premleague

[premleague]

"But that ship is toxic and problematic" okay ❤️ yay ❤️

[premleague]

josh o'connor in challengers (2024) dir. luca guadagnino

[premleague]

River doesn't think he's in any position to be making promises to anyone, but– "I promise you, you won't come into work and find cockroaches have taken over your desk." That would make for an exciting morning for River [ or, at least, a morning far more exciting than any other he's had thus far at Slough House ]. His knee bounces lightly under the table as he takes a sip of his coffee. He doesn't know why he's been in a latte mood recently. His usual order of a flat white feels... wrong. Like he doesn't fucking deserve a flat white. Luckily, he's got Baker providing a distraction. He can't mope too hard if he's occupied with conversation. "You don't actually spend all day looking at me. How would you know that I'm wallowing all day?" He is. That's beside the point, though.

He's still practically reeling at the compliment. River knows the colossal state of his fuckup, but he also knows it wasn't his fault. It was Spider's, the cunt, trying to... River's not certain - was he trying to take a spot in the Park that he was convinced only one of the two of them could have? After all of the training that they'd gone through together? In some other life, River could've been an excellent field agent, and Spider his half-decent handler. But this is this life, not another one, and in this life, Roddy fucking Ho had a still frame from security footage of River crashing Stansted as his desktop wallpaper for so long after River first showed at Slough House that he was convinced he would kill the bloke with no remorse. Luckily, he's got some semblance of self control. He definitely wouldn't find his way back into the Park if he'd done that. [ Or maybe he would, just off the merit of everyone hates Roddy Ho. He won't, though. He won't. ]

The compliment will be the only thing he thinks about if he doesn't change the topic right now. "What, so you'll never compliment my paper clip chains? No matter how long I make them?" That's better. Takes the pressure of perception off of his shoulders, eases the responsibility of being self-aware.

Then he's made aware of something even more of a revelation; Baker's done ops? "You've done tailing and observation?" River has to force himself to keep his voice down, to lean across the table and speak so softly only she can hear him over the café's light music. "When? Who? Why you?" He doesn't want to brag, but he thinks he's an excellent tailer; he tailed Diana fucking Taverner herself without her even noticing. Why would Lamb send anyone but him to tail?

❝ okay, tough guy, but i don't want to come into work to find cockroaches taking over my desk. ❞ christ, the thought makes her shudder. this assignment is bad enough on its own, isn't it? all of this is bad enough without making their lives even more miserable than they have to be; if that means taking her new officemate out for coffee to stop him dragging her down into the depths of his despair, then sidonie considers it a sensible thing to do. not that she's about to tell river, but he's not bad company. ❝ it doesn't have to be google maps, you great muppet, ❞ she says, not unkindly. ❝ download a sudoku app or something. you wallowing all day makes it worse. ❞ sid's smile is teasing. ❝ mostly for me. i have to sit and look at it. ❞

mantras don't help anyone survive slough house; all that bullshit about things only getting better doesn't really hold true when everyone knows slough house is the place careers go to slowly die. but river's a cartwright, he's not bad at his job, colossal fuck up aside, and if anyone has the potential of a path back to the park, surely it's someone like him. 'til then, he needs to find a way to get through the day. that, and figure out how to deal with lamb. none of taverner's sharp, poisonous scheming prepared sid for him.

she's about to counteract her compliment, say something like, good by slough house standards, but then cartwright goes and fucking thanks her, like sid has been actually nice, like her entire mission isn't to spy on him, and, well, doing that would make her feel like a bit of a twat. ❝ yeah, well, that's the one and only compliment you're getting from me, so make the most of it, ❞ she says instead. is he a good agent? maybe not currently, but sid reckons he could be. he might have been, before stansted. he's certainly better than anyone she's worked with recently, and it's almost a relief to think that there might be a smidgen of competency within slough house's damp, peeling walls.

❝ i s'pose proper cases might be pushing it, but anything that isn't mindless data entry feels like real work. i've done some tailing, some observation. ❞

[premleague]

Gods, he could stay right here forever. It's not like he has any actual obligations [ none that are pressing, at least ]. What's the worst that could happen? His parents get a little bit upset with him? They've been a little bit upset with him before, they'll surely be a little bit upset with him at multiple points in the future. They'd get over it; they always had, they always will. His mother loves him far too much to do anything but pretend to be upset for little more than a week. So what if he runs off to the Sicilian coast for a month with a girl he's just now met? There'd be no repercussions for his actions.

