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yelena-bellova · 10 months

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Heartfirst: A Ted Lasso Story - Chapter Ten

Chapter Ten: Three Characters

Plot: Y/n puts her career at risk to help defend one of the Greyhounds.

Word Count: 4.2k

Warnings: f!reader, language

A/N: This is barely spell checked, full warning.

Quick thanks to all of you for the lovely asks and comments you’ve been dropping. I really had no expectations for this one but I’m really glad people are enjoying it. Hopefully you enjoy this one as well! 💙

——————

Jamie Tartt had a lot of regrets in his life.

He regretted how he’d treated his teammates. How he’d been a prick to good people like Ted. How he’d gone about his relationship with Keeley. His first years in the Premier League were nothing but regrets.

“Come on, Tartt!”

And inviting Y/n to train with him that one morning he’d needed to pee was up there with the worst of them.

She was jogging significantly faster than him, but she had the advantage of not having Roy Kent on a bike tied to her waist.

Y/n ran backwards, showing off purely because she could. She faced Jamie with a smirk.

“Roy,” she called, “How ‘bout subbing me in for the Arsenal match?”

“If you’re faster than him,” Roy called back, “I’ll fucking consider it.”

Jamie grimaced, pushing himself to go faster. Y/n grinned at the effort and turned back around to keep her own pace.

She’d been different since Amsterdam, Jamie had noticed. There was a new levity to her. She was more talkative, she was smiling more, and just all around seemed more…her. The little he had seen of her privately, she seemed more of that.

And while he liked that, he was fucking exhausted by her and Roy teaming up against him.

“March,” Roy shouted for Jamie to run faster. He let out a casual whistle as Richmond locals watched them pass by.

“Good news is, after this,” Y/n called from the front, “Are burpees!”

Jamie groaned under his breath. She was enjoying this way too much.

—————————

Among the many changes in Y/n since Amsterdam, she had a new weekly appointment to keep.

“So you don’t know his name,” Y/n recapped the story she’d just been told, “You didn’t sleep with him. You just danced and drank wine and he cooked for you and did your laundry and gave you a foot massage.”

Rebecca nodded, a mouth full of biscuit preventing her from doing any more than humming. They were currently seated on the couch in her office.

Y/n was floored. “Well, if that’s not a movie, I don’t know what is.”

“I’ve never experienced anything like it,” Rebecca cut a hand through the air, “It was…gezellig.”

“You’re gonna have to teach me what that means,” Y/n remarked, taking a sip of her tea, “That’s insane. And you really didn’t exchange names? Nothing?”

“Mm-mm,” Rebecca replied, “It was one of those moments in time that just…stays there. It was perfect.”

Y/n smiled, shaking her head, “Well, it sounds like this gezellig phenomenon’s got its work cut out. Needs to bring the two of you back together.”

Rebecca sighed, “I doubt it. And I think I’m okay with it. Like I said, perfect in its own time.”

“Hey,” Y/n smacked Rebecca’s arm lightly, “Maybe he’s Matchbox Man.”

Rolling her eyes, Rebecca got up to serve herself another cup of tea. “Oh, hush,” she scolded, “I should have never told you that.”

“It’s giving a skeptic a lot to believe in,” Y/n chuckled. She had never thought anything of psychics and now Rebecca was trying to convince her otherwise. “And I wouldn’t have guessed you did either.”

“I didn’t,” the blonde said as she poured, “I don’t. But all these…little things. The details. It’s bloody ridiculous, yes, but…”

“Well, I like the ending part,” Y/n said. The more she got to know her, it became quite easy to picture Rebecca as a mother. But Y/n had decided against paying her that compliment. It clearly meant a lot to her and she was still grappling with the weight of the prediction.

Rebecca collected her thoughts, coming back to the couch. “Enough about me. What’s new with you?”

“Nothing,” Y/n shrugged.

“Oh, I don’t believe that for a second,” Rebecca replied, “You’re happier, you’re relaxed…is there someone you’re not telling me about?”

“Uh, no,” Y/n laughed, shooting down the theory immediately, “Definitely not.”

“So none of the boys have tried anything?” Rebecca asked.

“No,” Y/n answered, “Blissfully. But they’re all pretty decent. I’m not too worried.”

“Oh, don’t let them hear you say that,” Rebecca muttered, “They may be gentlemen, but they’ll jump at any chance they get.”

Y/n laughed, but didn’t miss the way her boss’ eyes ever so briefly seemed to glaze over, lost in a thought.

“There something you wanna tell me?” Y/n asked.

Rebecca purposefully took a sip, forcing silence and innocently shaking her head. It was suspicious enough for Y/n to follow the money.

“They’re all perfectly lovely,” Rebecca smiled.

“Mm-hm,” Y/n smirked, not even trying to buy the denial.

“So, come on,” Rebecca changed the subject, “What is it then? What’s your secret?”

The only person Y/n had confided in about even 1% of her life’s history was Jamie, and that had only been because he understood it. She didn’t want to have to explain her revelations in Amsterdam and the complex backstory that came with them to anyone. But nearly everyone she’d encountered at Nelson Road that week had commented on her change in countenance. She hadn’t realized how obvious she’d been before.

“I think I’ve just…” Y/n sighed, “Settled in. I mean, I’m enjoying being here.”

Rebecca smiled and squeezed Y/n’s arm, “I’m glad. You’re a superb addition.”

Out of the many bosses she’d had, Y/n had never known one as kind as Rebecca. She was glad they’d started spending time together.

Y/n glanced at the clock on the wall, “Better get going.”

“What’s on the agenda today?” Rebecca asked.

“This will be my third attempt at getting footage from training for the socials,” Y/n set her empty teacup on the coffee table and rose, “When I say ‘wish me luck,’ I mean light a candle.”

“Oh no,” Rebecca replied, “What’s prevented you so far?”

Y/n wasn’t sure how to answer. The first day she and the staff photographer had come down to the pitch, the only shots they’d gotten were of various players throwing up or laying in fetal position. The second day consisted of shots where none of the boys looked like they knew what they were doing. Plus, a few action mode captures of Isaac making a corner kick, which Y/n felt needed to be kept for insurance purposes. On top of all of that, Ted had decided to start inviting fans to observe training which made things more tense, knowing that there were spectators watching every move. Y/n wasn’t sure what, or who, she’d find on the pitch that day.

“Well, you wouldn’t tell Van Gogh how to paint,” Y/n stopped at the door and faced Rebecca, “And you wouldn’t tell Ted how to coach.”

Rebecca smiled knowingly, giving Y/n a little ‘good luck’ nod before they both braved their separate days.

—————————

Y/n rounded up Gavin, one of the photographers for the club, and headed out to the pitch. Training had already begun and Ted was in the midst of explaining an exercise.

“Hey,” Y/n said softly, greeting Trent who was observing from the railing.

“Hey,” Trent replied.

Y/n took the spot beside him, the two of them had developed an easy rapport. “What do we have today?”

