"Skills are needed to understand when characters do something so black and white that there's no deep subtext needed to understand it."

My main man Robbie McKee is shaking his head right now. He ain't got time for nonsense like this, because:

1 - Subtext does not exist to help the viewer 'understand' a surface action that is otherwise nonsensical. It is not a communication aid - rather, it is an aspect of cinematic language that adds to the meaning of the story.

2 - (and Robert is very adamant on this one) There is always, ALWAYS, subtext. The only time there might not be intentional subtext is at the very end, when characters have been 'taken to the limit of human experience' and the writer has exposed the true meaning of the story - but even then, a deeper symbolic meaning may be interpreted.

The reason for this is simple:

Stories are metaphors for life, and life is full of subtext.

Those who don't agree are simply unaware of the subtext that exists all around us constantly, both intentional and unintentional. In fact, its a reason for so much miscommunication in life - which is a major theme of Stranger Things. There's even subtext for why I'm creating this post - maybe you can figure out what it is as you read :)

Now, as we go on, I'll be quoting direct passages from Robert McKee's wonderful book on screenwriting, Story. They'll be in italics and quotations, but bear in mind this book was written in the 90s so any wording should be taken as contextually appropriate. For example, Rob substitutes ‘he’ for ‘any gender’ when referring to the writer, but he explains why he does so in a foreword. Spoiler: it’s for ease. Being economical is typical Robert - and you'll see why later!)

Let’s crack on!

‘Just as a personality structure can be disclosed through psychoanalysis, the shape of a scene’s inner life can be uncovered through a similar inquiry. If we ask the right questions, a scene that speeds past in the reading and hides its flaws brakes into ultra-slow motion, opens up, and reveals its secrets.’ 

PAUSE.

Already, Robert is letting us know that it’s great and good and wonderful and important to analyse your media if indeed you are interested in the craft of storytelling. He probably didn’t think he had to write that one down for us, but sorry Rob, the internet can influence a bitch sometimes.

I mean...

Many pro-milevens are happy to explain away any byler fan as someone who just has a prior agenda to see a gay romance on screen at any cost, which is not only wildly presumptuous but also shows a complete lack of curiosity.

And so few people understand the concept of Mike and Will's romance being latent. That it has future potential, that it is coming into being - and therefore any hints and clues are just that: hints and clues that could support a later reveal, not incontrovertible signs that are supposed to be THE things that show an audience byler is already happening. And some bylers do indeed speak like Mike and Will is inevitable, but honestly, Stranger Things is not a completed work, so anyone who says they know how it will end...

Well. What would Robert think of that? His advice to writers is as follows:

'The audience is not only amazingly sensitive, but as it settles into a darkened theatre its collective IQ jumps 25 points. When you go to the movies, don't you often feel like you're more intelligent than what you're watching? That you know what characters are going to do before they do it? That you see the ending coming long before it arrives? The audience is not only smart, its smarter than most films, and its all a writer can do, using every bit of craft he's mastered, to keep ahead of the sharp perceptions of a focused audience.'

In short, what screenwriter wants their audience to know how their story will end?

And why should you, as a viewer, even want to know?

It's a violation of the story ritual; the pleasure of sitting in 'a darkened room' and watching something play out from beginning to end. I think its worthwhile, in fandom, examining exactly why fans on both sides might need so desperately to speak for Stranger Things when it hasn't finished speaking for itself.

Looking to see where the story might go, however, is part of the joy of being a viewer. The writer wants to keep you hooked; they do everything to peak your curiosity.

But takes like this one confuse the heck outta me:

Do you find them confusing? Do they have you scratching your head, wondering what exactly it is that this person is railing against? Is it subtext itself? Do they think symbolism and subtext truly doesn't exist, that art really is shallow?

That's sad. Clearly my man Robert over here is just a joke to them.

But maybe they simply deny anything that is used as a hint towards byler, for whatever reason. I'm more interested in that, so let's have a closer look.

There's lots to unpack here!

New language! 'Supertext'.

The One Way sign means one thing only

Who Mike loves has been clearly shown both in action and dialogue

First, 'supertext.'

Chill out Officer Callahan, it could be a real term. Let me just consult Robert McKee's book while I loudly sing ‘supertext’ to the tune of 80s funk classic Super Freak by Rick James.

("That girl’s a super text, she’s pretty textyyyyyyy") 

Ok, I'm being facetious; they clearly mean the 'text', as opposed to the 'subtext'. I’m all for inventing new prefixes and suffixes, but I just think that if you're going to discuss the craft of writing, especially in such condescending terms, you should probably use the right words.

So, what's the text?

‘Text means the sensory surface of a work of art. In film, it’s the images onscreen and the soundtrack of dialogue, music, and sound effects. What we see. What we hear. What people say. What people do.

'But subtext is the life under the surface - thoughts and feelings both known and unknown, hidden by behaviour.

Nothing is what it seems. An old Hollywood expression goes: If the scene is about what the scene is about, you’re in deep shit.'

Oh my god.

Does Robert even know how hot and bothered I am right now? My mind is 95% Mike Wheeler and 5% the pressing need to plunge my head into a bucket of ice-cold water.

Second point of contention: 'The One Way sign is just a One Way sign.'

Knowing what we now know about scenes never being what they appear, that doesn't seem very likely. But maybe that commenter thinks other subtext exists, but that the sign itself is not one of them.

Is the sign even subtext?

The text is that Mike is in his bedroom, late for school and needing to get dressed because Nancy is waiting for him.

The subtext is that Nancy and Mike have a fraught relationship, and that Mike's going through a difficult period in his life, signified by the state of his room, his lack of care for personal hygiene (wearing yesterday's clothes), and his tardiness. Oh, and that the letter from El has him preoccupied in a way that for some inexplicable reason contributes to his overall disorganisation and foul mood.

Some people may disagree with this subtext. They may say this understanding is just subjective, that Mike is just a teenage boy so of course he's messy, and it means nothing.

But nothing ever means nothing in a story, because all artists have is subjectivity. Emotion, implication and connotation is their very currency. As Robert McKee's book will show us later, facts and objectivity have no place in a story. Instead, writers work with signifiers that they believe their audience will understand, able to infer reasonable meaning about what is going on.

The other option is bad exposition: telling an audience exactly what is happening in a way that feels contrived. That's bad storytelling; lazy, easy, and undisciplined.

It's reasonable to infer that the state of Mike's bedroom tells us something about him, because not every teenager in this show has a messy bedroom. But Mike does.

Why?

And why does he have that One Way sign on his wall?

I mean, sure, it could just have been a gift or something cool he saw, but it also appears right where Mike's head just was when he bends down, drawing momentary focus to it, and it forms a tongue-in-cheek metaphor for diving straight into the closet. So if that's a coincidence, it's a hilarious one. I would also say this is symbolism rather than subtext.

'Symbolism is very compelling. Like images in our dreams, it invades the unconscious mind and touches us deeply - as long as we're unaware of its presence. If, in a heavy-handed way, we label images as 'symbolic', their effect is destroyed. But if they are slipped quietly, gradually, and unassumingly into the telling, they move us profoundly.'

Don't forget that Robert is speaking to people who want to write screenplays. If you want to write subtext and symbolism, he says, you must be subtle. This alone validates the One Way's sign's potential importance as a symbol of Mike's queerness, despite only being on screen for milliseconds. Perhaps the fact it's only seen briefly is part of its subliminal power.

Another example of symbolic imagery in the show could be El hanging cruciform in Vecna's hellish red lair and the field of flowers dying at the end of s4; things that enrich the telling rather than carry it.

Now for the trickiest and most prevalent take against byler: 'Who Mike loves has been shown in both action and dialogue.'

Let's get into the weeds of what subtext is. Here's a worthy scene to analyse.

Robert McKee says...

‘Often a first draft [of a scene] falls flat or feels forced… the problem won’t be in the scene’s activity, but in its action; not in how characters are talking or behaving on the surface, but in what they’re doing behind their masks.’