Romeo is more than happy to kiss her again; typically, if he found himself in a situation like this, half of his mind would be preoccupied with the thought of trying to find a bedroom in this house to take her to [ and wouldn't that be something, a Montague debasing the home of Lord Capulet himself – ]. Right now, though, he's entirely focused on the taste of her lips against his, of the scent of her perfume on her skin.

The opening of the door doesn't even bother him; he's dipping his head to kiss at her neck, only pulling away when he realizes that the Juliet in question is this girl. Juliet Capulet. "Fuck..." he groans, a laugh escaping him as one hand drops from her waist to rub at his jaw. He spins on his heel, pacing back and forth just a few steps, unable to stop smiling. "Look what we've got ourselves into, eh...?" Trouble is practically Romeo's middle name. If anything, he's even more in love with her than he was just moments prior.

she's dizzy. she's melting. she's dizzy and she's melting! so aware of his hand on her body, pressing into her back with his warm palm and sending her spiraling with his kisses -- no, it wasn't the sour champagne she'd been drinking earlier, no, there were no second-hand fumes going on in that room.. this was something raw, something she'd never felt before. at least, not this fiercely. not this fast. the way his curls dare stray down into his face and out of their hairdo, the way the party lights cast onto his face, making his eyes sparkle even more (though she could be convinced that sparkle was natural). his name escapes her, but her heart is his.

juliet kisses him again, gasping into it as her body presses further, closer, wanting. each kiss, each finger twisted into his curls pleads for him to stay there in that moment. maybe she could slip off with him? they could find another party! he and his friends (were they his friends? or other jealous parties?).

as her head rears, juliet parts her lips and begins her whisper, "come upst--" when a door smacks open and out pops angelica - she'd been around her entire life, often played mother and father when her parents were busy. angelica doesn't play politics like the rest of them. juliet loves her. the capulet's head turns, about to stumble over an excuse for herself but something overcomes the older woman's face, "juliet." she huffs, stepping a little closer, her eyes not leaving the one that she's really, truly quite in love with, "are you sure this is clever? a montague, juliet! under your father's roof -- at all! what are you playing at?"

[premleague]

romeo is crazy as a guy’s name bcuz it’s famously one of the most well known love stories between a man and a woman in history but if i were to meet a dude named romeo id probably assume he’s gay

[premleague]

It's strange to think about his young brothers in uni, being his age. It's been strange enough watching them age to begin with; it's the first time Callum's really understood what it must have been like for Michael while he was growing up, learning to read and write and his first days of school. "They'll probably end up living around the corner from each other, too," he adds with a little smile. He doubts that most - if not all - of his family would ever move out of East in the first place. It's part of who they are, it's in their blood. This community is the one that raised them, they're in their blood. It will always be home, at least to Callum.

"Nah - no, I mean, I think the eating bit would just be families, right?" Not like he's been to many weddings; the only ones he can remember attending were for his siblings, so he can't really speak from experience as to who gets invited to the post-wedding, pre-reception meal. Besides, his immediate family is practically big enough to pack this place in tight to begin with, it's not like they could invite many more people outside of their families if they wanted to do the meal here in the first place [ and Callum did want that ].

There's a beat as he takes another [ slower ] bite of his pancakes, knee bouncing lightly under the table. He's polite about it this time, chewing and swallowing before he speaks again. "...does your dad really have a problem with me being Iron?" Callum understands the pisstaking, he really does, but he does want Noa's dad to like him. Would Fil like him more, support their relationship more, if Callum had been born in an Arsenal family instead?

"reckon they'll probably go to the same uni or whatever. can't imagine it either, them bein' apart." she lets him take her phone over without thinking twice about it -- cal has a big heart, it's one of the things that'd sucked her in from first meeting him, those first few dates, seeing him with his siblings and how much heart he had on the pitch.. she'd been smitten in no time. he made her feel safe, secure.