Trent’s mouth opened and shut, unsure of how to describe what Ted had just set up. Rather than try, he simply nodded toward the team.

Y/n took a look at the Greyhounds. They were all clumped together, as usual. What was out of the ordinary were the red strings that seemed to be connecting one player to another, stemming from their…shorts?

“Where’s the string-“ Y/n questioned aloud, before the answer struck her, “Oh.”

Trent rubbed at his lower lip, “Yeah.”

Y/n turned to Gavin, who was waiting for instructions. “You can go ahead and go back in, Gavin, we’re not getting anything today.”

Once he’d been sent off, Y/n went back to watching the team. They moved awkwardly to their positions, never straying too far from one another. When Ted blew his whistle, they became even more clunky, yet still moving with lightning quick reflexes. Driven purely by fear.

Trent and Y/n watched, both of them slightly amused. At some point, Y/n quietly pulled out her phone. It was too memorable a moment to not save for the rest of eternity.

“I may have my journalistic integrity,” Trent leaned in and whispered, pointing to Y/n’s phone, “But that is fantastic blackmail material.”

“Oh, I know,” Y/n chuckled, “Or I’ll just play it when they need to be humbled.”

Cries of pain and panic popped up on different ends of the pitch. So far, they’d avoided the ultimate injury, but it stood to wonder how long they could go before someone-

“AH!”

The pitch fell silent, everyone’s breath stuck in their chests. All eyes fell on Jamie, who didn’t dare to move, his red string missing.

Dani went to his friend, holding fast as Jamie checked to make sure…everything was intact. When he held up a hand to signal things were fine, Dani sighed.

“It’s okay! His penis is okay!”

While everyone let out a breath, Y/n snorted. Not only was it just so mind-numbingly absurd, but she’d gotten the entire thing on camera.

Ted blew his whistle, taking one step forward and tripping on a string connecting two players. Trent and Y/n both covered their faces, trying hard not to laugh.

“Okay, fellas,” Ted called after giving several apologies, “I think we’ve given this about as much of a go as anything else. Let’s take a break, untangle those knots, and we’ll get back out after.”

“So…” Y/n turned to Trent, “What do you think? Full chapter?”

Trent shrugged, “Worth a mention, at least.”

—————————

Later in the afternoon, Y/n was in her office when a Twitter alert chimed from her phone. With the Arsenal match two days away, it was likely the Greyhounds would be trending. When she picked up her mobile, she was surprised to find it was Sam who was trending, not Richmond.

Y/n opened the app to find that the tweet Sam had recently made, condemning the handling of Portsmouth Harbor’s refugee situation, had turned into an exchange. The politician he’d mentioned had snapped back and essentially told Sam to shut up and play football. She’d gone so far as to call him mediocre.

Sam. Mediocre.

It made Y/n’s blood boil. How could someone supposed to lead and guide the country stoop to so low a level? And to take it out on someone like Sam? Empathic, earnest, fucking spectacularly talented, Sam?

It wasn’t often that Y/n acted on emotion alone. All decisions in her life were carefully thought out, not a single one made without an ample amount of consideration. But when she opened up the AFC Richmond Twitter account and typed three characters, she did so purely from her heart.

The tweet read: #24

—————————

A few hours later, the headlines started to pop up.

AFC Richmond Backs Obisanya in Heated Political Exchange

Obisanya vs. Barot: Richmond Weighs In

Richmond Goes Political: Sam Obisanya’s Team Denounces Brenda Barot

Y/n had never seen something fall apart so fast. She had made a tremendous mistake.

Sat in the seats of the training pitch, the headlines bounced around her head. In a moment of pure insanity, feeling defensive of Sam, she’d managed to make football political. Not only was Sam under fire, but so was AFC Richmond as a whole. How many times had she been taught to avoid situations like this? Every boss she’d ever had had instructed her to stay neutral on anything involving politics. Never mix personal with professional. With one tweet, she’d thrown all teaching to the wayside and essentially blown her career up.

“So…”

Jamie’s voice broke her out of her spinning thoughts. He was climbing the concrete steps, hands stuck in his sweatshirt pocket.

“Van Damme spotted you filmin’ this morning,” he said, “And the lads appointed me to come and appeal to your humanity, release the video to us.”

Y/n scoffed, “Uh-huh.”

“And I’m afraid,” Jamie scrunched his face and swayed back and forth, “I can’t take no for an answer.”

“I mean, the only person this really affects is you,” Y/n extended a hand out, “Everyone else came off looking pretty damn skilled.”

Jamie scoffed, “‘Scuse you, I wouldn’t pick on you if you were injured.”

“Almost injured,” Y/n rolled her eyes thoroughly, “I have the proof.”

“Bringin’ us back to…” Jamie threw out his hand and wiggled his fingers.

Y/n gave a tight lipped smile, “Yeah, well, I’ll have to turn over all the footage anyway when I’m fired. You’ll be safe then.”

Jamie squinted, “What’re you talkin’ about?”

“Have you seen the headlines?”

The joke was officially over. Jamie walked down the aisle and dropped into the seat beside Y/n. “No,” he replied, waiting until she held up her phone with an article already pulled up, “Oh.”

“Yeah,” she stuffed the device back in her coat pocket.

“But…” Jamie tried to connect the dots, “Why would you get sacked for a tweet?”

“Because I got personal,” Y/n explained, her eyes never leaving the pitch. It was nearing sunset, the whole field was illuminated with a golden glow. “You post something like that on your page, not your employer’s.”

Jamie watched Y/n’s mouth move, still not quite understanding the problem. Not because he lacked the logic to figure it out, but because…was there really a problem?

“Have you seen the pictures from last season?” He asked, “Of Sam and the Dubai Air thing? Us on the pitch with tape over our kits?”

In her extensive research before she’d started, Y/n had come across shots of the team, boycotting Dubai Air. She’d also seen his press conference afterwards, accusing the Nigerian government of corruption. The boys had all stood in solidarity with him.

“Yeah.”

“Caused a fuckin’ riot,” Jamie continued, “Some people loved us, some people hated us. We’re still here.”

“‘Cause if you mess up or cause a scandal, people forgive you because you’re Jamie Tartt,” Y/n gestured to him, “You’re irreplaceable, I’m expendable. Universities crank out hundreds of me each year, ready to replace the next one who screws up.”

Any other time, Jamie wouldn’t have turned down the chance to spend time on the ‘irreplaceable’ remark. But it was clear Y/n was truly hurting. She really thought she’d ruined things.

“I just,” Y/n rested her head in her hand, “I just couldn’t stand to see that asshole attack Sam like that. He didn’t do anything. I don’t think the man’s committed one sin in his life.”

“Prick,” Jamie joked, trying to get her to smile.

“I just got angry,” Y/n continued, “And I shouldn’t have. Not like that.”

“I really don’t think it’s all that bad,” Jamie replied.

Y/n sighed, shutting her eyes as she leaned back in her seat, “We’ll see what Rebecca says.”