‘Nothing is what it seems. This principle calls for the screenwriter’s constant awareness of the duplicity of life, his recognition that everything exists on at least two levels, and that, therefore, he must write a simultaneous duality: first, he must create a verbal description of the sensory surface of life… second, he must create the inner world of conscious and unconscious desire, action and reaction. As in reality, so in fiction: the writer must veil the truth with a living mask, the actual thoughts and feelings of characters behind what they're saying and doing.'

It's time to talk about facts vs. truth, baby.

First, here's some of Robert McKee's Essentials of Being a Good Fiction Writer.

The love of duality - a feel for life’s hidden contradictions and a healthy suspicion that things are not as they seem The love of uniqueness - the thrill of audacity and a stone-faced calm when it is met by ridicule The love of beauty - an innate sense that treasures good writing, hates bad writing, and knows the difference. 

Construct a story in a way no one has ever dreamed, says Robert, including fresh insights into society and human nature coupled with in-depth knowledge of your characters and their world.

In-depth knowledge of your characters and their world.

Sorry to interrupt Robert, but I think I just heard someone say that the Duffers genuinely forgot the date of Will Byers’ birthday despite it being included in the text of the show - in dialogue during a major climactic moment, no less - and that the date of said birthday just coincidentally happened to also be the very same day that Mike Wheeler arrived in Lenora to celebrate spring break, after which a season’s worth of chaos ensued, but that the writers just forgot all of this, or didn’t once think to check. 🎉 🥳 🎁

But sorry Robert, please continue, by telling us what makes a bad fiction writer. 

'The writer of spectacle mistakes kinesis for entertainment, creating an assault on the senses that bears no resemblance to life whatsoever.

Meanwhile the portraiture writer believes that the more precise his observation of day-to-day facts, the more truth he tells. But because this writer sees only what is visible and factual, he is blind to the truth of life. Fact, no matter how minutely observed, is neutral. It is truth with a small ‘t’. Big ‘T’ Truth is located behind, beyond, inside, and below the surface of things, and cannot be directly observed. 

The weakest possible excuse to include something in a story is ‘but it actually happened!’ Everything imaginable happens. Indeed, unimaginable things happen. Mere occurrence brings us nowhere near the truth. What happens is fact, not truth. Truth is what [the writer] thinks about what happens.’ 

So.

It kind of looks like all those arguments about Mike and Will ending up together being unrealistic are moot, doesn't it? Not because the show is about supernatural monsters and a girl who flings stuff in the air with her mind, though. Emotional groundedness is still important, even in fantastical sci-fi.

Stranger Things, however it turns out, will be the Duffers’ views on life and the world, dramatized. If the Duffers want to express a view of the world that includes a teenage gay romance in smalltown 80s America, then they will find a way to do that. What people are saying when they say that byler is 'unrealistic' is that 'The Duffers would never want to tell that story.'

To which I say... really, bro? That's the impression you're getting?

So far, I don’t find the Duffs to be overly concerned with making something just to appease a certain subset of conservative audience members, do you? If so, would they really have chosen to make a show with overt anti-conformity, anti-authority themes that dramatizes a real and declassified US government program involving illegal human experimentation? Seems kind of like asking for trouble if you want plain sailing, don’t you think? 

But what about Mike's actual actions and words? He said he loved El NINE TIMES!!!! AND COUNTING!!!!!!!!

Welp, looks like we've got to look at the meaning of dialogue. Robert, help me out.

‘Text means the sensory surface of a work of art. In film, it’s the images onscreen and the soundtrack of dialogue, music, and sound effects.

Dialogue is not conversation. Eavesdrop on any coffee shop conversation and you’ll realise that you’d never put that slush onscreen. Real conversation is full of awkward pauses and poor word choices, while dialogue requires compression and economy. It must say the maximum in the fewest possible words.’

This makes Stranger Things very interesting, because the conversations themselves are often self-referential, with the narrative acknowledging how the things people say are often different to what they mean. Do you remember when Robert said this:

'An old Hollywood expression goes: If the scene is about what the scene is about, you’re in deep shit.'

‘This means writing on the nose; writing dialogue and activity in which a character’s deepest thoughts and feelings are expressed by what the character says and does, a.k.a writing the subtext into the text.’ 

I love that he said ‘on the nose’ - who else said that in Stranger Things?

Our boy Will :)

Oh, Will is well aware of subtext and implication. Did we really think that, as a young gay boy in small town America, he wouldn't be well-versed in what things might mean?

He even downplays the implication he knows his painting holds, by drawing Mike's attention to the heart, not away from it, yet changing the meaning of that heart into something else. Will is a master at hiding in plain sight.

Now for an example of some bad dialogue with no subtext.

Robert McKee considers the following to be bad, 'on the nose' screenwriting:

‘Two attractive people sit opposite each other at a candlelit table, the light glinting off the crystal wine glasses and the dewy eyes of the lovers. Soft breezes billow the curtains. A Chopin nocturne plays in the background. The lovers reach across the table, touch hands, look longingly in each others’ eyes, say ‘I love you, I love you’ … and actually mean it. 

'This is an un-actable scene and will die like a rat in the road.’

Lmaooooooooo Robert!!

Ok, hackles might be raised now, because I’m sure there’s plenty who want a love confession between Mike and Will where they tell each other their truth. But...

'Actors are not marionettes to mime gestures and mouth words. They’re artists who create with material from the subtext, not the text. An actor brings a character to life from the inside out, from the unspoken, even unconscious thoughts and feelings out to a surface of behaviour.

The candlelit dinner scene is un-actable because it has no inner life, no subtext. It’s un-actable because there’s nothing to act. Self-explanatory dialogue convinces no-one.'

This is what is so interesting about Mike's monologue. Do some fans really believe what he is saying? Are they really happy with the lighting, visuals, mood, tone, music for such a grand - as they think - declaration of love?

Eh, maybe not, but this isn't as important to them as words. For some reason that is beyond me, they think words are superior to other cinematic language, like mood:

Listen, Mike's insecurity is a perfectly valid artistic reason to be unable to say 'I love you'. In fact, it is likely a huge part of his entire struggle - I'm sure we'll return to the Wheeler Family Values in s5.

But the Duffers just had to go and ruin mileven, didn't they, by 'resolving' this storyline with an entire season to go.

If Mike's monologue is genuine, it means they've done that big no-no: they've written the subtext into the text and created an un-actable scene. No wonder people said poor Finn did a terrible job. It also means this scene is 'the end of the line' for Mike and El's romantic arc, making it a subplot that resolved itself long before the story is over.

But we can reasonably infer that Mike and El as a romantic pair will indeed be a part of s5. Obviously they will not just be happily fighting evil side by side, because - and Robert says this in his book - that would be boring as fuck.

Ok, he doesn't actually say boring as fuck.

But he does say that such fantasy would be boring. 'Stories are not daydreams', he says. Mike and El with zero conflict and a perfect relationship throughout s5 is, indeed, a daydream. And a boring one at that. They will have a storyline in s5, and there will be conflict. Therefore this scene is not a resolution, and must contain subtext.

Another big reason why there is clearly more at play here is because these shots form a part of the text:

Will is one thing, but Jon, bro? Get the fuck outta here if this is just a romantic Mike and El moment! Makes no god damn sense.

Some people think the Duffers are totally inept and somehow accidentally included some meaningless shots in the climax of this arc. Some people really think that. I despair for art itself.

But others think 'It's just to let you know that Will is still sad that Mike doesn't love him'.

Let's combine it with this take for maximum impact:

'Mike saying his life started the day he found El in the woods has nothing to do with Will, because it was the day after Will went missing.'

Robert has something to say about this, too:

‘Designing story tests the maturity and insight of the writer, his knowledge of society, nature, and the human heart. Wittingly or unwittingly, all stories faithfully mirror their maker, exposing his humanity… or lack of it.’ 