looking around with him, noa nods with enthusiasm, swallowing back her eggs with her lukewarm cuppa, "well i reckon so. might have to pack it out a bit, but we wouldn't want loadsa people at the eating bit, would we? do the wedding, the meal, then go somewhere for the boogie?" she enjoys planning this wedding out - there wasn't an engagement yet, and she figures he'd stop her if she got too carried away with it, of course, "then we don't need to worry about any of the like, uh.. what does mum call it? the table politics. everyone just sits down an' has some nice breakky an' we're set. though we'll probs still have to do the speeches an' all that -- i am not trustin' my dad or jon near a mic, so i reckon it's all up to your lot." noa chuckles, shaking her head as she puts on her best polish accent (one she'd been raised by, that she could slip into with such natural ease), "i can forgive her the dancing and the prancing, but the west ham boy? ho ho ho! it is a good job he also plays internationally! ho ho ho!"

she hopes that even as his career progresses (and hers, though to a lesser degree), they'll be able to explore all their favourite places together. she wants so badly to take him to all the best polish spots in the city, doesn't want to lose that grounding that some people who achieve high status lose.

[premleague]

PROMPTS FROM THE ITALIAN JOB *  assorted dialogue from the 2003 movie, adjust as necessary

still don't trust me?

i trust everyone. it's the devil inside them i don't trust.

that's an interesting saying.

i had a real bad experience, man.

i feel so optimistic. how do you feel?

you know what "fine" stands for? freaked out, insecure, neurotic, and emotional.

are you kidding me? how does he do that?

i'm gonna need your shirt and your truck.

you're not too bright, are you?

what did you do to your hand?

don't talk about right or wrong with me, because i don't give a shit.

we made our play, and i came out on top.

what is your play here, really?

come on, what do you think?

there are two kinds of thieves in this world: the ones who steal to enrich their lives, and those who steal to define their lives. don't be the latter.

what are you talking about?

find somebody you want to spend the rest of your life with, and hold onto them forever.

just give me a minute.

take all the time you need.

why don't you just come by? we'll have some breakfast.

you blew the best thing you had going for you. you blew the element of surprise.

it would be nice if it was true.

how do you know that?

why are you encouraging this?

where do we want it to go?

we can't have a shoot up without guns. we'd lose.

you know this was never about the gold.

whatever helps you sleep at night, sweetheart.

damn, that was cool.

how did you do that?

don't you want to see what's inside?

i'm sending you something.

does it smell nice?

say it again, man.

do not be messing with me right now. i will kick your ass.

i think it's time to move on.

where's my truck? what the fuck happened to my truck?

i never look inside.

i thought you'd never ask.

don't worry, i'm not going to shoot you.

you've got no imagination.

we didn't get a chance to meet!

wow, that is a nice car.

turn in your badge and your weapon.

it's a big stereo. speakers so loud, they blow women's clothes off!

unlike you, my friend, i don't need a guide book.

the gang's all here.

do you always work in the dark?

how long to crack it?

can you change it back?

you are clear for ninety seconds.

i don't go out with strange men.

[name], how we looking?

this is it, guys, moment of truth.

it's over when i say it's over.

you're out of moves. the game is over. just give it up already.

hey, what's your problem, man?

i want to propose a toast. to us!

stop them before they hit the street.

i'll do it, [name]. i'm in all the way, whatever it takes.

take your hands off the wheel!

it doesn't quite do it for me.

you don't really seem like the adventurous type.

i wasn't making assumptions.

he touched my hand.

[premleague]

Was he just informed about the existence of a fucking swear jar when he's on the brink of fucking death because of Art's fucking insane driving? That genuinely snaps him out of the speed-induced panic attack he's been shoved into, even if only for a moment, even if only while he recalibrates from hearing Art's words. "Man, I'm not putting money in your fucking swear jar, I'm not a child."

Child. For fuck's sake, Art drives like this and he's got a child. Art's got a child. Art's got a child with Tashi. Art has everything Patrick could've ever wanted, and he drives so fucking fast that one might think he's suicidal. How old's that kid now? It seems like just yesterday Patrick was reading about the birth of Tashi Duncan and Art Donaldson's first [ and only ] on social media, going from gossip blog to gossip blog like he was a fucking teenager with a crush. He'd ask what the kid's name was, if he didn't already know – a girl named Lily.

Everything Art has is painted green with envy in Patrick's eyes. He would kill to have the life of the Audis and the Uniqlo sponsorships and the Aston Martin ads. For Tashi... for the life of a professional with a child. His parents would trade Patrick for Art any fucking day of the week [ and they probably would have done so even when they were children ]. At this rate, he's more likely to make them put him in the fucking ground at Mount Sinai before he gives them grandchildren. What a waste of fucking resources.

And they're still driving at - are Patrick's eyes breaking down on him now, too, or does that say 75?

