Okay listen up because this one got weird even by my standards but also?? It kinda makes sense and I am Concerned™️.
So. You know the scene in Stranger Things Season 1 when Will Byers is running from the Demogorgon and falls from that tree? Yeah. That one. The one where he lands flat on the ground like a LEGO piece in a vacuum and somehow survives with zero broken bones.
What if he didn’t actually survive?
Hear me out. He fell from, like, a thirty-foot tree. A twelve-year-old child. No superpowers. No padding. No “I took gymnastics once in second grade so I know how to roll out of a fall.” Just— splat. That’s it. Game over.
So my theory is: Will Byers actually died that night.
And the only reason he’s still walking around Hawkins, making awkward heart eyes at Mike Wheeler, is because Vecna resurrected him.
⸻
Now before you come at me with your “Joyce and Hopper revived him with CPR” and “they found him in the Upside Down and saved him,” okay, yes. You’re technically right. But what if that CPR only worked because Will’s body had already been… altered?
Like. Think about it. Vecna sends the Demogorgon to capture Will. He tells it — and I quote from my brain — “Bring me the boy, alive.”
But the Demogorgon, bless its slimy little heart, messes up. Will dies. Vecna’s like, “Oh great. Now I have to do this myself.”
So Vecna uses those weird Upside Down particles — you know, those floaty, spooky snowflake things — to rebuild Will.
Basically necromancy with extra steps.
And here’s where it gets worse:
Will doesn’t come back as just “Will.”
He comes back as something else. Something halfway between human and Upside Down. He’s technically alive, but his body runs on those particles now. His cells are like, “hmm, delicious interdimensional spores, my favorite.”
That would explain so much:
• Why Will can still “feel” the Upside Down even when he’s back in Hawkins.
• Why he gets those weird chills when Vecna is near.
• Why his hair has never once looked like it belongs to a fully alive person (sorry, Will, but the undead bowl cut aesthetic is real).
And if the Upside Down ever gets cut off completely from the real world — like, if the gang succeeds in closing every gate — Will dies.
Because he’s not just connected to the Upside Down.
He’s powered by it.
Vecna didn’t just curse him. He rebuilt him.
Will Byers is basically a sentient Upside Down battery trying his best to live a normal Midwestern teenage life while everyone around him plays D&D and ignores the fact that his soul is a different color now.
⸻
So yeah. That’s my theory.
Will Byers died, Vecna resurrected him using the particles, and now the only thing keeping him alive is the exact same evil energy that Hawkins is trying to destroy.
If the Upside Down goes, Will goes.
Conclusion: Will Byers is the horcrux nobody asked for.
And honestly? At this point, if the Upside Down ever collapses, someone better tell Will to just pull a Harry Potter, walk into the void, die for the plot, and then come back because love or whatever said “nah, you’ve still got trauma left to unpack.”
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✧.* : G.W x Reader
✎ : Faking it was easy, but feeling it.. thats the true battle.
𖦹 : 2.7k
A/N: part three HERE
[masterlist]
Much Love, Saige
ϟ taglist ϟ @falsedivide @procookie2007 @damagedbreign
The Great Hall buzzed with Sunday morning chatter, the kind of easy noise that wrapped around students like warm blankets and pumpkin juice. But at the Gryffindor table, an unusual tension settled over one specific corner.
Because George Weasley was holding your hand.
And not in a casual, we’re both reaching for the toast at the same time way. No—holding it. Fingers laced. Hands resting on the bench between your thighs like it was the most natural thing in the world.
It wasn’t.
Your left eye twitched slightly.
“Relax,” George whispered through a forced smile, the kind people use when everything is on fire and they’re pretending it’s not. “You’re gripping like you’re trying to duel me with hand strength.”
“You’re sweating,” you hissed back.
“I’m nervous! You’re terrifying!”
You gave him a daggered look and adjusted your posture. Fred, who had just sat down across from you, blinked once and froze mid–sip of pumpkin juice.
“…What the bloody hell?”
You plastered on your most convincing I’m blissfully in love with my rival smile. “Morning, Fred.”
George, never one to pass up dramatic flair, leaned in and kissed your temple.
Fred spat juice halfway across the table.
A first year shrieked.
“GEORGE?!”