“You’re not goin’ anywhere,” Jamie brushed the mere idea off, “Even if she sacks you, I’d walk out with ya. See how she likes that.”

Y/n chuckled, “Yeah, right.”

“No, I’m serious,” Jamie continued, “Pack up me things, follow you out, refuse to come back till they re-hired ya.”

She shot him a quirked brow.

“Yeah, probably not,” Jamie said, finally earning a proper laugh from Y/n, “But I’d support ya silently.”

“Wow, what a pal,” Y/n remarked.

“Hey,” Jamie nudged her elbow, “You’re gonna be fine.”

Pulling one hand out of his pocket, Jamie slid his arm around the back of Y/n’s chair, offering a hug.

With another match being struck to her boundaries, Y/n leaned in and let Jamie embrace her. She settled her head against his shoulder, absorbing the warmth he radiated and letting herself be comforted…just for a moment. Even if all things fell apart, for a few seconds, everything felt okay.

Her frown returned as Jamie’s hand slid down towards her coat pocket.

“I can feel you trying to take my phone,” she said.

“I’m sorry,” Jamie replied, blindly feeling around and now slipping his other arm around Y/n, “I need that video.”

“Jamie,” Y/n grunted as she twisted to the side, holding her phone out as far as possible.

“I’m sorry,” Jamie was now fully on her and trying to pin her down, “I’m sorry.”

“Jamie!” Y/n cried, as they wrestled one another into the next seat. It was a blessing there was no one around. They were a fucking sight.

—————————

It took Y/n a good five minutes to hype herself up enough to knock on Rebecca’s door. She took a few deep breaths, hopped up and down a couple times, before rapping her knuckles on the doorframe.

“Ah,” Rebecca greeted her with a reserved smile, “I was just about to ask you to come up.”

Y/n’s nervous smile dropped, “You were?”

“Yes,” Rebecca gestured to the chair across from hers, “I wanted to speak to you about the current headlines.”

“Rebecca,” Y/n held up both hands, walking quickly across the room, “Before you say anything, let me just say this…I am so incredibly sorry for what I did. It was stupid a-and emotional of me and I had no place posting that from the club’s account. It was unprofessional of me and I absolutely understand if you’d like to call Keeley and ask her to bring in someone else.”

Rebecca let her finish, her expression unreadable as Y/n rambled. It unsettled Y/n more to not know just how much disappointment she was feeling.

“Y/n,” Rebecca raised a hand, “You’re not fired.”

Her brows shot up, “I’m not?”

“Absolutely not,” Rebecca smiled warmly, “Far from it. I wanted to commend you for what you did.”

“My tweet?” Y/n finished.

“How that woman spoke to Sam is repulsive. And there’s many more that are supporting those same thoughts. Sam doesn’t deserve that and we, as a club, stand behind him 100%. Why shouldn’t we do so publicly?”

Y/n’s heart was beginning to beat a little less out of her chest.

“You did nothing wrong,” Rebecca assured, “And don’t you dare think for a second I’d be crazy enough to let you go.”

A force of breath escaped Y/n, the air she didn’t realize she’d been holding onto. She wasn’t used to so much compassion, nor so much personalism embedded in the workplace. It had once bothered her, now it was saving her.

“Thank you,” was all she felt she could say.

“Now,” Rebecca pressed both palms to her desk, “Don’t you have more papers to be pissing off?”

Y/n laughed, turning on her heel and heading for the door. She’d have made it to the hall, if a sudden theory hadn’t railroaded through her mind.

“Oh my gosh,” she spun around, “Was it Sam?”

Rebecca, always so perfectly collected, shot a finger Y/n’s way. “Out.”

Y/n left smiling, both at the discovery and with relief that for the time being, she was safe.

—————————

The Arsenal match came around, bringing Richmond another opportunity to break their unlucky streak.

As always, Rebecca, Keeley and Y/n were in the stadium’s suite, waiting in anticipation. Lately, Y/n hadn’t seen much of Keeley, what with Jack absorbing the lion’s share of her time.

Rebecca and Keeley had filled Y/n in on the issue at hand. Jack was apparently “love bombing” her girlfriend, showering her with gifts and grand gestures. Not only was it overwhelming Keeley, but it was tipping the scales unfairly.

“That is a little…extreme,” Y/n admitted, they’d just told her about the overflowing amount of daisies Jack had filled Keeley’s office with.

“Mmm,” Rebecca nodded and swallowed her mouthful of champagne, “At the beginning, Rupert bought me so many tulips for so long, his florist was able to buy a castle.”

Keeley’s face furrowed, “What?”

“I mean, it was in Scunthorpe,” Rebecca shrugged, “But still. A castle.”

“Well, I’m taking Jack out tonight,” Keeley said, “And if she tries to pay, then I will give her-“

“You’ll give her what?” Rebecca smiled.

Keeley paused before smirking, “Just the tip.”

“Okay,” Y/n finished the last of her wine, “I support this, but I’m gonna need to be a lot less sober to hear you talk about our boss like that.”

The women burst into snorts, Keeley clutching onto Y/n’s arm.

“Hello, everyone,” Higgins approached the group with another man in tow.

“Hello, Leslie,” Rebecca greeted.

“May I present-” Higgins began to make introductions, but Rebecca was one step ahead.

“Mr. Obisanya. Rebecca Welton. Lovely to meet you.”

“Likewise,” the man said, shaking her hand, “Samuel has told me so much about you.”

Rebecca’s grin spread a little, “Has he?”

“Yes,” Mr. Obisanya’s tone became more serious, “He has.”

“Cool,” Rebecca’s shoulders jumped up.

Keeley and Y/n watched the interaction plunge right into awkwardness. If Y/n hadn’t been certain in her theory that Sam and Rebecca had once been a thing, this was a grand confirmation.

“Oh, yeah!” Keeley broke the silence, jumping up and down, “Come on, you Greyhounds! Let’s go, Richmond!”

Y/n cheered in addition, trying to make the moment any less uncomfortable.

“I’m Keeley, by the way,” she reached out and took Mr. Obisanya’s hand, “Hi.”

Y/n did the same, “Y/n.”

“Hey,” Sam’s father greeted them, but his eyes drifted back to Rebecca, “Let’s go, Greyhounds.”

As Higgins wisked Mr. Obisanya off, Keeley and Y/n tugged Rebecca along to their seats. The KJPR girls acted as a barrier, sitting on either side of her.

As the boys came out on the pitch, Y/n wondered if all the insane training methods she’d watched over the week would pay off. All the sweat, blood, tears and vomit had to be worth something.

Or nothing

The Greyhounds were slamming into one another, missing each other’s signals, and basically acting like it was their first time on a pitch. When the fifteen minute break came around, it was a relief to have a few minutes off from watching the misery.

While Rebecca and Keeley were away getting another drink, Mr. Obisanya crossed the aisle to sit beside Y/n.

“I wanted to thank you,” he leaned in to be heard over the crowd, “For what you did for my son.”

“Oh,” Y/n was a little surprised he even knew about her blunder. She hadn’t even had the opportunity to talk with Sam about it. “It was nothing. Really.”

