compromise ?

#SHECOMPROMISES is a canon divergent STRANGER THINGS blog for EL HOPPER ( please only refer to her as such in interactions with me ). delving back into the wholesome yet unsettling mood of the first three seasons after which point I follow my own verse that can be found under the cut. personals and minors DNI . you can find my rules page here . — ( nikita . 32 . she / her . )

other blogs: @duhngeons

STRANGER THINGS X THAT 70S SHOW AU VERSE

Point Place, Wisconsin is all suburban houses, vinyl crackle, and too much time to kill. Days blur together between school, cigarettes behind the store, and the constant hum of music drifting out of the basement, where everything always ends up.

Jim Hopper’s new foster kid, Eloise, dropped into town with a quiet past and a manila folder nobody reads too closely. People in this town know how to mind their own business. She doesn’t talk much, but she sees everything. Jim is clearly in over his head and turns frequently to Joyce for advice, who introduces El to her kids.

Most days end in Mike’s basement — the unofficial center of everyone's universe. Worn couch, low ceiling, music always playing. Arguments about nothing. Laughter that lingers. The circle forms once they’re old enough, smoke curling toward the ceiling while time stretches thin. El usually watches more than she speaks, deadpan and unreadable, until she drops a comment so honest it cuts straight through the noise.

There are no monsters here. No powers. No saving the world. Just a group of teenagers killing time in bell-bottoms and leather jackets while trying to figure out who they’re allowed to be.

People keep explaining things — rules, traditions, what costumes mean — but I already understand the important part. You get to be something else. On purpose. No tests. No numbers. Just candy and laughing and the cold air making my nose sting. I keep touching the decorations to make sure it’s real, that no one is going to take it away and tell me I didn’t earn it.

I nod when he says it, because that’s what I’m supposed to do. Good means I did what they wanted. It means I can stay here, where it’s quiet, where no one is yelling. I look at him instead of the men behind the glass, because he doesn’t look at me like I’m a thing.

Something warm spreads through me, fragile and dangerous. A good day here often feels like a bad day. My head is still pounding, like there’s too much pressure behind my eyes, but I keep my hands steady on my knees. “Thank you,” I say, like it’s a secret meant only for him. Because when Henry says I did good, it feels different. It feels like maybe I’m not just useful. Maybe I’m… worth something