“Yes, darling?” George cooed at you, oozing smugness and suppressed laughter.
You elbowed him in the ribs. Lightly. Professional elbowing.
“You’re dating Y/N now?” Ginny asked flatly, seated two spots down, toast frozen halfway to her mouth.
There was a pause.
“We’re exploring… new dynamics,” you said slowly, every word tasting like hot shame and strategic genius.
Fred’s brows furrowed. “Since when?”
You and George spoke at the same time.
“Last night.”
“A week ago.”
The table fell silent.
Fred narrowed his eyes. “You don’t even like each other.”
George shrugged and bit into a croissant. “Hate’s just foreplay.”
You choked on your tea.
Ginny, unamused, narrowed her eyes like a hawk spotting a rat in a wig. “This is for the campaign, isn’t it?”
“Ginny,” you gasped, hand to your heart. “How dare you insinuate—”
“Yes,” George said plainly.
You glared at him.
“I mean, no,” he amended quickly, blinking innocently. “Absolutely not. This is… passionate and real and… blooming like a romantic fungus.”
You pinched the bridge of your nose.
“I give it two days,” Fred said, grinning now. “Before they either kiss or hex each other.”
“Both,” Ginny muttered.
“Simultaneously,” Fred agreed.
Still, they didn’t protest.
You’d expected suspicion, but what you got was… amusement. Tolerated spectacle. As if the Weasleys weren’t surprised—just waiting to see how long it took to explode.
George leaned closer, voice low. “We need to be seen together again tonight. Common Room?”
“Fine,” you said through gritted teeth.
“Want to pretend to share a chair?”
“I’d rather set myself on fire.”
He grinned, pleased.
“You’re enjoying this too much,” you murmured, slipping your hand from his beneath the table.
He didn’t argue.
But he didn’t let go right away, either.
——⭑⋆⋆⋆⭑——
It started with a simple plan: be seen.
After dinner, when the dormitories began to empty into study nooks and secret corridors, the Gryffindor common room was still warm and golden, buzzing with lazy conversation, late-night chess matches, and the occasional enchanted quill humming across parchment.
You sat on the couch nearest the fire, legs tucked beneath you, a thick wool blanket across your lap and your Potions book open beside a neglected cup of cocoa.
George appeared five minutes later.
He didn’t say anything;just raised his eyebrows in greeting like this was routine now. Like finding you in a quiet corner of the common room was something he expected.
He sat beside you.
Not on the far end of the couch, not in the armchair nearby. Right next to you, thigh to thigh, blanket shifting slightly between you.
You didn’t shift away.
This was strategy.
Visibility.
Nothing more.
Fred noticed first. He passed behind the couch, paused, then leaned down between you with the smirk of someone already crafting a story in his head.
“Well, well, look at this cozy little nest.”
“Go away,” you both said at once.
Fred laughed, threw a marshmallow at George’s head, and sauntered off muttering something about “lovebirds” and “predictable tension.”
You exhaled through your nose.
George glanced sideways. “He’s going to tell the twins in Ravenclaw by sunrise.”
You gave a slow nod. “Good. More witnesses.”
The room slowly emptied around you. People peeled off toward dormitories, yawning and stretching. Even the fireplace crackled lower, casting everything in deeper amber and shadow.
And still, neither of you moved.
George leaned back, arms stretched across the back of the couch, one just barely behind your shoulders. He said nothing for a while.
Then,
“You don’t have to keep doing this, you know.”
You blinked at him. “What?”
“This.” He gestured vaguely between you. “All the fake smiles and dramatic hand-holding. If you’re sick of it.”
You studied him. The firelight flickered across his face, softening the usually sharp edges of his grin.
“I thought you were enjoying it,” you said cautiously.
He looked away. “I am.”
A pause.
Then he added, almost too quietly, “But not because of the campaign.”
You didn’t respond right away. You weren’t sure what to say to that.
Instead, you shifted. Slowly leaned into the space between his side and the couch cushions. Just enough so your shoulder brushed his. Not an accident this time.
His breath hitched, barely noticeable, but there.
You didn’t move away.
Neither did he.
And somewhere, in the quiet warmth of the common room, with firelight dancing and your Potions book forgotten…
The campaign didn’t matter quite as much as it used to.