“No,” Mr. Obisanya shook his head, “It was not nothing. There are very few willing to stand up against the type of people who attacked him. Who are willing to speak out,” he pointed a finger towards Y/n’s chest, “But you did.”

Y/n wasn’t sure she had grapsed the true weight of what she’d done until then. Sam’s father took her hand between his and squeezed, smiling so very warmly.

When the second half came around, the Greyhounds came back out with more confidence. There was no feasible way for them to beat Arsenal, but there was plenty of time left to go down swinging.

Van Damme prevented a goal and tossed the ball off to Jan, who shot it over to Dixon. Dixon passed it infield to Jamie, who immediately kicked it to Sam, who gave it to Colin. Over and over they passed to one another, beautifully.

Y/n gripped the railing, nearly out of her seat as she watched.

The ball ended back with Jamie and he passed to Isaac. Isaac got it to Dani who brought it right back to Jamie. Bumbercatch received it, sending it to Goodman, and a lightning quick Jamie was in prime position to score a goal. Instead, he faked the other team out and kicked it back to Richard, who nailed the perfect goal.

Rebecca and Keeley sat in shock, but Y/n leapt to her feet, cheering with nothing but pride.

“That was incredible,” she exclaimed, her hands pressed to her lips.

“I don’t even know what happened,” Rebecca cried, breaking into a grin.

The match ended 3-1, Asrsenal, but it didn’t feel like a total loss for Richmond. They were back. Zava-less and proud, they were back.

After overseeing interviews, Y/n hurried down to the Greyhound bus before it left. She needed to talk to-

“Y/n!”

She turned to see Sam, hastening his steps to catch up to her.

“Hey,” she waved, “Oh my gosh! You guys were amazing!”

“Thank you,” Sam smiled, “I wanted to thank you for what you did.“

“No, no, no,” she shook her head and took hold of Sam’s arms, “You spoke out. That’s what matters.”

“Just the fact that you would do that,” Sam continued, “It meant a lot. I know you probably took some heat for it.”

Y/n chuckled, “Not as much as you’d think.”

“Well, thank you,” Sam extended his arms, unsure of whether it was alright to hug but feeling all the kinship needed for one.

Y/n didn’t hesitate to wrap her arms around Sam’s shoulders.

“I’ll see you Monday,” Sam said as they pulled away from one another.

“See you Monday,” Y/n patted his arm once more before heading back towards the stadium.

—————————

Jamie, already sat in the bus, watched out the tinted windows as Sam and Y/n hugged. He’d been glad when she’d come back from her meeting with Rebecca smiling, the two of them passing one another in the hall. He’d even been remorsefully happy when she waved her phone at him, a reminder that the Greyhounds would forever have to be nice to her, lest the Red String incident go public.

Jamie was happy, all around, that Y/n had settled into Richmond.

And he couldn’t figure out why he was the tiniest bit jealous that she’d come down to find Sam and not him.

——————

Heartfirst Taglist: @lalla-04p @optimisticsandwichgladiator @makingmunson94 @taytaylala12 @storysimp @sokkigarden @lightninginab0ttle @poohkie90 @alipap3 @verra-nerevarine @shineforever19 @spaceagechimera @burnafter-reading @qardasngan @cyberpvnk-enthusiast @sogoodtoheritsvicious @buckybarnex @angelsunflxwer @blueanfield @thewildestwonderland @sablecities @oxxolovemelikeyoudooxxo @strawberryacethingz @mentalistfan @tortilla-maria1 @katdahlali @for-fuck-sake-im-alive @glitterquadricorn @jamieolivia27 @imvibin69 @katlizada @lil-tracys @fanaticalfantasist @heyitz-julia @cactajuice @peachyy-tea @notalxx @rockchickrebel @anxiety-prime-max @loveforaugust @jellycolors @actuallybarb @heletsmelovehim @lovinnscarletknight @imfalling-inlove @leslieiscrying @meg-ro

#ted lasso fanfic #ted lasso fanfiction #ted lasso imagine #ted lasso fic #jamie tartt x reader #jamie tartt imagine #rebecca welton x reader #keeley jones x reader #heartfirst

465 notes · View notes

rqgnarok · 11 months

Text

music to my eyes - jamie tartt

fandom: ted lasso

wc: 4,266

warnings: spoilers for the season 3 finale of ted lasso, jamie being a lil self deprecating. reader uses female pronouns.

summary: jamie has a crush on the band’s bassist.

author’s note at the end!

Jamie’s so, so late.

Roy’s gonna have his balls. It’s the first training for the Queen’s Cup final against Tottenham– their first one without Ted, a little something before the freaking Champion’s League starts next year– and Jamie’s having the worst morning of his life.

He woke up late for his 4 am training that ran long, traffic was absolute shit and now he’s sprinting– not running, cause he’s not allowed to after he and Colin almost ran over the Prince of Denmark while racing each other to the locker room, a story for another day– down the hallway with Roy Kent’s fury just waiting to find its rightful owner.

He didn’t even have time to comb his hair today. It still looks amazing, but it’s the routine that matters. For his mental health or whatever.

Maybe that’s why he feels so jittery and doesn’t look where he’s going as he makes his way to the locker room. Jamie’s got his bag clutched to his chest and his headphones hanging around his neck, his jacket halfway on before he gave up and left it trailing down his side like a sad blanket.

He’s cursing whatever Gods control alarm clocks and traffic and hairbrushes when he knocks onto someone. It’s so forceful it sends them both to the ground with a grunt and a little ah! of surprise. Jamie tries not to grow annoyed and fails. He considers laying on the ground and becoming one with the carpet so he doesn’t face Roy’s justified punishment and sighs out his nose, pushing himself to a sitting position.

“–so sorry,” and it’s a woman, Jamie just knocked out a woman in his rush to work. What’s next? Is he gonna hit a cat with his car? Maybe spit on a kid’s face? She keeps babbling apologies, unaware of Jamie’s foul mood. “–supposed to be at her office but there’s just– there are so many hallways–”

“‘s alright,” he cuts her off harsher than he means to, guilt stabbing at him when she looks at him with wide, remorseful eyes. Jamie sighs, dusting off his clothes and standing, offering her a hand. “Me fault for bein’ in a rush. Should’ve seen where I was going.”

“Oh, god, you actually know where you’re going,” she says with a grimace, accepting his hand. She’s on her feet and standing too close to Jamie for a second that feels like a lifetime– almost nose-to-nose with Richmond’s greatest. Her laugh is stuttery and nervous when she steps back, barely meeting Jamie’s eye.

She’s cute. Jamie’s not planning to do anything about it, especially not with his fine for being late slowly becoming one for missing training but she is. Cute. His mouth lifts in a half smile at the thought, charmed.

“I was looking for Rebecca Welton’s office but I only got myself lost,” she says sheepishly, putting her hair behind her ear every couple of seconds since it keeps stubbornly falling out of place. Jamie’s fingers twitch a little but no. No, absolutely not, he’s not doing this to himself, no sir. “Is there any way you can give me directions without having to go with me? I don’t want you to be late for– shit. Practice, huh?”