Ouch!

Stranger Things is unfinished. Therefore, by theorising, we are writing our own version of what we think this story will be. Anyone who writes Will out of this narrative reveals their humanity - or lack of it.

Now, Robert elaborates on the subtext-free, un-actable dinner scene.

‘Why have this couple gone out of their way to create this romantic scene? What’s with the candlelight, soft music, billowing curtains? Why don’t they just take their pasta to the TV like normal people? What’s wrong with this relationship?’ 

Because isn’t that life? When do the candles come out? When everything’s fine? No. When everything’s fine, we take our pasta to the TV like normal people.

So from this insight, the actor will create a subtext. And when we watch, we think: He says he loves her and maybe he does, but look, he’s scared he’s losing her. He’s desperate.'

But wait... how does a writer reveal character to an audience, if we cannot trust their words?

'The character must be tested by an ultimate event, a pressure-filled choice and resulting action.’ 

This is called a dilemma: either the choice between two good things when they can only have one, or a choice between two bad things where they must choose the lesser of two evils. 

'Human nature dictates that each of us will always choose the ‘good’ or the ‘right’ as we perceive it. If a character has an easy choice, where the ‘right’ thing to do is clear, the audience will know in advance what he will choose.'

And no screenwriter wants their audience to be ahead of the game. 

Clearly this is a 'lesser of two evils' moment for Mike. But what higher stakes could there be than El's life? What makes this a dilemma at all? Shouldn't the choice be easy, Mike?

So why did you hesitate?

Maybe Mike's choice was a little more complex than his own vulnerability vs. El's life, as mileven fans believe, hmm?

So what do you think Mike’s actual choice is?

Did he see through Will’s veiled confession, and is now choosing to lie to both El and Will, pretending he loves El to save her life while accepting he will hurt Will in the process?

Or is he still in the dark about Will's feelings, and is lamenting the loss of being able to tell Will he loves him, sacrificing that in order to save El instead - the one in more dire need?

I'm not even sure we're supposed to know yet. It's all a big cliffhanger mystery, left unresolved to keep us on our toes going into the final season. But no matter which theory you believe, it's clear that any lie Mike told was a white one - a lie with good intentions.

'Subtext doesn't make people insincere. It’s a common sense recognition that we all wear a public mask. We say and do what we feel we should, while we think and feel something else altogether. As we must. We realise we can’t go around saying and doing what we’re actually thinking and feeling.'

Robert acknowledges that humans typically choose not to express how they truly feel, sometimes out of self-preservation - especially the things that we fear society might not accept - but usually because so few of us truly even know ourselves.

Either way, Mike is ever the paladin. He sacrifices, in some way, himself - always.

Now, if you’ve got the energy, here’s a final exercise. I’m so excited about this, and I hope you’ll stay for this last piece. 

In Story, Robert McKee includes a method of analysis to break scenes apart and make them give up their subtextual secrets. He also shows you how to write a love scene that is filled with subtext, to contrast that monologue un-actable candlelit dinner. 

‘Picture two people changing the tire on a car. It’s a virtual textbook on how to change a flat. All dialogue is about wrenches, spanners and jacks. 

“Hand me that, would ya?” “Watch out.” “Don’t get dirty.” “Let me just… whoops.”

Beneath the text, the actors will interpret the real action of the scene, so leave room for them to bring romance to life wholly from the inside. As their eyes meet and sparks fly, we’ll know what’s happening because it’s in the unspoken thoughts and emotions of the actors. As we see through the surface, we’ll lean back and smile:

‘Look what happened. They’re not just changing the tire on a car. He thinks she’s hot and she knows it. Boy has met girl.’ 

Oof! Boy meets girl, a tale as old as time. But what about boy meets boy, hmm? Could two boys lock eyes while changing a tire?

Or, perhaps, while packing to escape the military?

Are locked eyes and flying sparks exclusive to heterosexual people? 

I don’t think so. 

So, to finish, we’re going to do Robert’s subtext analysis on the infamous Dear Billy heart to heart.

Step 1: Define conflict. 

Who drives the scene, motivates it, makes it happen? I think it’s Mike. He comes to Will’s room. Therefore we must ask:

What’s the subtext of Mike’s actions here? What does he want?

Desire is always the key, or as it’s called by actors, the scene objective.

So what does Mike want? To reconcile with Will?

Now look at which forces of antagonism are blocking Mike’s desire. Is it the military, come to capture everyone?

Nope, no military are here yet.

The force of antagonism is, instead, Will.

How interesting. This lil guy, with his utter surprise that Mike is even talking to him?

An antagonistic force isn't always a villain - instead, just the force that prevents a protagonist getting what they want.

What does Will want at the start of this scene?

To keep packing? On the surface, perhaps - in the text. But the subtext of that is… what? To find out, we must find the opening value of the scene. What Will wants should be in direct opposition to what Mike wants.

Step 2: Find the opening value of the scene. 

If anyone saw my previous post about the potential values of Stranger Things, I theorised they are Truth/Lies or Freedom/Slavery. But what’s the value at stake here in this scene specifically, when Mike enters Will’s room?

I think it’s Self Preservation/Openness, or Peace/Conflict - because Mike and Will have been arguing. The protagonist who actively drives the scene (Mike) is in the negative of this value; he has been surly and dishonest with Will, and they have unresolved conflict after their Rink-O-Mania fight. 

So what does Will want, in direct contrast to Mike?

To keep the peace. To protect himself. To not let Mike in. He isn’t ready.

(An alternative view would be that Mike himself is also his own antagonist. You could do this exercise by viewing Mike as battling against himself, too.)

Step 3: break the scene into beats

A beat is an exchange of behaviour between characters, action -> reaction. Look at what they are literally doing, and also what they are actually doing beneath the surface with emotion attached to it. Name this subtextual action with an active phrase, such as ‘pleading’.

Action -> reaction.

Mike -> Will. 

Text and subtext. 

And keep in mind the value of peace vs. conflict.

Beat 1:

Mike comes into Will’s room, readying to leave.

Mike’s subtextual action: approaching Will. 

Will: ‘Packed already?’

Will’s subtextual reaction: diffusing potential tension with small talk. 

Mike: ‘I never really unpacked’. Mike sits down on Will’s bed. 

Mike’s subtextual action: making himself at home + a further hidden symbolic subtext within the dialogue that suggests he is keeping secrets.  

Will keeps packing, facing away from Mike.

Will’s subtextual reaction: refusing to further acknowledge him. 

Beat 2:

Mike thanks Will for giving him a reality check.

Mike’s action: trying to get Will’s attention.

Will - ‘I didn’t say it.’ 

Will’s reaction: playfully teasing. 

Mike - ‘You didn’t have to.’ 

Mike’s action: reciprocating the teasing. 

Will smiles and turns away, speechless.

Will’s reaction: protecting himself.

Mike smiles at Will’s turned head, then shakes himself.  

Mike’s action: redirecting his tactics. 

Beat 3:

Mike: ‘Hey also, erm, about the other day...’ 

Mike’s action: apologizing.

Will: ‘You don’t have to say anything…’

Will’s reaction: resisting. 

Mike: 'No, no, you didn’t do anything…'

Mike’s action: insisting.

Will turns to him in surprise.

Will’s reaction: paying attention.

Beat 4:

Mike starts explaining himself and how he has felt over their time apart. 

Mike’s action: humbling himself. 

Will sits and listens.

Will’s reaction: listening. 

Mike tells Will that he sets him apart from their other friends. 

Mike’s action: confessing.

Will keeps listening.

Will’s reaction: considering him.

Mike asks if he is making any sense. 

Mike’s action: wanting to be understood.

Will nods.

Will’s reaction: understanding him.

Beat 5:

Mike: ‘I have no idea what’s going to happen next.’ Glances away and back.

Mike’s action: making himself vulnerable. 

Will listens still.