——⭑⋆⋆⋆⭑——
The common room had grown quiet in a way that wasn’t just about who had gone to bed.
It was the kind of quiet that settled between two people who had run out of things to pretend.
The fire was nearly embers now, glowing faint and red beneath the grate. Shadows stretched longer on the floor. Your book had closed somewhere in the last hour, abandoned beside your mug. You hadn’t spoken since Fred left with a smirk and a muttered, “Try not to elope before sunrise.”
You didn’t laugh.
Neither did George.
Instead, you sat there—shoulder to shoulder, close enough that he could feel the occasional brush of your breath when you shifted. Close enough that he could smell the faint floral something you always wore. It wasn’t dramatic, or theatrical, or designed for effect.
It just was.
George flexed his fingers against his thigh, resisting the urge to reach across the inch of space between your hands on the cushion. His heart was steady, but his thoughts weren’t.
You were so still now.
Not calculating. Not biting back a snide remark.
Just… there.
And it hit him suddenly: he could kiss you.
He could. Not for the crowd. Not for the cameras that weren’t there. Not for some carefully plotted move in your fake romance campaign.
Just—because you were close, and quiet, and warm. Because your eyes were sleepy and soft when you looked at him. Because you hadn’t moved away when you could have, and he wanted to touch you in a way that didn’t come with a punchline or a vote.
He turned toward you just slightly.
And you turned toward him too.
But neither of you moved any closer.
Instead, the air between you thickened, and you looked away first. You reached for your book, clutching it like it might give you something to say.
“Well,” you said, barely above a whisper, “we should probably go to bed.”
It wasn’t suggestive.
It wasn’t flirty.
It was a retreat.
George nodded, throat tight. “Right. Yeah. Long day tomorrow. Gotta keep the charade alive.”
You stood, adjusting your blanket and brushing imaginary crumbs from your skirt. You didn’t look back at him right away.
But when you did, your eyes lingered a second longer than necessary.
Something unsaid passed between you. Something weightless and heavy all at once.
He stood too, too quickly, knocking his knee against the edge of the table. “Night,” he mumbled, already stepping backward toward the stairs, like distance might give him back the balance he’d just lost.
“Goodnight,” you said softly.
And then you were gone.
The fire snapped once as the portrait hole creaked open and closed. George stood there for a beat longer than necessary, staring into the spot you’d just left behind, fingers twitching at his side like they still wanted to reach for something that wasn’t there anymore.
The kiss hadn’t happened.
But the thought had.
And that, somehow, felt worse.
——⭑⋆⋆⋆⭑——
The stairs creaked like they always did. The castle never slept properly; it just sighed and shifted, its bones old and wise and always listening.
George climbed the last step to the boys’ dormitory and pushed the door open slowly, the firelight from below still flickering faintly in his eyes. The room smelled like parchment and old broom polish, like the kind of sleep that came from laughing too hard or working too late.
He peeled off his robes, dropped them somewhere near his trunk, and flopped onto the bed without ceremony. Fred was already half-asleep, sprawled diagonally with one foot hanging off the mattress and a pillow over his head.
But George lay awake.
The ceiling above him was familiar, traced in cracks and shadow, and yet tonight it didn’t ground him like it usually did. He turned onto his side, arm curled beneath his cheek.
Your laugh echoed in his mind.
Just once—but it had been enough. Real, quick, almost startled. Like you hadn’t meant to let it slip. He hadn’t expected it. Hadn’t expected you to lean into the shared couch space like you belonged there, like the act wasn’t just for show anymore.
Maybe it wasn’t.
That scared him more than he wanted to admit.
You were everything he wasn’t supposed to want—sharp-tongued, relentless, his biggest competitor since first year. You drove him mad. You made everything a game, a race, a dare. And he loved the game. Loved beating you, matching you, one-upping you.
But tonight, you didn’t feel like a rival.
You felt like warmth under a shared blanket. Like the slow burn of cocoa in the chest. Like someone who could be still, when the fire dimmed and the castle exhaled, and let him be next to you.
He’d joked that hate was foreplay. That it was all part of the act. But the moment you leaned in, just enough to brush his side, just enough to not pull away—
It hadn’t felt like acting anymore.
And when you didn’t move, when you let it happen, when you sat there long after the common room had emptied and you both just… stayed?