Jamie thinks she’s the smartest woman that’s ever walked the face of the Earth until he remembers where they are. At Richmond’s training facilities. She’s looking at a disheveled man in a sports outfit. The story kind of tells itself.

“I– yeah,” Jamie stutters a little, clearing his throat to disguise it. “There’s, um, it ain’t a problem. I can take you there if you want.”

Her entire posture screams relief as soon as he offers, and it’s enough for Jamie to make up his mind even if she hasn’t said yes yet. “Would you? They said in the group chat not to be late and, like, they weren’t specific about it but you just know when a message’s for you, you know. And here I am, late–”

A beat.

“–and rambling,” she smiles at him again, the sight tugging at Jamie’s chest as he stands there like an idiot, his brain rebooting whenever she does it. “Yes, please. I’d really appreciate it.”

And so Jamie asks a kitman to take his stuff to the locker room while he walks her up to Rebecca’s office. His hand hovers but doesn’t quite touch the small of her back while he blabbers his way through small talk. Nice weather, today, innit, traffic was absolute hell though. Oh, you’re not from around here, that’s nice, do you plan on going sightseeing?

He delivers her to Rebecca’s floor to a thankful, ecstatic Higgins, who welcomes her with a hearty shake of the hand and promises that she hasn’t missed anything important. She’s barely able to spare him a smile and a quick thanks before the door’s closed behind them and Jamie’s standing there on his own, smiling at nothing.

He’s still wearing a dopey grin when he finally finds himself on the field, Roy yelling at him to run laps until sundown for being late. His legs are killing him, he’s £200 poorer, and he didn’t even get the woman’s name; but nothing can drag him down from his high and make him forget how she’d squeezed his arm in gratitude, touch warm and calloused against his skin.

The next day Rebecca’s there before practice starts, looking tall and pleased as she claps her hands and shares the big news: since the final of the Queen’s Cup is being held right here at Nelson Road, she managed to get a band to play during the halftime show. They’ll be here the entire next two weeks for rehearsals and staging, so everyone must be on their best behavior if they don’t want their name in the summer transfer market.

Jamie doesn’t connect the dots until he sees her again, this time at a local bar big enough to house less than two thousand people. Keeley hears from Roy who hears from Beard, who heard from Higgins that Rebecca said the secret band was gonna hang around the city for a couple of other smaller, quick gigs.

Jamie manages to excuse himself from video games at Colin’s with the guys and offers himself to Keeley as a buffer between her and Roy at a bar tonight. Though, in Jamie’s very humble and very right opinion, they’re already on their way to getting back together for good.

The band’s gathered a nice crowd, the lighting low and the thrum of the music hammering on Jamie’s teeth. He’s nursing the beer Roy bought him, the man charmed enough by Keeley’s presence that he let Jamie bend his rigorous diet regime. Just for the night.

It takes three songs for the bassist to speak up, a makeshift spotlight landing on her, sweaty and delighted at being onstage. Jamie’s blood rushes to his face and his vision blacks out for a second.

It’s her. No longer is she lost and out of her element, shyly asking a stranger for help. Both of her feet are steady on the ground, the strap of her bass snug around her neck. Her fingers are toying with the strings even when no song’s playing, an air of rightful confidence washing over the room as it takes her in. Jamie isn’t the only one suddenly breathless.

She grins against the microphone, coy. “Thank you so much for having us, Jaded Joker. We’re Karma Police, and we hope you have as much fun hearin’ us as we do playing for you.”

They fall into another song with that quick introduction and Jamie can’t take his eyes off her, barely hearing the song as the world around him slows down. Her clothes and jewelry sway with her to the rhythm of the music, the lights shifting seamlessly into different colors making her look ethereal.

Keeley clocks it in immediately.

“She’s good, huh?” she nods at the stage where Jamie’s stranger is moving to the beat of the bass like no one’s watching, shamelessly enjoying herself and making funny faces at her bandmates. “Fuckin’ smoking, too.”

Jamie only hums in a very Roy Kent-like way, knowing there’s no fooling Keeley fucking Jones. The last thing he needs is to give her details and have her dip a toe into Jamie’s nonexistent love life.

Of course, he doesn’t take into consideration that Roy’s a brazen gossip.

“So,” Sam elongates the word as he’s spotting Jamie on the press the next day, happy watching him grunt at the effort. “How was the band last night?”

Jamie almost drops the damned thing on his chest.

“Roy said you enjoyed it,” he continues giddily like he didn’t almost commit accidental manslaughter by catching Jamie off guard. “Especially the bassist. What was her name?”

Sam fakes confusion for less than a minute before Jamie gives, mumbling it under his breath. He’d been weak and googled Karma Police in the privacy of his car before going home, swiping through the images that popped up until he recognized her face.

(Y/N) (Y/L/N), the article he clicked on informed him. Jamie had repeated the name under his breath just to see what it felt like on his tongue for an embarrassing amount of time.

Thanks to Karma Police’s bassist and lyricist (Y/N) (Y/L/N), the band’s sophomore album New Perspective has found a home in people’s hearts and high on the global charts.

Keeley wasn’t kidding. She’s good.

“Oh,” Sam realizes, some of his amusement softening into genuine interest when he watches Jamie’s face do whatever the fuck it's doing. “Oh, you like like her.”

Jamie immediately flushes under Sam’s gaze, making sure the weight is safe in its place before physically fleeing the conversation. Sam doesn’t mention it to anyone, which Jamie appreciates so badly he could cry a little, but he does find his eyes across the locker room later when Rebecca comes in, four people in tow.

“Everybody, these are the wonderful musicians I spoke to you about the other day,” she says it in a way that screams I’m a pleasant human being and embarrass me and I will end your career right where you stand all at once. “We’re on a little tour of the installations and I thought we’d all come to say hi to wrap it up.”

The boys are charming and welcome them with ease. They’re not one of the most liked teams in England despite their bad runs for nothing, but Jamie’s frozen the second he catches sight of her. She’s a step behind one of her bandmates, shaking hands and smiling politely at conversations while staying slightly in the background, the stage persona from the previous night gone like taking off a jacket.

Jamie takes pride in the way their eyes meet and her tight expression loosens, her smile blossoming into something more genuine, less unsure.

“Hey, stranger,” she says a little awkwardly after having gathered the courage Jamie couldn’t to cross the room and say hi. It feels like they’re alone in a room full of people, and for a second Jamie thinks he sees Sam stealing a few looks, making sure he keeps the others away and distracted for a little privacy. “Did you make it to training the other day?”

“What?” Jamie blanks like an idiot, then shakes his head when he remembers how they met; both of them, late for their respective responsibilities. “Oh! Oh, yeah. I– yeah. I had to run for me life to make up for it, but I made it.”

“Good,” she smiles, shifting in her place. “I, um. I’m glad we get to play for you guys. What you’ve done this past season, getting back to the top, has been unbelievable.”