Breathe. Do some of that namaste, relaxation bullshit that helps you fall asleep in your piece-of-shit, good-for-nothing, left-on-the-side-of-the-road car.

No time for that, though - Art's asking him another question. "What?" he asks, unsure if he's heard correctly. "What? Seven- what the fuck, man?"

The memory is visceral once his ears finally process what he's been asked. Snapped back to that day, breathing a bit better, feeling a bit stronger, not sleeping in his car [ yet ]. Obviously it was him, he hasn't forgotten that day – there's a part of his mind that freezes each time he sees Art, always twelve, always sixteen, always nineteen, always–

"Will you slow the fuck down so we can have an actual conversation?"

reflexively: ❝swear jar’s in the back.❞ the one drawback he can think of when it comes to tashi’s parenting.

patrick’s messed up the flow of the one-sided conversation art was having in his head.

no kids, huh?

no wife?

no sponsorships. that one doesn’t need to pretend to be even a rhetorical question.

he doesn’t let up. that used to be patrick’s MO, overwhelming his opponent like nobody’s business, then lulling him into a false sense of security. before you knew it, game. art had to go steady, no matter the tempo. start batshit crazy right out of the gate, well, you’d better keep it up or the noob in the audience will think he’s not getting his ticket’s worth. even with the seatbelt on, the car jerks them around.

it almost sounds like patrick’s scared of him. that would be a first.

patrick’s looking at him. he’s got a smoker’s voice now. teen with texture. art’s heart has jostled up a good few inches closer to his ears.

tashi "let" his publicist "go" the day they got engaged, but that doesn’t mean a vein of his pay checks isn’t still transfered that way. tashi just sits in that chair and four other ones. coach, publicist, co-founder, philanthropist. 'mom,' she’s fine with, ''cause that shit is a job.' 'wife,' she takes offense to. art didn’t even try bringing up hyphenating their last names. in all these years, patrick’s name has been sidestepped, stopped just short of, in their household. it gave it twice the punch.

❝seven years ago, i think equinox.❞ he knows, it followed into his dreams. ❝was that you?❞

bottom line: he and patrick can’t be internet seen together. the last thing his career’s downslope needs is the titanic anchor of patrick’s.

[premleague]

"Fortunately? You think I'd be scared off?" He realises that people - Sidonie included - don't know about his childhood. Though he hasn't kept it hidden, it's probably what's for the best. Part of River wonders what people assume his childhood was like. Do they think he was raised in London proper, patent leather shoes clicking on the sidewalk on a walk to school in the morning? Do they realise he spent most of his time digging in the dirt, climbing trees, being afraid to fall for so long? Again, probably for the best they don't know... there's no such thing as too many secrets, even in Slough House.

It's not that he doesn't trust anyone there, it's just that he can't allow himself that vulnerability. The last time he trusted someone, that someone was Spider Webb, and look where that got him. Blue shirt, white tee, white shirt, blue tee, fuck you, Spider– He'd like to think that she's different, that she wouldn't purposely throw him under the bus for her own gain, but River's very conscious of the fact that he doesn't really know her. He'd like to trust most people he comes across in life, he'd like to trust Guy and Harper and Standish and Loy. Unfortunately, their line of work doesn't exactly lend itself to openness and community. He just has to deal with that. Maybe he was never meant to go into the Service.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm sure you're the best in the world at mind-numbing data entry; do you have some tips you can share with someone less talented at it?" If only work didn't make him want to jump off a bridge every other day, maybe he could force himself into enjoying the mind-numbing nothing work that he's been forced into doing. Technically, no one's forcing him to do anything; River doubts that Lamb even realises that his agents have work to do, let alone knows what that work is, or when the deadlines for that work may be. "I've already counted all of the stains on the carpet. Guess I have to start becoming a Google Maps expert, then."

He's fully taken aback by her next words, though – did Sidonie Baker just call him a good agent? River was startled already at the thought of Slough House getting proper cases, and she's just hit him with a second mental punch of being called a good agent. He's silent for a moment... "I don't think anyone's ever called me a good agent." There's another pause as River takes a sip of his coffee, just for something to do with his hands, his mouth; it's a reset for his brain. "Thank you." A third pause, a second sip of coffee, knee bouncing under the table like he's a child again. "But I'm surprised you think we get proper cases. Do you know something I don't about this place?"