He’d felt something twist in his ribs. Not sharp. Not hot. Just—something.
George swallowed and turned his face into the pillow. His heart was steady now, but there had been a moment—just one—where it had stumbled.
The campaign. That was the reason. Of course it was.
You were both just playing the same game.
But maybe…
Maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if the game ended and you were still sitting next to him. Not because you had to. Not because people were watching.
But because you wanted to.
——⭑⋆⋆⋆⭑——
The common room felt colder the moment he left.
The door to the boys’ dormitory had barely clicked shut before the silence thickened around you, no longer shared but utterly yours. You sat there, unmoving, blanket still tucked around your legs like armor. The fire had burned low—glowing embers now, soft and red, pulsing in the quiet like a heartbeat.
You stared at the flames, but you weren’t really looking at them.
You were thinking about the space between you and George. The space that had been so small it was barely space at all.
You should’ve kissed him.
The thought landed in your chest with the weight of a dropped book.
You told yourself it would’ve made sense. Strategic. Convincing. Maybe even earned a few more whispers by breakfast.
But the truth itched under your skin like a burn that hadn’t quite healed:
You didn’t want to kiss him for the campaign.
You wanted to kiss him because—for one dizzy second—you’d wanted to.
And you hated that.
You hated that his presence lingered like warmth in the cushion beside you.
You hated that you’d looked at his mouth when he’d turned toward you.
You hated that you hadn’t moved when his knee bumped yours and he didn’t apologize.
And most of all?
You hated that he didn’t kiss you either.
That he’d looked like he might, but then didn’t.
Like maybe he had the self-control you were suddenly lacking.
Like maybe he knew it would be dangerous. Real.
You curled your hands into fists in your lap.
This was supposed to be simple. A truce for show. Mutual benefit. Nothing more.
But now you were sitting alone in a dimmed common room, heart thudding in your throat and skin prickling with the ghost of a moment that never even happened.
You weren’t supposed to want things from George Weasley.
You weren’t supposed to feel anything when his eyes lingered on you a second too long.
But gods, you had.
And now, in the dark, you weren’t sure if the heat on your face was from the fire—or from your own betrayal of everything you swore you wouldn’t let happen.
You hated that too.
With a sharp exhale, you shoved your book into your bag, pulled the blanket from your lap, and rose to your feet.
No more almost moments.
You had a campaign to win.
And if George Weasley was going to turn this into something messy, you’d just have to be the one who stayed in control.
Only the low purr of the dying fire and the creak of old wood under your feet filled the empty common room as you walked across the stone floor, still hugging your arms tightly around yourself.
You weren’t tired—not in the way sleep could fix. Your head was loud; your chest still ached with the echo of a moment that almost happened. So instead of following George upstairs, instead of crawling into bed and letting the dark swallow you, you turned.
Toward the bulletin board.
It was tucked between two bookshelves near the fireplace, framed in worn gold with Gryffindor red trim. Usually it held chore rotations, announcements, Quidditch schedules.
Now, it bore the race for House Heir.
You hadn’t looked in a day or so; it felt self-indulgent. But tonight, something gnawed at you.
You stepped closer, heart still beating unevenly. There were four large names pinned up, magically enchanted to pulse faintly when they climbed in votes.
Cora & Micah – 45%
Y/N & George – 40%
Felicity & Jack – 9%
Devon (alone) – 6%
You blinked.
There was no Y/N and George.
Just—“Y/N & George.”
Together. As one name. One candidate.
You stared at the glowing line beneath it, the way the golden script shimmered slightly more than the others. People weren’t just voting for you separately anymore. Someone—enough someones—had started seeing you two as a pair.
And you hated how your stomach flipped at the sight.
It was a good thing, right? Proof that your shared campaign was working. That the firelight chats and dramatic smirks and whispered bickering had paid off. You’d barely even had to kiss him. You hadn’t even—
Your jaw clenched.
This was the goal. Beat Cora and Micah. Remind Gryffindor what real charisma looked like. Two rivals teaming up to dethrone the popular kids—classic underdog story.
So why did your throat feel tight?
Why did your hand hover near the name like touching it might burn?
You stepped back, the flickering letters still seared behind your eyelids.