“You’re unbelievable,” he replies, awestruck, and backtracks when she looks a little apprehensive. She’s doing the hair thing again, combing it back while it stubbornly escapes its place every couple of seconds. A nervous tic, maybe. “I mean– some friends and I, we saw you last night at the Jaded Joker. If anything, it’s an honor we get you guys to play for us.”

“Oh!” she seems pleased, ducking her head at the compliment. Her shoulders loosen again, and Jamie tries not to feel like he just scored a goal against Man City. “Oh, you should’ve said hi! Did you enjoy yourselves?”

“I did,” he says, too soft, and it feels like an admission of something when her eyes search his face, for a moment landing on his mouth before putting herself back together. “Up there, it’s like– it’s like you forget everyone else. You’re made for the stage.”

If anything, (Y/N)’s delight only strengthens, tugging at the neckline of her shirt. Jamie finds himself trying to follow the trail of new skin and flushes as well when he catches himself just in time.

“Thank you,” she matches his tone. “You’d think it’d be nervewracking but it’s… silence. In my head. Does that make sense? I feel like it doesn’t.”

“It does,” Jamie agrees, breathless. It’s exactly how he feels when he gets the ball on his feet, every anxiety and worry and part of him he doesn’t like quieting the minute he steps on a pitch. “I get the same when I play. Peace in the chaos, I guess”

(Y/N) looks at him like she’s discovering the world’s eight wonder.

“Kids!” her bandmate breaks the moment by coming over, arm draped around (Y/N)’s shoulder. (Y/N) blinks, looking a little shell-shocked. “Sorry to interrupt this party, but rehearsal awaits.”

Disappointment claws at Jamie’s belly, but before he can let it fester the conversation continues, bubbly and loud. “Alas! We’ll be done around 5. You’re welcome to visit then. We’re going to the third floor, I think.”

(Y/N)’s only amused at her friend’s antics, even if Jamie’s back to having a knot in his throat out of nervousness alone. Jesus, what’s wrong with him? It’s like he’s eight again and crushing on the cute boy that lived in the apartment in front of the Tartt’s.

“See you then?” (Y/N) says, hopeful, and Jamie thinks it’s only fair he’s brave as well and nods as resolutely as he can.

“I’ll be there.”

He ends up having to ask Higgins for directions, after promising he’s not gonna stir up any trouble at least four times. It takes Roy passing by and giving a few reassuring grunts, guaranteeing Jamie’s best behavior before Higgins gives him the location. When Jamie goes to thank him, Roy only points at him menacingly, though lacking his usual frown, and says don’t fuck this up.

Rehearsals are just wrapping up when Jamie gets there, instruments being packed and people saying goodbye to each other when he makes his way into the room. He immediately finds (Y/N) sitting on the piano playing a complicated melody.

She lights up when she sees him, the music seizing. “You made it!”

Jamie stops her from standing up, instead sitting next to her after she scoots over to give him room. “That was nice. A song of yours?”

(Y/N) shrugs. “Hopefully soon. You never know, when you’re writing. You start working on a song and it ends up being a completely different thing from when you started.”

“Sounds messy,” Jamie says, a little consternated at the thought. Fortunately, (Y/N) laughs.

“It is. Do you play?”

“Fuck no,” he says quickly, then tries to explain himself as she splutters in amused surprise. “I mean, I don’t think I can. It seems pretty complicated. I’ve always been better with me feet.”

He reaches for the keys and begins playing some nonsense, loud and offkey, knowing it’ll make her laugh again.

“No, you gotta–” she cackles, placing her hands on top of his and quieting the dissonant echo of the keys. Jamie feels the tug at his lips, insistent, automatic, the same rush of delight that courses over him whenever he’s in her presence. “Gentle. Be gentle about it, jeez.”

She lines up their hands so her fingers move his and begins playing a quiet, fun melody. Jamie’s doing shit other than staring at her face, slightly twisted in concentration as she mumbles the notes under her breath. G, G, G, F, G, B, G, G…

“I know this one,” Jamie mumbles in recognition. (Y/N) turns her head to smile at him, pleased. “‘s from Nottin Hill, innit?”

“And a million other movies,” she murmurs back, unable to break the spell that’s fallen over the room. “I wouldn’t have taken you for a romantic.”

“‘s my favorite film,” he concedes, finding it incredibly easy to be honest when they’re sitting side by side like this, alone, their sides warm against each other. He loves his teammates, but (Y/N) didn’t know him when he was awful and arrogant, too cocky. There’s nothing she holds against him, no standard he needs to meet for her to be happy in his company. “Cried me eyes out at the end. Though I’ll deny it if you ever ask in front of anyone.”

(Y/N) laughs. “I promise I won’t. It’s a good movie. Doesn’t beat While You Were Sleeping, though.”

Jamie’s expression remains blank. (Y/N)’s face falls into disbelief, her hands tightening against his. “You’ve never watched While You Were Sleeping.”

He’s heard of it, but it’s hilarious to watch her forget herself, any sign of nervousness or polite shyness finally out the window. Jamie likes it– likes her, wants her to be comfortable with him and stop holding herself so tightly whenever she’s off the stage.

“You poor, sheltered boy,” she exhales, aghast. “Holy fuck, I can’t believe I’m about to introduce you to the best romantic comedy ever made.”

Jamie goes to take the opening but stops himself at the last second. He knows this process; the flirting, the leaning in for just a moment so she smells his cologne then pulling away, leaving her wanting more. The asking for a date, a fancy dinner, then taking her home. Sneaking out in the middle of the night, dodging calls until she stops trying to reach him.

He’s been doing it for years. He wants to desperately break the cycle and he wants to do it with her, but does he have it in him? Jamie’s been working on himself harder than he’s worked for anything else in his life, but what if he’s one slip away from becoming his old self? From turning out like his dad?

Sure, the old man’s changed, or– well. He’s trying to. But whether Jamie likes it or not he sees a little too much of him in himself sometimes, and he can’t do that to her. He’s known her for less than a week and he knows she deserves better. Everyone does.

Roy told him not to fuck it up. Maybe this is what he meant.

His expression stutters, shatters, and reestablishes itself in a matter of a moment, a blink of an eye. Jamie knocks his shoulder into hers gently, leaning back into place after a second. He teases: “And who made you the expert, eh?”

Rather than letting it drop, (Y/N) takes the bait just like Jamie knew she would. They stay there until a security guard comes to kick them out for the night, and they talk about everything and nothing. Movies, songs, bands they like, and foods they don’t. Jamie’s favorite players when he was a kid, his hero-like worship for Roy Kent, and how he’s made him a better player, a better man.

(Y/N) shares with him the first time she held a guitar in her hands, the albums she listened to when she was a kid that changed her as a person, realizing she could create magic through words and music. Her favorite cities to tour, how long she’s known her bandmates, how she’d die and kill for them if necessary.