❝ i'll be holding you to that. fortunately, i reckon even the vermin at slough house are lazy. ❞ bored stiff; why would they explore further when they've got roddy ho's office to keep them occupied forever? and really, who can blame them? none of them want to be there, none of them are having a good time of it. some of the people in slough house are genuinely shit agents who really needed to be set free instead of imprisoned in this purgatory, so they can find something else to do with their lives...but some of them just made a mistake, or had really bad luck, or pissed off the wrong second desk. aside from people like ho or lamb himself, did any of them really deserve this?

sid doesn't think so, not really. slough house's very existence is a waste of resources designed to punish with no conclusion. at least a suspension has an end. at least being fired means you can move on, even if it's not the career in intelligence you wanted. this is...well, cartwright's been here five minutes, and she can see what it's doing to him. even sid doesn't know when she's going to get back to the park. or what river will think of her when it happens.

not that she should care about that.

❝ not all the time. and i'm great at mind-numbing data entry, it's not hard to multitask. ❞ as if lamb gives a shit. it's so rare they have actual cases that matter to him, that any of them want to be a part of. slough house gets the shit. and sidonie's fortunate that lamb thinks her competent enough to send out, sometimes, but the rest of the time? she nods, following river to the table, choosing to sit on the adjoining corner to him, rather than opposite, so she can see the door too. old habits. ❝ you've got to survive some way, cartwright. if you don't want to quit they way they hope you will, something's gotta get you through the day. ❞ she shrugs, hands wrapped around her coffee. ❝ of course i'm bored. but we get proper cases, sometimes. and fiasco aside, you're a good agent; lamb never stops being a twat, but he'd be stupid not to assign you to them. ❞

[premleague]

He knows he's handsome; he's been able to look at himself in a mirror ever since he grew up and realized he could dress himself however he wanted, hold himself however he wanted, call himself whatever he wanted. That being said, he knew she'd like what she saw when he took off his mask. He's never met anyone who didn't like what they saw when they look at him. That's part of the problem, being Romeo – everyone loves him, and what can he do but accept that love?

While the kiss is far more chaste than he personally would've offered, he lets her take control of the situation; he doesn't want to push her too far, too fast. Dipping down in order to ease how much she has to push herself up, one of his hands splays on her lower back, steadying her while they kiss.

Finally, she reveals herself to him. She looks familiar, though Romeo can't put a finger on where he'd know her from. There's someone, somewhere, calling for Juliet - the Capulet in question whose home they're in; he pays the calls no mind. The Capulets are the last thing in his thoughts right now. Quite frankly, if Tybalt walked up behind him right now, he likely wouldn't realize it. He's enamored by the woman in front of him. He's in love. "You'll more than do," he replies, nearly breathless as he stares at her face, his hand remaining in place on her lower back. Romeo doesn't know if he's ever been rendered this speechless before; he feels like he's seeing the night sky for the first time, every star in the galaxy bared to his eyes, and all he can do is appreciate it. "You don't have to wait anymore, babe... I'm here now."

he truly does taste like debauchery and something she couldn't put her finger on -- something dangerous, but something she could feel herself falling for, head over heels. the quiet of the garden does well to wrap around them; she didn't need the jealous girls or her father's coworkers or mother's cronies to eyeball them. her and this mystery that'd appeared like something holy and taken her heart in almost an instant.

his mask comes free and juliet feels something lurch in her chest, eyes widening briefly - he's far better looking than she'd imagined, though doesn't open her lips to say that, instead looking up at him with awe in her eyes, fingertips reaching up to touch his curls once again, toying with the ends and tangling her digits in the mass, "hm.. maybe you should put the mask back on?" she teases at his smirk, not one word carrying any true seriousness, leaning up on her toes to kiss him chastely. never before has she seen him, not in the street or at parties or anywhere else in her relatively sheltered life - it was a mystery, but a breath of fresh air. exciting. exhilarating.

reaching behind her, juliet carefully undoes the tie in her mask, wrinkling her nose as she frees it from her face and sets it on a bench beside them, looking at him with an almost shy smile, "well, then. will i do?" her smile spreads, reaching her eyes properly, distracted only briefly by the shrill tone of angelica calling out for her within the room they'd fled - her mother must've sent her secretary after her unruly daughter, perhaps to rub elbows with someone important. she decides to ignore it, taking hold of the other's hand, "where have you been? i feel like i've been waiting for you." god, she wants to run away with him, wants to bask in the sunlight at his side, be called his and dance the night away with everyone looking on in envy.