Tolbert and Murray's conversation about not allowing magic to be used in a fucking magic school is literally just Umbridge's plot line from Harry Potter and the Order of the Pheonix
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Cinnamon rolls, Satoru realizes with a start. You smell like hot out of the oven fucking cinnamon rolls when you walk in the front door, and his stomach flips, the muscles in his lower abdomen clenching.
Satoru swallows drily and he runs his mouth before his brain catches up, blurting the first thing that comes to mind.
“You smell.” He winces.
He watches as your head whips towards where’s he’s perched on the couch, eyebrow arching with a roll of your eyes as you toe off your shoes. Satoru tries to plaster on a playful smile but he knows his gaze is heated, intense.
Satoru’s voice takes on the familiar teasing lilt it always does. “Silly me! You smell good enough to eat baby. Is that a new perfume you’re wearing?”
You pad towards him, socked feet silent on the wooden flooring and the cinnamon scent so thick he can almost taste it on the back of his tongue. His grin stretches even further when you come to stop between his spread legs.
“No, it’s not technically a perfume. One of the girls at work got their hands on some sort of love potion experiment. Apparently the scent changes based on what’s important or attractive to the wearers object of affections. Someone spilled some on me and I came home early to change,” you complain, nose scrunching in irritation. “I can’t even smell anything.”
“Oh how sweet! Am I the object of your affections? Your lover? Your sweet and handsome husband?”
You cross your arms over your chest and huff through your nose. “Of course that’s all you focus on. What if it had been something dangerous?”
Satoru’s fingers curl in the edge of your shirt and tug gently, lower lip pushing out.
“But it didn’t.”
“You’re unbearable. At least tell me what I smell like to you?”
“Curious sweetheart?” He pulls at your shirt like a child asking for attention until you take the hint and straddle his lap, arms circling your waist and guiding you to lean into his chest. “Cinnamon rolls,” he says dreamily and nuzzles at your throat. His lips tickle your skin and a familiar warm lust lights up in his belly when you sigh.
“Cinnamon rolls?” You settle your elbows on his shoulders and tangle your fingers in soft, snowy white hair, scratching gently at his scalp.
“Yeah… like the ones you brought back for me after your mission last winter.”
“That’s what you’re attracted to? Cinnamon rolls?” You ask incredulously, leaning your forehead on his temple.
“I had forgotten how shitty it was to be alone,” he says softly. “When you came home, I realized just how much you fill my heart. Whenever I smell cinnamon rolls, I remember how the for the first time in years, I was truly happy.” Satoru hugs you even tighter as he confesses.
You pull back to frame his face with your hands, staring at him with what equates to literal hearts in your eyes, and Satoru bites the inside of his cheek, toes curling in his socks.
He’s certain he could melt into a puddle underneath you and his cock twitches at the thought, filling steadily out against his thigh. He grips your hips and tightens his fingers in an effort to not tear your clothes off.
Yet.
Your words are sincere and adoring when you whisper, “I love you, Satoru.”
Satoru is fucking gone.
He cradles the back of your head and wrenches you down into a bruising kiss, absolutely shameless in the way he pushes his tongue into your mouth and moans like a whore.
You even taste like sugary icing and he has the strongest urge to devour you — or let you eat him alive. He’s not sure which will win out.
All Satoru can focus on is wrestling you both out of your clothes and getting your tight, velvet like pussy to sink down on his achy cock. You cry out, sitting down a bit too eagerly and your forehead knocks into his. Satoru lets out a shaky breath and inhales even sharper as a moan tries to crawl out of his throat.
The spicy scent of cinnamon makes his mouth water and then he’s digging his fingers into the backs of your thighs and forcing you to bounce up and down on his thick cock, biceps flexing in an effort to lift you quickly and letting his hips thrust upwards to meet you.
You push Satoru into the back of the couch and follow him as he goes, bracing your palms on his sweaty chest and riding him until you’re both sent spiraling into white hot pleasure that rushes through your limbs.
Later, when you’ve gone to bed and showered off the spilled experiment, you’re curled into your husband’s chest and he softly exhales, ruffling your hair.
“Baby, you should really get your friend to give you a bottle of that love potion.”
You hum noncommittally and half heartedly punch him in the stomach, causing Satoru to wheeze in laughter.
“Or I could just bring you more cinnamon rolls, idiot.”