By the time he’s walking into the pitch at Nelson Road two weeks later, the roar of the crowd around him swallowing every other sound, Jamie’s spent every free moment of his time with (Y/N) (Y/L/N). It was unavoidable, helpless as he is in his attraction to her, but Jamie doesn’t know what to do without, as Roy so carefully put it, fucking it up.

It hadn’t helped when (Y/N) snuck into the locker room to wish him luck, showing him the Richmond bracelet she was gonna wear onstage with a roll of the eyes. “Our stylist wouldn’t let me wear the jersey, but don’t you doubt for a second that I’m rooting for you, Tartt.”

Jesus Christ. Jamie had felt his cheeks warm up and dared to thank her with a loud, exaggerated kiss on the forehead that left them both grinning like idiots and Roy staring at them knowingly.

Before Jamie followed his teammates into the field, Roy had pulled him aside with a hand on his shoulder. “Tartt–”

“I know, I know,” he answered a little too self-deprecatingly. “Don’t fuck it up.”

But Roy only raised his eyebrows, realization dawning on his features. “You think I say that because I think you will?”

Jamie mumbled some not-words under his breath and Roy cursed. “Prick. I say it because you deserve good things, dickhead. And you should let them come to you when they do.”

Good things, Jamie thinks after one of his passes gives Dani the first goal of the night. The younger man jumps into his arms while hugging him tight and laughing into his ear, their teammates joining their embrace less than a second later.

He looks towards the general area of the VIP seats where he knows (Y/N) and the rest of the band are cheering them on. He pictures her screaming at the top of her lungs, arms in the air, and being happy for him like she’s known him for all his life.

She might be the best thing. Whether he deserves her or not, Jamie wants her. Wants to be with her, watch romantic comedies until they both cry and spend his free afternoons watching her play the piano while he plays FIFA in the living room. He wants songs written about him that have him blushing whenever he hears them in public and for her to come to his games and be able to dedicate every goal to her he ever scores.

Good things. Yeah, Jamie can get down on that.

“You fucking asshole!” she jumps into his arms the second she finds him on the pitch after the game, a medal hanging from his neck and sweat sticking to his skin. (Y/N) doesn’t seem to care as she lets him lift her in the air, holding onto each other tight. “You did it! You fucking did it!”

“I missed your show,” he replies instead, only a little bummed. He’s seen her play live before but there was an itch under his skin the entire half-time, knowing how close she was and being unable to get to her. Jamie grins. “And stole it, too.”

“There he is,” she teases gleefully. “For a second there I thought you were gonna be humble about this.”

“I don’t even know what that word means,” he says cockily.

“And how’s Mr. Man of the Match gonna celebrate, huh?” she wonders, hitting him lightly on the chest now that he’s put her back on the ground. “A fancy club? Getting shitfaced with the boys? A date with your left hand?”

Jamie puts his hand on hers at the last second, stopping her from pulling away. She sways into him, all traces of joking vanishing from her expression. He forces himself to stay on her face, the urge to look away defeated by how she’s looking at him. In wonder, open, hopeful.

She deserves good things, too. Jamie is determined to be the one to give them to her.

“I was thinking dinner?” he asks, fidgeting a little on his feet. “Maybe a movie? Thought I could see what While You Were Sleeping’s all about.”

(Y/N)’s mouth is fighting against a smile, somewhat hesitant still. Jamie doesn’t blame her, he’s been beating around this bush the entire time they’ve known each other.

“You want any company?” she wonders.

“Well, what kind of date would it be if it was just me?” he forces his features into faux confusion, watching her finally lose the battle and beam like a kid on Christmas. Her fingers twitch where he’s holding onto her hand.

“Not a great one,” she concedes, looking like all of Jamie’s dreams. “How do you feel about Mexican?”

Awful. Jamie feels awful about Mexican. He’s a white sexy boy in all the ways that matter and his taste buds punish him for eating spicy food no matter how much he likes it. But he can compromise. He’s starting to realize there’s very little he wouldn’t do for (Y/N) (Y/L/N).

“I feel fantastic about anything you like,” he answers truthfully. “I’m sure me tongue will forgive me eventually.”

(Y/N) laughs, fingers in Jamie’s hold shifting so she can hold his hand. “I think there’s a good lyric somewhere in there.”

“You plannin’ on writing me a song?”

She smirks. “Bold of you to assume I haven’t yet.”

Jamie squeezes her hand, leaning in to kiss her cheek.

“Can’t wait to hear it, love.”

___

there’s an ache in my bones to make a series out of this fic omg

i can’t believe the show’s over (is it tho????) so here’s some jamie fluff to heal our tender, mourning hearts. as always you’re welcome to tell me what you think and chat jamie and ted lasso as much as you’d like! thank u for reading AND for all the love on my last jamie piece that you can read here!

masterlist / ao3 / ko-fi

#commissions and asks are open!#leo writes #jamie tartt #jamie tartt x reader #ted lasso #phil dunster #roy kent #brett goldstein #rebecca welton #hannah waddingham #keeley jones #juno temple #sam obisanya #toheeb jimoh #i had so much fun w this i hope i do write more of them #reader insert

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itsclydebitches · 1 year

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There are a lot of Tedependent fics where Ted needs to first realize that he's bi/interested in Trent before the love confession can occur (which are GREAT) but recently my mind has been laughing about the opposite. That is, an out, proud, fully confident, divorced, not-as-much-of-a-mess-as-he-used-to-be Ted who is remarkably chill about potentially starting a relationship. God he loves Trent so much why wouldn't he ask him out?? What's he got to lose? Dating Trent? He's already not doing that!

Now pair that with a Classic Angst Trent who is 100% convinced of every fandom trope under the sun. Ted Lasso is definitely straight. He's definitely still in love with his wife. Even if he were open to men he definitely would never be interested in him. The idea of them dating is so absurd that Trent is thinking of writing the Oxford English Dictionary to get their picture set next to the definition. He's writing sappy poetry about the unrequited love story of the century. He's keeping every workplace interaction capital 'p' Platonic in deference to white straight male sensibilities. He's thinking of asking Beard to set up a new identity for when Ted realizes The Lasso Way is just a wordy love letter.

This boy is in D E N I A L.

Thus begins the intense comedy of errors when unstoppable force Ted meets immovable object Trent. How far do we take it? Well, what's your preferred amount of crack?

Ted takes him to a super romantic, candlelit dinner? Ted is so unbelievably nice to everyone. This would be amazing if it were a date :(

Ted says "I love you"? Trent's so proud of the culture of love and support Ted has brought to Richmond, but FUCK does hearing those words do things to him. If only he meant it in the way Trent wanted.

Ted wants him to move in? Well, Trent supposes he does need a roommate to keep up with London prices now that he's a single parent, but did the universe have to throw him together with his crush?

Both of them, seconds after Ted has proposed and Trent stuttered through a yes:

Ted: Hot damn I'm gonna marry the love of my life!! :D

Trent: Ted's temporary visa must be running out. This is torture, but I'd do anything for him while feeling like an absolute villain for taking advantage of his vulnerable state for my own emotional gratification 😭

Meanwhile:

Roy: When the fuck do we tell him?