[premleague]

At her gentle recognition that he's eating his pancakes too quickly, Callum forces himself to slow down, to really savour the taste of the food instead of trying to shovel it down his throat. It's rare that he gets a day where he can come out and relax like this - he really shouldn't be trying to get to the bottom of his plate as quickly as humanly possible. Especially when he's trying to have a conversation with Noa; he doesn't want to seem like the world's biggest slob. "They're getting so fucking big," he says in reference to the twins. He can't believe how old they've gotten. He can't believe how old he's gotten. He can only imagine how Mike and Imogen feel. "Can't ever imagine 'em living further'n a few blocks apart, can I. Like they're tied together at the waist."

Eyes are drawn to the vibration of her phone. Almost as soon as they leave the phone, they're back on her face, noticing her obvious discomfort. He gingerly reaches for the phone with the hand that isn't currently occupied by his fork, more than willing to pull it over to his side of the table if that's what she'd like. He has no idea how pressing these phone calls - or texts - or emails are, but he does know she'll stop him if she really needs him to be stopped. He laughs at her recommendation, looking around. "Would be nice, wouldn't it?" It's one of his favourite places in the world; part of him is glad he's not quite famous enough that everyone and their mum would crowd him the second he steps foot in the place. He knows [ hopes ] that someday he'll get the minutes he wants to get at West Ham, but he's grateful for the relative anonymity he has now. "Y'think we could manage that?"

she sets aside the talk of casting and auditions, because really it makes her feels as nauseous as seeing people take penalties -- her stomach rolled every time. though, she felt nothing but joy seeing cal out on that pitch, standing with his family whose pride brimmed over, who whooped and howled and screamed for him whether he was getting five minutes or fourty-five! it even makes her grin now as she reaches to touch his wrist gently, "you'll be sick." she shakes her head, pausing for a mouthful, "but -- well, yeah. they are. but i think they enjoy it, 'cause even when mum tells'em to use yours, they still try an'squeeze together. it's cute. bless."

taking a big gulp of her orange juice, noa winces, feeling her phone vibrate from its upturned place on the table. an email? maybe. dare she check? the back of her hand wipes at her mouth, looking around the caff, "babe, shall we have our weddin' meal here? it's called a breakfast, isn't it?"

[premleague]

-I guess I needed to make sure it was really you in there. Ben Daniels as Bel Riose & Dino Fetscher as Glawen Curr Foundation (2023) · S2·E07 · Sci-Fi · dir. Mark Tonderai

[premleague]

"So we're playing insults now. Like schoolchildren." Pulling temper into check, Ewan doesn't want to jab back. He could point out that he has no desire to ingratiate himself with anyone - that that's part of the reason his journalism is as good as it is.

What would Molloy know about the people Ewan's taken journalistic jabs at? Names only, probably - if that. Sure, it's not covering fucking Darfur or anything that, but calling out the heroes that the kids worship [ and will go to battle for, even if only online ] has gotten him enough death threats to last a lifetime.

Labour laws in Qatar leading up to the World Cup. Deaths of his contemporaries for simply speaking their minds in the face of these regimes. Corruption at the highest levels of government and sport. None of it fucking matters, though, not to Molloy. It's football journalism. Football isn't the real world.

Now he's the one bouncing a knee, tapping his fingers against the table.

"Vampires, then. That moves the needle."

Say book like that one more time.

“ It’s special snowflakes like you trying to ingratiate themselves with the kids that dilute the kind of work that moves the needle. ”

Constructive criticism =/= nuclear personal attack. Wish Instagram brains would get that straight ‘cause they sure will nothing else. Kincaid’s contemporaries wouldn’t recognize journalism if it blew them all night in a jacuzzi.

“ Petty, ” shit.

Daniel involuntarily topsy-turvies into Kincaid’s mind.

[premleague]

&. 𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐬 (𝐭𝐨 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬?) 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬.