Will’s reaction: anticipating.

Mike asks Will if they can be a team, friends once again. 

Mike’s action: supplicating/pleading. 

Will nods.

Will’s reaction: yielding.

Mike pauses, then says that he wants to be best friends again.

Mike’s action: showing Will that he listens to him.

Will: ‘Cool.’ 

Will’s reaction: making himself vulnerable.

Mike smirks and repeats Will’s ‘Cool’. 

Mike’s action: solidifying his reconnection with Will. 

Well well well.

Do you remember what we said about the value of the scene being Conflict/Peace or Self-Preservation/Openness? What value did we start on? 

Negative. 

And what value are we ending on? 

Positive. It looks like Mike got his desire: he reconciled with Will. No wonder the boy looks so smug. 

But what of Will, as the antagonist here? He did not get his way: to keep protecting himself from Mike.

If we look at the overall pattern of action -> reaction in this scene, the theme is of Mike approaching and Will resisting, over and over again until finally, Will succumbs. Maybe what Will wanted for himself was not something that would actually have benefitted him in the long run. As so often, Will is his own worst enemy. 

But this scene is a favourite for a reason - there is more than one layer of subtext here.

We have the text of what Mike and Will are saying and doing - coming into a bedroom, packing, having a conversation.

We have the context: They've been fighting. There's tension. El is missing, and it is the first time in many months that Mike and Will have been properly alone. What will happen?

We have dramatic irony: the audience knows Will is gay and attracted to Mike, but Mike doesn't. You might reasonably infer a subtext that Will both enjoys and is self-conscious about Mike looking at his body. The camera is certainly not shy about including Will's behind prominently in frame, showing us exactly what Mike can see.

And now we have the first subtext: Mike and Will don't need words to understand each other. And isn’t it fascinating that, despite Will being on his knees, it is Mike, in the end, who is the one pleading?

But look! Good friends can understand each other without words, too. It might not mean anything!

But remember - the good writer must stay two steps ahead. And because good stories well told are not just about the what, they are about the how... they use elements of both the text and subtext together to create yet another layer of meaning that rises slowly to the surface.

That meaning? Tentative romantic interest.

We have a tender melody: 'On the Bus.'

We have a slow tempo and warm lighting, creating comfort and safety.

We have camerawork that pans in slowly, creating a mood of intimacy and curiosity and asking us to look closely at their faces and question their inner thoughts.

We have the acting itself: facial expressions and body language that convey a mood of tentative physical interest and flirtation.

What would Robert say?

As their eyes meet and sparks fly, we know what’s happening because it’s in the unspoken thoughts and emotions of the actors. As we see through the surface, we’ll lean back and smile: ‘Look what happened. They’re not just packing, or talking about their friendship. He thinks he’s hot, and he knows it.'

Listen, there may well be plenty of people who genuinely don't see this as flirtatious for whatever reason. Seeing as Stranger Things is unfinished, it doesn't really matter. No one should rob those viewers of the pleasure of having their own insights while watching the rest of the story themselves. We all came to byler at our own pace.

But there will also be people who deny this could be romantic for other reasons. They might say:

'Mike wouldn't be flirting with Will, because he's not gay / in love with Eleven / doesn't fancy Will.'

There are two approaches to life: adapt new data into your understanding and work from there, whether you like it or not, or alter new data to fit your existing worldview. It doesn't matter that you don't think Mike is gay, or that he'd never like Will, or he still loves Eleven, because a good storyteller parses out exposition little by little, and we are being shown, not only in subtext but in the text, that Mike Wheeler is smiling flirtatiously at Will Byers - so now what?

Well, they might say:

2. 'This isn't flirting, he is just smiling at Will.'

Give me a break. This is not a smile. This is a smirk.

But, what is the thing we must acknowledge? Art is subjective. And because Stranger Things is still unfinished, both byler and mileven are reasonably inferred outcomes right now. You could make a case for them both.

The question instead becomes: do you think the Duffers are writing a good story, well told?

Have the Duffers chosen to write bad exposition, un-actable scenes with no subtext and a simpler plot? Have they brushed off their own mistakes and neglected to know their characters inside out?

Or do they instead have a mastery of their craft, a comprehensive understanding of their characters that goes beyond anything the audience can yet imagine, and the ability to lay depths of subtextual groundwork and show empathy for all kinds of characters?

I've seen milevens openly say that the editing in the monologue was shoddy and that the epilogue of s4 should be redone, but that they are happy to accept what even they see as a badly written story as long as it's the outcome they want.

Me? Not so much. Remember what Robert said?

The love of beauty - an innate sense that treasures good writing, hates bad writing, and knows the difference. 

I'm a byler fan because all signs, from my man Robert McKee and beyond, point to byler being the better story - not just in content or theme, but in craft.

Eight years ago, her eldest hung out alone on the porch with a lukewarm glass of whiskey in his hand, just like tonight. It was cold enough for their breaths to linger on the air, the evening dwindling down to stars and violet shades behind the wrought iron fence. The ranch-style home John built with his own calloused hands still stood, a monument to his family, and everything his spirit stood for.

Dean looked a lot like him in this light. His broad frame was hunched over the wooden porch railing. His gaze was cast out to the city he used to call home, but in his mind, a whole world seemed to be in flux.

“It’s Christmas. No one’s allowed to drink alone,” Mary said, bumping his shoulder as she came up to stand beside him.

She leaned her arms on the railing like he was, and he tried to offer her a smile. She hadn’t seen many true smiles on his face in the past few years. She also supposed she couldn’t judge. Whenever her boys were home, though, she tried to be the mom they remembered, maybe even the mom they needed.

“I’m good, just getting some air,” Dean said. “It’s peaceful out here.”

“Yeah? How’s it going with work? Or…outside of work?” she asked, a leading gleam in her eyes.

He sent her a wry look. “Don’t play me. You’ve been trying to get intel from Sam since we landed.”

She smiled and rubbed his back. “I just want to know what you’ve got going on in your life. You boys are so far away. Feels like I’m always last to know.”

Dean paused, but he still shook his head.

“Nothing new to report. I’m just tired, I guess. Been a long semester.”

He took another drag of his whiskey, barely felt the burn on the way down.

He didn’t like lying to his mom. It felt like acid in his gut, coming back up through his tightening throat. He couldn’t tell her that he’d fucked up. And worse, he didn’t really regret it.

Two Weeks Ago…

Finals Week was over, but that didn’t mean Dean could rest. He still had exams to grade when he got back on Monday. It was a hell of a lot quieter now that the students were out on Winter Break. They’d return like zombies come January, feet dragging and eyes blinking slow until their coffees and energy drinks kicked in.

When Dean walked into his office, he set down his bag and was immediately drawn to a black gift box on his desk. It was long and thin and rectangle-shaped, with a red ribbon tied around it, no card to tell him who it was from.

Confused, he opened the box and found a silver pen. By the weight of it, it felt expensive, sterling silver. A small note was folded underneath it. Dean held the pen in one hand while he unfolded the note.

Give me your pardon, sir. I have done you wrong; but pardon it as you are a gentleman.

Unconsciously, he smiled. He recognized your handwriting.

Then the guilt and indigestion-inducing conflict set in.

He lowered heavily into his chair and rolled the pen between his fingers. Within seconds, he found himself setting it aside on his desk and opening up his laptop. Instinctively, he had a hunch that your note was some kind of quote. He felt compelled to look up those lines, to follow the path of your mind as he tried to understand it.

Of course.

He found the rest of it, what you might’ve felt you couldn’t say, in the final act and scene of Hamlet. As his eyes scanned the next few lines, they struck at his core.

This presence knows, And you must needs have heard, how I am punished With a sore distraction. What I have done That might your nature, honor, and exception Roughly awake, I here proclaim was madness.

He read those lines over and over again until they blurred over, until he leaned back into his chair and breathed out slowly, closing his eyes, trying to find some kind of order to his thoughts.

