn’t just be disappointed.
“Blondie!”
Lizzy’s voice snapped her attention toward the door.
“You got a client. Room forty-four.” She winked before disappearing down the hall.
She took one last glance at herself in the mirror before turning away.
When she first started working there, she’d been terrified someone would recognize her—that the whole town would find out. But the other girls had laughed it off.
Old men, Greta had said. A few drinks and they forget everything by morning.
Young people never came. Even when they tried, they were turned away. The place wasn’t talked about. Or maybe Hawkins did what it always did—pretended it didn’t exist.
The numbers lit up above her head.
She inhaled, pushed the handle, and stepped inside.
The music faded instantly. Red light swallowed her whole.
She focused on the man sitting on the bed. The broad shoulders. The shirt unbuttoned too low. The jacket tossed aside. Pants fitting his legs just right.
Blond curls.
A crooked, familiar smile.
Then his eyes met hers.
Bright. Blue. Sharp.
Watching her like a hunter watches prey.
Waiting.
Her stomach dropped.
She knew those eyes.
Those impossibly blue eyes.
That was him.
That was—
“Don’t be shy, babydoll,” he said, patting his thighs. “I don’t bite… unless you want me to.”
William Hargrove.
The town’s new troublemaker.
Billy Hargrove.