Beard: Right before he walks down the aisle. I dropped that bombshell about Ted's mustache right before he married Michelle. Trent deserves one too.

#Ted Lasso #Trent Crimm #Tedependent #TedTrent

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avelera · 9 months

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"Sometimes it's not that deep," aka, How to Write a Mystery (That's Actually There)

A good rule of thumb about predicting a well-written mystery is that other people are predicting the same things. Even better if a lot of other people, on their own, are analyzing the material closely and each, on their own, are reaching the same theories and conclusions! Yes, this can mean everyone's falling for the same red herring too, of course, but generally speaking, no writer is putting all that effort into writing a mystery only one person can solve.

The thing is, a good mystery should be predictable, but at varying speeds based on the attentiveness of the audience.

The most laser-focused readers (or viewers), the true Holmesian mystery-solving mystery readers with encyclopedic knowledge and a fine-toothed comb to go through the material, should be ahead of the characters trying to solve the mystery, but not so far ahead that the story becomes boring, ideally. Your mystery shouldn't be so predictable that it can be figured out on page one but, if a truly clever sleuth does figure out your mystery on page one, your story should also be good enough that it is still an enjoyable tale even if the audience know how it ends.

The attentive reader should figure out the mystery at about the same time as the main character. They should have the "Aha!" moment about two seconds before the character solves it for that little thrill of feeling very clever, which to authors is very funny, because if we're doing our job right, we didn't just set the clues for you to solve the mystery, we agonized over the timing of each clue's introduction just to make sure you got that little thrill of self-satisfaction at the moment we wanted you to.

The casual reader should figure out the mystery when the characters figure it out. They should get the enjoyment of seeing the mystery solved, and in retrospect be able to see the clues, but in the meantime have enjoyed their time nonetheless. It should be a good story on its own.

Now, this is relevant to fandom theory mongering because clues are not accidental. And there are usually a lot of them, if the author is doing their job. Yes, you should be able to analyze the costume colors to see that there are parallels between the green dress or whatever that the lead is wearing in this episode and how it's a call back to another episode and that means blahblahblah is going to happen, but, that sort of deep-cut, freeze-frame sleuthing is usually only in support of more overt clues intended for general audiences.

(Not to pick on any one fandom, but Ted Lasso S3 for example had a lot of Tedbecca shippers looking for hidden clues in the cinematography as their hopes faded for a canon confirmation of their ship. Alas, those didn't bear out, because they were not accompanied by textual evidence in addition to the subtextual evidence of how any moment now, these characters are going to stop dating and pursuing completely different people and actually hook up with or even verbally express confirmed interest in each other.)

Of course, a mystery can be tough to solve and be satisfying! It is sometimes even possible to solve those truly out there or even not yet fully supported mysteries that eventually turn out to be true (say, predicting a later book in the series before all the clues are even there from installments in the meantime). It can be really satisfying to correctly extrapolate from incomplete data before the author even intended you to see it or had figured it out themselves!

However, more often than not, the clues are deliberate and to assume you're the only one seeing them is probably a sign that they're not actually there.

A good mystery, a well-written one, should provide all the clues for the audience to solve the mystery on their own, within the text, even if the last few pages are ripped out. A good mystery is not a "gotcha". And a sign of a good mystery is that more than one person can pick up on all the clues because those clues are placed deliberately and yes, that requires a certain amount of sign-posting as well and in fact, one of the most fiendishly difficult things to do as a writer is strike the proper balance between sign posting your clues at just the right time to reward your attentive audience with enough data to solve the mystery just before the characters do, but not so early that they lose interest.

So, why is this important for fandoms? Because it's entirely possible to go down the conspiracy theory rabbit hole and convince yourself of stuff that's not there and then get really bummed when it doesn't happen. We're all guilty of this, myself very much included, especially in the largely subtextual world of slash shipping.

There's also real world exceptions and extenuating circumstances to my statement that a good mystery will actually provide the clues: like studio changes, dropped threads due to contractual complications, or a crowded writers room where not every idea gets pursued.

Plus, we've got the whole goddamn JJ Abrams-inspired mystery box bullshit run of television making creators think it's cool to pull one over on the audience and deny the clues they set up just to make a "twist" that no one predicted because it wasn't there, thus betraying the principles of a good mystery, and that also muddies the waters about how good mysteries should be written. (If you can't tell, I absolutely despise writers who pull this bullshit with the intent to trick their audience and they do not deserve any praise for being "clever" to just surprise people with an outcome that's not supported by previous text ala "rocks fall, everyone dies", ugh.)

But besides the damned mystery box crud, there are some good rules of thumb for determining if the clues you're picking up are real or not:

Is the subtext supported by text? Not "is her green dress backed up by a micro-expression glance you can barely see if you freeze-frame the show" but actually in the text. Does someone say, in dialogue, "Hey, we should go on a date," when you're reading subtext between two characters and can you be certain that the writers intended that text to be read the way you read it? One way to tell is if this sort of thing happens more than once, if there are more clues. Of course, there's also red herrings, etc, and hey, that's half the fun of a mystery, not all clues are Clues. But generally speaking, there's more than one clue for important stuff.

Is there evidence against your theory and have you considered it? This is basic Logical Thinking 101, of course, but only looking for evidence that confirms your theory and ignoring everything that doesn't will definitely convince you of some pretty wild stuff in a hurry!

Have you considered the genre of the work and whether it even has mysteries? Or is it, for example, a comedy which might address those "clues", most likely comedically, but might just as easily not even realize they were seen as clues?

But mostly importantly: do other people have this theory? Did they arrive to it on their own, based on the same text? If you are the only person with a theory and cannot use textual evidence to convince more than one person who is not of the same background as you (ie, convince your less-progressive dad that these two guys definitely want to boink based on the way they look at each other) there is a very likely chance you are stringing together disparate data points to match your desires, not the evidence. Bonus points if, seriously, you can convince someone who is of the same demographic as the content creators (writers, directors, etc.) that these clues are intentional. Most likely, your less-than-progressive dad has more in common with the thought process that went into creating the vast majority of content than your average Tumblr user does. (OFMD is the exception that proves the rule.)

As a final note, one thing it's very dangerous to do as a writer is introduce the idea of clues and a mystery without making your mystery air tight. Mysteries invite the reader to put their brain on high alert. It means they're looking for clues everywhere and even seemingly innocuous throw-away descriptions or the camera lingering on a random prop for too long can be misinterpreted and end up pissing off the audience who thinks it's a Clue.

You have to be so deliberate with a mystery, because it's not about just controlling the clues you release, but controlling the perception of the audience so they know what isn't a clue (unless it's a red herring, of course). That's part of why scifi author David Brin said all aspiring writers should have their first novel be a mystery, because it teaches you volumes on how to control your narrative and make everything intentional.

#maggie rambles #writing #writing advice #definitely not in response to some absolutely wild theories I've seen going about

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