Even when you apologized for something that needed none, you were uniquely you.

Now, Dean could only hope the calmer air away from the grit and chaos of New York City would drive you out of his mind for a while.

(It wouldn’t. It didn’t. And he knew he would be in danger the moment he stepped foot into his office.)

“Wow, you got her to meet your parents?” you asked.

“Dude, don’t sound so shocked!” Charlie said, stuffing another Twizzler into her mouth. “It actually went better than I expected. Mom went way too hard with the tinsel, as usual. Dad made no less than three gingerbread houses and almost lit our actual house on fire with his construction of the Christmas lights in the front yard. Dee said I basically live in a Candyland box, which, couldn’t really refute that one.”

You both were back in from vacation. Ironically, Dean wasn’t the only Kansas native. Charlie’s family lived in Topeka, yours in New Jersey. You might’ve had the easier commute, but you envied the pictures of Charlie’s two-story home, complete with a pool and three dogs.

Your dad owned a small independent music store, one of the last in the state, and your mom was a middle school Art teacher. Your parents were frankly lucky to still own your family home in the neighborhood you grew up in. It had been slowly getting gentrified for the past ten years, pricing out the middle class families who lived there.

But it was tradition for you and Charlie to spend the first week of January watching Christmas movies in your pajamas, eating way too much Christmas-themed candy that stores were trying to get rid of after New Year’s, and tying it all together with a friends’ post-holiday recap.

“And what about you?” she said, playfully shoving your shoulder while you tried to finish off one of those shortbread cookies with a peppermint Hershey’s kiss in the center. You almost choked on the pointy bit.

“Bitch,” you said with your mouth full. You shoved her back. “Nothing. I did nothing, except my mom burned the turkey so we had to order Chinese for Christmas dinner.”

She snorted. “That tracks. You guys really shouldn’t be allowed in a kitchen, by government mandate.”

“All right, my mom, yes. Totally. She should just throw away the oven mitts and commit to takeout for eternity, because my dad’s sure not taking up the culinary responsibilities in that house,” you said with a laugh. “But even I’m not that bad.”

Charlie shot you an incredulous look. “You’re fucking kidding, right? You set off the alarm a few weeks ago when you tried to make spaghetti.”

Your scoff had a bit of dramatic flair. Of course she’d toss that in your face.

“I’m sorry! I told you, I was trying to do too many things with the garlic bread, and the sauce just caught a little bit on fire.” You pointed at her with a Twizzler. “You still ate it, right?”

Charlie shook her head and continued stuffing her face with butterscotch candies while Home Alone 2 played on the living room TV.

“And what about Professor Dean? How did that leave off?” she asked, with a mischievous smile. “Did you give him a Christmas present? Handmade coupon for a free massage? Your sexiest pair of panties? Ooh, give him the little red thong! I bet he’d cream his jeans right then and there.”

“No, no, and no! Jesus Christ,” you laughed, but your face flared hot with a blush. You patted your cheeks to quell the radiation. “Well, okay, I just got him a little fountain pen. Nothing fancy. I saw it on sale, and…I don’t know, it made me think of him.”

You didn’t tell her the rest of it though. You couldn’t bring yourself to admit that you all but threw yourself at him—that you kissed him. And he kissed you.

It was one hell of a kiss. Sometimes you still felt the tingling sensation of what his plush lips had felt like; passionate, skilled, perfect. And the way he held you, masculine and firm, but also gentle and sensuous in ways that had your knees quivering where you’d stood.

And yet, in the end, you both agreed that it wasn’t a good idea. Too messy. Too risky. Too…much.

You still didn’t know what you were going to do when you saw him again on Monday. Technically you were still his TA, and when you checked your new class and work schedule this morning, your usual 5:00 to 7:00 p.m. block was still listed under his name in big, black letters.

Shit, you thought. You’d really messed up everything, hadn’t you?

The last days of your vacation spun like the frothy white flakes in a snow globe, all too soon settling into the beginning of spring semester.

Your last course schedule was filled with the hardest classes in your major. Most of them excited you, like Victorian Literature, The Evolution of Literary Criticism, Coming of Age & the Bildungsroman, and even your graduate seminar course—Topics in Women’s Literature: Class, Race & Self-Identity. Grouped together though, all that reading, all those essays, class discussions, quizzes and tests were going to be killer.

This was the home stretch, and just like your senior year of undergrad, it meant you had to find the last vestiges of your energy and put it all into finishing strong.

But that thought only reminded you of Dean. What he said to your class on review day hadn’t been the first time you heard that advice, but it was a reminder that none of this was free. You were paying for it. And it was all on you what you were going to make of yourself, now and after you graduated. Sometimes that pressure mounted behind your eyes and made your hands shake.

Which was why you knew you couldn’t afford distractions, let alone the risk of failure or expulsion. You realized that you couldn’t in good conscience continue to be Dean’s TA. It would be too hard—on your heart and on your mind.

You had to quit.

The professor had more or less the same office hours for spring as he did in the fall, and you had tried to make your schedule match as well. It meant that you knew he was in his office come 5:00 p.m. You hesitated there at the door.

Inhale. Exhale.

You forced yourself to raise your hand and knock.

“Come in,” his deep voice called from inside.

One more small moment to steel yourself, and the handle twisted under your hand.

Dean was already standing, leaning against the front of his desk with his hands in the pockets of his black slacks. Your eyes widened.

Dress shoes? Plus a white buttoned-down shirt, a sharp black blazer and a tie to match. He wore his usual neat scruff, his hair in its usual short sweep, but the rest of it was sharp, clean, like some GQ cover model.

Well, that’s just not fair, you internally lamented.

What actually came out of your mouth was—

“Hey. You look…nice,” you blurted.

“Uh, thanks,” he said, gesturing vaguely and a bit embarrassed at his clothing. “All the staff and faculty had to attend this board meeting for the Business School. Benny said I had to break out the monkey suit.”

You smiled in amusement. “That’s very on-brand.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, I guess. I’ve never really fit in much around here.”

Your smile slowly fell.

“Really? But you’re one of the most popular professors here.”

“Maybe with some of the students. Not so much with the faculty. Or the admins, for that matter. They think I, uh, play things a little too loose,” he said. And he sobered, staring back at you with guilt in his eyes. He reached back to grab something off his desk.

He held up the silver pen.

“Thank you for this, by the way. And I got your note too…” He sighed and pushed away from his desk, taking a cautionary step forward. He wanted to meet you were you were, but he held himself back. “None of this is on you, okay? So don’t apologize. Don’t feel like you owe me anything.”

You swallowed, hesitantly stepping toward him. But first, you closed the door so you two wouldn’t be overheard.

Dean’s shoulders tensed. He watched you come back into his orbit. Red flags, sirens, the whole bit flashed through his mind, but all he could do was stand there waiting for you, and whatever you might say next.

“There’s no denying that I started…this, whatever it is,” you said.

“It doesn’t have to be anything,” he said. “I should’ve stopped it. Matter of fact, we should just leave things where we left ‘em. I’ll even help you find another job. I’ll write a rec letter, or whatever you need me to do.”

You couldn’t help it. A small smile played across your lips.

“Whatever I need you to do?” you asked.

Dean’s jaw clenched. His gaze on you became all too focused, strained, conflicted.

You stared back at him as something gave way inside you. You knew this went against every firm decision you made for yourself this morning. You knew this could end terribly, proverbially if not literally in flames. But it was his kindness that undid you more than anything.

You had a suspicion that he felt this too, this...connection. It was something you didn’t know you’d been aching for, until you met him. You shouldn’t let something that important slip away, should you?

You took the risk of one more step, your fingers grasping the edge of his tie, admiring. It was black, with several tiny white and red squares that popped against his shirt and jacket. You’d like to pop all those buttons too.

A small, unsteady breath fell from your lips. You looked up him through your lashes.

“What if I just need you?” you said.

Dean said nothing. He couldn't. But his eyes followed the way the fabric of his tie wrapped around your long nails, now painted a darker burgundy. His hands found purchase on your waist, bringing you in just as much as you were leading him. He shouldn’t have let himself touch you. He should’ve just let you go.

Instead, he reached out and locked the door.

And that click of the mechanism was an audible shattering of his own resolve. He pulled you flush against him, every soft curve of your body against the firm planes of his. And his hand cupped your cheek, tilting your head up to his for a searing kiss.

It wasn’t soft or sweet. It was heat. It was frustration and yearning. It was throwing away the warning of consequences, and following the thrumming need of your hearts. It was teeth clicking and harsh breaths, your hair tangled around his fingers, his free hand roaming down your side, feeling your warmth through the fabric of your sweater, so neatly tucked into your skirt.

Your messenger bag dropped to the floor.

He turned you around with him, and his steps forced you backward until your ass bumped against the desk. He grabbed the plush of both cheeks through your skirt and squeezed you into him, rocking a gasp out you as you clung to his shoulders. You felt the press of his hard-on through his slacks.

“Up on the desk,” he ordered. His voice was rough the way you remembered after he kissed you the first time, sending a delicious tremble down your spine, and between your legs.

You did as you were told. Your ankle boots dangled off the ground after you hopped up on the desk. Dean kept a grip on your thighs, pulling you right to the edge. You took his face in your hands and kissed him this time, savoring every slow push and drag of lips and graze of teeth.

By now your lipstick was smudging into nonexistence. Your lips were kiss-swollen, but still needy, sucking his tongue into your mouth, your nails raking through his hair. He saw fucking stars, bucked his hips into yours on reflex.

Your little moan coaxed out the recklessness in him, manic and unrestrained. He pushed your skirt up your thighs and dragged your panties down until they fell around your ankles.

Meanwhile, you slid your hands under his blazer and worked it open, down his arms and to the floor. Then, you started on the many buttons of his dress shirt.

You only managed to get the first few undone before your concentration shattered. Dean’s hand traveled smoothly up the inside of your thigh now that he had you bare. His fingers parted the folds of your cunt and slipped right into your aching core, finding even more wetness than he expected. You whimpered against his mouth, clinging to his shoulder while you half braced yourself on the desk.

“Goddamn, sweetheart,” he said. “You’re soaking fucking wet for me already, huh?”

You weren’t able to answer with more than a moaning nod, but you didn’t have to. He felt the evidence dripping down to his wrist as his fingers probed deeper, experimentally, then moved up to your clit. He massaged in tight circles until it became a swollen bud. Torturous, slow movements had your hips writhing into his hand. Your breaths shallowed, puffing warmth against his neck.

“Oh fuck—please, don’t stop,” you whispered haltingly. Your nails bit into his shoulder through his dress shirt. He captured your lips in a kiss, swallowing your cry when you came. It washed over you in a tantalizing wave, your inner walls choking his fingers. He stroked one of your shaking thighs steady afterward. His fingers slowed down inside you.

“You okay?” he chuckled.

“Are you kidding?” you giggled, resting your head against his shoulder. A smile spread across your face. That just happened.

It’s still happening, you thought. A certain flash of resolve ran through you; your hands drifted down his chest and caught on the waistband of his slacks. Dean’s gaze was hot on your every move as your nimble fingers opened the little metal latch, drawing his zipper down slow.

You glanced up and met his eyes. You were really doing this.

He grasped your arms, making you pause.

“You sure? I mean really,” he asked.

You smiled and leaned up to kiss him in reassurance.

“Definitely.”

Your hand slipped inside his slacks, smooth and deliberate along the hardened length of him. He hissed at your touch, his hips canting toward you on reflex. You felt the shape of him through his boxer briefs, just to get an idea of what you were working with.

You sucked in a subtle inhale. “Oh, wow.”

He was bigger than you expected. Thick. Perhaps painfully hard.

His grip tightened on your shoulders.

“You gonna keep teasing me, baby?” he smirked.

Your smile deepened in amusement, even as you blushed at the new nickname.

“Just a little.”

You dipped low to cup his balls, massaging gently. His muttered curse, the tremble in his legs, it all satisfied you more than you were willing to admit. Your inner thighs squeezed against his hips on reflex.

Then you withdrew your hand, pushing back lightly on his chest. He quirked his head in confusion, but he began to step back in disappointment, thinking you might be changing your mind after all. He soon realized what you really wanted.

You kicked your tangled panties off your boot. It made it easier to slide off his desk and go to your knees instead. You dragged down his underwear by the waistband, just far enough to take his cock firmly into your hand. Dean had to grab onto the edge of the desk for support, a muttered curse falling from his lips.

Yours were sweet and sensuous the moment they touched his sensitive cockhead. Your eyes met his briefly, an endearing little smile dancing across your lips before you took him into your mouth.

He didn’t know that you were fighting a nervous giggle; that you were afraid of letting him down, but determined to make him feel good, and prove to him that this was worth the risk.

His other hand sunk into your hair on reflex as you salivated over his length, sliding your lips and tongue in a damn near perfect rhythm. Your worked him deeper and deeper down your throat, then sucked him all the way back up to the tip.

“Holy fuck,” Dean grunted, blinking in time with his stuttering brain. His legs wavered, forcing him to lean more of his weight against the desk. Your little giggle almost made him laugh too.

Saliva pooled down the side of his shaft, but you didn’t let it go to waste. You caught it with your tongue.

“Jesus,” he muttered, his fingers tightening in the strands of your hair. The sight of you on your knees for him was dizzying; his cock already throbbed a warning.

“Shit, hold on,” he said, grabbing your shoulder.

Your smile dropped. Before you had a chance to ask him what was wrong, he guided you off your knees, just so he could grab you up by the waist. He pulled you against him and gave you a thoroughly dirty kiss, his own talented tongue sweeping through your mouth.

His hands wandered, finding their way under the hem of your sweater after untucking it from your skirt. He wanted to see you, and finally getting to take in the sight of your tits barely held in by a black lace bra had him dragging his lower lip between his teeth.

He slipped a hand behind you and flicked the clasp open. You helped him brush the straps off and fling it somewhere by your feet.

Dean turned you around in his arms. It gave him a new vantage point, and better control to feel your body against his.

“Look at that, a perfect fit.” His voice was a rasp of whiskey in your ear while he got a handful each of your breasts and gave a teasing squeeze. “All of you, fucking perfect.”

You leaned against his chest and held onto his arms, trying to keep your moans quiet. Still, you breathed a slightly delirious chuckle.

“Wow. Been a while since a guy said something like that to me,” you said. It was half under your breath. You didn’t think he even heard it.

But Dean frowned. His fingers stilled while toying with your nipples as they hardened in arousal.

“What?” he said.

You blinked. Again, your mouth had decided to run away from you there. It now opened and closed, hesitating.

“Nothing,” you said, a weaker laugh under your words.

He didn’t like it. What he did like, was the way he got to explore every soft curve of yours under his hands. He guided your chin toward him, encouraging you to meet his eyes.

“You’re fucking beautiful, you know that?” he said.

You were captivated, mildly stunned. “U-um…thank you.”

You didn’t know why, but your eyes began to prickle with emotion. Part of it was Dean’s conviction. Though if you were honest with yourself, part of it was the words your ex slung at you when you were tossing his shit out of your apartment. He’d still been high, hungover, humiliated to be a walking cliché—caught dick-in-hand with some sorority girl from his Film Appreciation class—and upset that you wouldn’t take his excuses.

But he’d had no problem hitting you where a small, niggling insecurity had crept in like a shadow, distorting the truth.

“I’m sorry, okay? I was high, and drunk. Please, why can’t we just work this out?”

You rolled your eyes and continued tossing his Nintendo Switch controllers out into the hallway. He was muttering curses under his breath, half trying to pick up his shit, half still trying to grab your arm. You yanked it out of his grasp.

“Because this is fucking mortifying. Because I’ve had enough. And because you’re a fucking pig, that’s why!” you snapped. Other people were starting to peek out into the hallway, whispering, snickering. Many of them were students that you two both knew.

He stood there for a moment, embarrassed and angry.

“Well, maybe I was tired of fucking one.”

After a moment, you managed to blink the sting of memory out of your eyes. You gave Dean a smile that didn’t quite ring true.

His brows furrowed. He tilted your face up to his and lured you into a kiss; it was softer, but still laced with an underlying heat.

“Look, I don’t know what you’ve got goin’ on in your head,” he said. “I don’t know about that ass-clown you dated, or anybody in between. But sweetheart, so far there ain’t a part of you that I don’t like. And there’s no part that I’m not gonna fucking ruin.”

A hot blush spread across your face. You started to smile for real, but a small gasp escaped you as he guided you down onto his desk. You certainly believed him now.

And it was the confidence boost you needed to push away those old thoughts, beating back the shadows.

Your forearms kept you upright at the angle you thought he wanted. Already your thighs were shaking, your pussy clenching on nothing in anticipation when he guided your skirt up higher over your hips. He reached into his pocket and withdrew something from his wallet.

You glanced over your shoulder and watched him tear the condom packet, heard the shuffle of his clothing and his muttered curse as he fitted himself. Then you felt him at your entrance, his cock just as hard through the condom and lubed up in your wetness.

“Still okay, sweetheart?” he checked, rubbing your hip.

“Yes. Yes, please,” you said, a hint of desperation as you tried to keep your voice quiet.

He didn’t need to be told twice. Slowly he pushed inside, shallow thrusts, working himself in deeper and deeper, until he was fully seated in the deepest part of you. You bit the back of your own arm to stifle your moan. There were no words in your head to even formulate how good it felt to be filled by him. Goosebumps spread across your skin. Already your core was quivering around his length.

“Goddamn, feels so fucking good,” he gritted out. “Tell me. How you feel, sweetheart?”

“So good,” you choked on a whisper, shuddering as he found a new delicious angle inside you. “Oh, God…”

Dean smirked. His grip on your hips tightened a fraction. “Shit, we should’ve put on some music or something. Walls aren’t that thick…”

Not to mention that he shared one with Benny, of all people.

“Fuck, give me my phone. Or yours,” you said, laughing just at the craziness of this. But Dean did as you asked. He grabbed his phone from his loose pocket, unlocked it, and slid it to you across the desk. You opened up the music app and played the first song that came to mind—something you knew he would have.

A smooth guitar intro bled into a man’s familiar verse.

“Hey lady, you got the love I needMaybe more than enoughOh darling, darling, darling, walk a while with meOh, you've got so muchSo much, so much…”

Dean chuckled, having to pause and kiss your shoulder. “Nice.”

Led Zeppelin’s “Over the Hills and Far Away” swept you off in its current, while Dean’s smooth strokes went deeper, as if in time with the music. He spread your thighs a little wider to accommodate himself, dug his fingers into supple flesh. Your toes began to curl, your fingernails hooking around the edge of the desk.

“Oh, shit,” you uttered. That coil in your lower belly was tightening again. It was almost too much, overwhelming, yet not quite enough.

You slipped a hand underneath you to find your clit. Dean noticed, moved your hand away so he could help you himself. His fingers were a calloused dream, providing just the right kind of friction to make you almost faze out of your own skin. Your body was awash with heat and tingles when you came on his cock.

White little starbursts behind your eyes. A delicious throb in your cunt. Your inner walls gripping him tight.

“Dean,” you breathed, awed and wanton.

Even better than he fucking imagined.

You smothered your own mouth, muffling the sound of your moan. He came moments later; his release hit him hard enough to rock the vertebrae in his spine. His teeth found the soft flesh of your shoulder as his hips rolled to a stuttering halt. “Fuck…”

A grunt forced itself from his throat, and he bucked hard then, knocking a gasp out of you as he spent himself into the condom.

His body caved in around yours. Panting breaths echoed in the stillness.

He noticed when your arms began to shake underneath you. He pushed himself off and helped you stand upright. Your legs were shaky too. After you lowered your skirt, he held your elbow in support while you bent down to find your bra and panties. 

“Oh shit,” you laughed.

Neither of you had noticed or cared as entire stacks of essays from last semester had gotten knocked over and strewn to the floor. 

“You fucked up your own hard work there,” Dean remarked.

And you both laughed. 

"Don't you mean we?" you quipped.

You lowered down first though, kneeling to sweep it all up. He joined you a moment later, after tucking himself back into his pants and zipping up. His dress shirt was a hot mess and his suit jacket was…some-damn-where. But he’d deal with that later.

For now, it was enough that his gaze got caught up with yours when you happened to glance up at him. You paused, smiling a little shyly.

He couldn’t help smiling back.

There on your hands and knees, you crawled forward and met him with a kiss.

You both knew it then. After tonight, there was no going back.

Just a couple of hours later, you made it back home to your apartment and showered before your roommate had a chance to see your disheveled, thoroughly debauched state.

Despite the January chill on the air, your face had stayed warm and blushing while you sat alone on the subway. It would flare up again every time you remembered who was at fault for the sticky wetness between your legs, and why even now, in the privacy of your kitchen, you were still walking on uneven ground.

Dean Winchester had thoroughly wrecked you.   

“You’re all smiley again after back-to-back classes,” Charlie observed. "Something good happen today?"

You were puttering around in your pajamas, heating up some chicken tortilla soup. A small prickle of wariness ran down your spine. You tried to school your face into a more neutral expression.

“Yeah, I mean, I had a feeling taking Victorian Literature in my last semester was going to be intense, but Professor Dodd assigned great books this semester. I haven’t read Wuthering Heights in forever.”

“Uh-huh.” Charlie’s eyes narrowed with playful suspicion. “And how was work?”

You hesitated. Thinking fast, you decided to focus on your job at the library.

“Well, Marv is still Marv. He only ever comes out of his office to gossip, so at least I know all the tea. Apparently they’re doing all these renovations to the Business School by cutting the funding for the other departments. That’s why my hours got reduced.”

“Wow, that’s shitty,” Charlie said.

“Yeah, but apparently that school is EU’s biggest moneymaker, so that’s how Dr. Crowley’s justifying it.”

“That’s our education system for ya.”

“Sadly,” you said. “I was lucky to get my second job. I guess they had just enough room in the budget, or Professor Lafitte was just tired of Dean turning in all his paperwork late.”

Charlie rose a brow. “Dean, huh? You guys are on first-name basis now?”

You paused in your soup stirring, ladle in hand.

Shit.

“Well, kind of. Just when it’s the two of us in his office,” you said, trying not to smile to yourself.

It was more or less the truth, after all.

And for now, that was all you felt comfortable sharing. Not because you thought Charlie would out you to the school administration. She had been the one encouraging you from the beginning. But…well, maybe you just didn’t want to get into it. You didn’t even know what it was, exactly, so it felt safer to keep a secret for now, even if the lie did sting.

“Interesting,” Charlie remarked.

You noticed the way she was looking at you out of the corner of her eye, but you just continued your search for tortilla chips. And all the while, you ignored the question steadily pressing upon your mind.

What happens tomorrow?

AN: Well then. 😂 Was it everything you thought it would be? We've reached the point of no return, which of course means that here's the part where things get fun and complicated. 😜

See you next Sunday, friends...

Next Time:

“Are we really doing this again, here?” you asked breathlessly.

“Looks like it,” he said, kissing his way down your neck.

You were right. It was a risk. But right now, Dean couldn’t really bring himself to give a fuck. He had your thighs straddling his lap, your pretty blue sweater dress hiked high over your hips. He held you in place with a firm grip there, probably leaving his fingerprints behind.

He occupied your lips so you couldn’t voice any more smart rebuttals. You moaned softly, letting your fingers sink back through his hair. Dean’s desk chair creaked with every reflexive rocking of your hips against his.

At least you two were more prepared this time. Once of his records played at a decent volume: “Try and Love Again,” by The Eagles, off the Hotel California album. But there had been very little discussion before you found yourself back in the pull of whatever this was, whatever it could be.

📕 KEEP READING: PART 5

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you hadn’t really gone on any other dates after the first one was a bust. you didn’t really see the point. liam dated… or slept around. that’s probably more accurate. and god knows he would tell you every detail. you’re best mates, doesn’t matter much that you’re a girl.

and right now, you’re sitting cross-legged on liam’s single bed, back against the wall. noel’s just across from you, not listening very much.

“and then…” he paused for emphasis, “swear fuckin’ down, y/n. swear to god, she let me finish right on her face,” he rattles off about some girl from the pub the night before.

and you go a little red in the face and wrinkle your nose. you always do. liam thinks it’s hilarious. noel usually gives him a quick slap upside the head and says that’s not something you tell your girl friends. and liam always laughs and says you barely count as a girl to him.

“i don’t think i’d ever let a bloke do that,” you shake your head with a small laugh, “seems… messy.”

liam turns to look at you fully, that stupid boyish grin on his face, “you’re only sayin’ that ‘cos you’re a virgin, innit?”

grabbing the pillow from behind you, you smack liam. it doesn’t hurt, obviously, but he dramatically groans as if he’s wounded.

“i’d rather be a virgin than gob off about getting my dick sucked in some nasty toilet,” you give him a snarky face, a lot like a little kid. nose wrinkled, a slight shake of your head. some things never change.

noel snorts a laugh, lobbing his own pillow at liam from across the way. naturally, liam yelps, ever the dramatic one. it’s a shame he’s a great liar, but hates reading. he could’ve done theatre or summat.

you roll your eyes at him, “just don’t tell the one about alyssa again.”

“and who’s alyssa?” noel raises one thick eyebrow, his head tilted.

“some girl he went down on. while she was…” you gesture, embarrassed for some reason, “wrong time of the month, y’know?”

liam waves his hand dismissively. “you should be honoured, yeah? not everyone has a mate with such great stories.”

you laugh, “honored? no. far from it, actually. i’m just grossed out. because you’re a gross person who does gross things, li.”

and then you get hit, a pillow to the side of the face. when you open your eyes, liam’s grinning like a fool.

“she’s got a point, our kid. not even your girlfriend or nothin’,” noel’s laughing, “no, no. that’s some girlfriend shite. not some bird-in-a-bog shite.”

—

on a random friday night, you, liam, and noel are outside some pub venue. something about some “must-see band” that liam’s been raving about for the last week. and because it’s liam, here the three of you are. standing in the fucking rain to get into a pub you don’t want to be at to listen to a band you don’t care about.

“fuckin’ freezing out here,” you mutter, crossing your arms over your chest. it doesn’t do much.

maybe it’s your fault. it’d been a warm enough day, you figured a tank top was a safe enough choice. but now you’re being misted by rain and you’re just wet and uncomfortable. your hair was straightened all pretty, and you can assume that’s ruined now too.

“you’re gonna love it! best band in manchester. proper fuckin’ sound they are,” liam’s practically vibrating.

—

inside, it’s so hot and packed that you think it impossible you were ever cold. everything’s a little sticky and smells like beer and sweat. the lights are dim, neon signs flickering behind the bar. you can feel the bass from the small stage thumping under your shoes.

liam is immediately gone. some redhead had caught his attention and he disappeared just like that.

noel is at the bar, pint in hand, leaning heavily on the counter. he catches your eye for a second, and then glances away as if he wasn’t looking. his words are slurred just slightly when he speaks. you like noel like this, when he’s just noel, and not liam’s big brother. really, you like noel all the time. as a friend. because you’re liam’s friend.

he hums something you can’t quite make out, and the corner of his mouth quirks up like he’s just told a joke.

“what?” you lean in, laughing. you’re not exactly sober yourself.

noel shakes his head, a lazy, crooked smile forming, “dunno. sounded funny in my head.”

—

the crowd shifts, bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder. you’re not even safe from it while leaning against the bar. liam was right. like usual. the band is good, and that means every young person in manchester is trying to pack into the fucking place.

you nudge noel with your shoulder, your own words starting to slur, “you could probably do better.”

he turns, amused, mouth twitching like he’s trying not to laugh. you bite back a smile.

“yeah?” he leans closer, “you an expert now?”

you grin, shrugging, “maybe. liam’s dragged me to enough of these to know what’s worth listening to.”

noel looks at the boys on stage for a long moment, then back at you.

“reckon they’re alright,” he says, all nonchalant, taking a long sip of his pint, “guitarist’s decent.”

you laugh a little, cheeks starting to flush from the alcohol, “i’ve heard you play a million times. you’re better.”

he sets his glass down on the bar with a thud and stares at you like he’s not sure if you’re being serious. you wonder if that was a weird thing to say.

“you takin’ the piss?” he finally asks, voice slightly higher than before.

“i’d lie about a lot of things, but i wouldn’t lie about that.”

then he glances toward the stage again, “you don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

you start to open your mouth. to protest, to tell him that you definitely do know what you’re talking about because noel’s the one that’s been letting you borrow his tapes and records for years. because you’ve sat on his bedroom floor listening to him play through the same riffs over and over until he gets them right.

but he speaks first.

“nah,” he shakes his head, a little laugh under it. “you’re just sayin’ that ‘cos you know me.”

—

you stumble outside with noel, the cool air hitting you immediately. under any other circumstance, you’d be shivering. but it’s a respite from the sticky heat inside and the liquor blanket is helping.

you’d said something about needing air, and noel had swiftly put his arm around your shoulders and led you through the crowd and out the door. because he’s noel.

the street’s slick, pavement shining under the orange glow of the streetlights. everything smells like rain and cigarettes.

noel doesn’t move his arm right away. it stays there, a steady weight over your shoulders as you both lean against the bricks.

noel tries to light a cigarette with one unsteady hand, and then finally drops his arm from your shoulders to use both hands. the flame finally catches this time.

he wordlessly offers you a drag, holding it out to you. you just glance over at him and shake your head. he raises an eyebrow, surprised, then lets out a soft huff through his nose.

you let out an annoyed little groan, head tilted back against the damp wall. “liam’s so fuckin’ annoying.”

smoke rises from his mouth when he speaks, “he’s always annoyin’.”

“maybe, but lately he’s extra annoying,” you let out a noise that’s almost a laugh, “keeps inviting me to shit, then disappears. poof, gone. doesn’t ask if i’m alright, doesn’t ask how i’m gettin’ home. just on the pull like it’s a full time fuckin’ job.”

he snorts, flicking ash onto the wet pavement. “that’s just liam, innit?”

“it’s gross,” you say, incredulous and slurred, “and girls talk.”

he looks at her sideways, “and what do they say?”

you shrug, a smirk tugging at your lips, “that he’s a prat, mostly. can’t keep his mouth shut. thinks he’s clever. everyone thinks he’s a slag.”

“well he is a slag,” noel laughs, matter-of-factly.

you wrinkle your nose, “i don’t get it.”

he takes a slow drag from his cigarette, eyes glinting in the streetlight, then shrugs. “some birds like that sort of thing.”

you snort, “some girls like that? i really don’t get it then.”

noel starts shrugging off his jacket. you tilt your head, lips parted.

“what’re you doing?”

“you’re cold,” he says it like you’re dumb for even questioning it. like you shouldn’t have to ask.

you blink at him, caught off guard, and before you can protest, he’s draping it over your shoulders. the inner lining’s warm from his own body heat, and it smells like him. tobacco and rain and something musky.

“cheers,” you don’t know when your voice got all soft and quiet, and you wonder if he notices. you catch him looking at you, but he doesn’t say a single word about it.