(  various  dialogue  prompts  to  send  to  your  worst  enemy  (affectionate).  feel  free  to  change  how  you  seem  fit.  )

❛ oh great, it's you again. ❜

❛ you? kill me? that's funny. ❜

❛ for being someone you hate, i'm sure on your mind a lot. ❜

❛ you're the last person i wanted to see, actually. ❜

❛ do us both a favor. stay away from me. ❜

❛ you really are an asshole, you know that? ❜

❛ i'm the asshole? what does that make you then? ❜

❛ sometimes i think you must hate me. ❜

❛ i thought you said you never wanted to see me again. ❜

❛ if you want me to go, then you have to tell me to leave. ❜

❛ well, someone's cranky today. ❜

❛ well, someone needs to shut the fuck up. ❜

❛ just stay out of my way. ❜

❛ of all the idiots in the world, i'm stuck with you. ❜

❛ what is it you want this time? ❜

❛ sometimes i wonder if you're in love with me. ❜

❛ do you honestly think this is easy for me? ❜

❛ why would i ever want to be friends with you? ❜

❛ can we please just talk? ❜

❛ there is nothing for us to talk about. ❜

❛ you can yell at me later. just let me help you. ❜

❛ touch me, and you're dead. ❜

❛ oh, so now you care? ❜

❛ there is something deeply wrong with you. ❜

❛ i know i'm the last person you probably want to see, but... ❜

❛ you don't think we could be friends, do you? ❜

❛ i'm tired of fighting against you. ❜

❛ don't pretend you give a shit about me. ❜

❛ you're an idiot, but... i trust you. ❜

❛ oh, don't be cute. ❜

❛ wait, did you just say that i'm cute? ❜

❛ we're not good for each other. ❜

❛ if i say yes, will you shut up? ❜

❛ don't you have to be stupid somewhere else? ❜

❛ maybe we should kiss just to break the tension. ❜

❛ i'm sorry i can't turn off my feelings as easily as you. ❜

❛ maybe there's a universe out there where we're friends. ❜

❛ how can you be so smart yet so dumb at the same time? ❜

❛ don't think this changes anything between us. ❜

❛ you look ridiculous in that outfit, by the way. ❜

❛ if you die, i'll kill you. ❜

❛ is that a challenge? ❜

❛ ah, so you're not heartless after all. ❜

❛ i don't think i've ever seen you smile. ❜

❛ you never cared about me, so why now? ❜

❛ why didn't you kill me when you had the chance? ❜

❛ i don't even remember why we started fighting. ❜

❛ i don't have time for distractions right now. ❜

❛ you're not as bad as everyone says you are. ❜

❛ enemies make the best lovers, you know. ❜

[premleague]

c. robinson, 2025

[premleague]

no one else believes in you like me. no one else is gonna give you what you deserve.

He'd been told that major tournaments have a different sort of feeling to them. Once you're there, you'll know it – and they were right. Fucking Christ is this different. It had taken him a few days to settle in; arriving at the hotel was no different than any other away day with England, the same chefs, the same meals, just different weather. Callum hadn't understood until he kicked his first ball at their first training session; this is different. He's here to try to do something no other England men's team had done since the 1960s, and the first shot he took at their keeper really knocked him into the headspace needed for this. He's here. He's focused. He wants to win this.

His gaffer. His brother. The one who first gave him the call. The one who's given him the call every camp since. The one who handed him that armband, who told him it was his time. Of course there's not a soul in the world who believes in him like Jon. Of course no other manager had gotten him to this point. And Callum would be fucked if he didn't give Jon exactly what he deserved, too. "I'm gonna do everything in my fucking power to get you that trophy," he says, and there are almost tears in his eyes as he does; he's never felt so passionately about football before. He didn't know feeling like this was possible. He's always loved the game, it's always been the most important thing in his life aside from his family [ and the spots where the game and his family intertwine have meant more to him than he could ever put to words ] – but this feeling, it's so new, and he's not going to let it burn so hot in his chest, his mind, his legs, without bringing home the most important trophy he could win for his country. For Sir Bobby [ for the last World Cup trophy lifted by England was pure iron, this one will be, too ], for his family [ their matching tattoos giving power to his own ], for his family [ how they've grown so fast... where did all the time go? ], for Jon. The first to trust him like this, the only one who ever will. Callum won't make him regret it. "How deep do you want me to drop, then?"

@leagueprem's jon for callum from here !

[premleague]

Fucking Christ, have women's heels always been that loud? Each step feels like it's splitting his brain in two. How is he supposed to focus on a conversation when there are so many other things to drain out, always happening around him? At least she's not breathing. Armand just couldn't be bothered to stick around to teach him how to live normally like this, could he. And Louis has been too busy to pick up his calls... so he'll figure it out from context clues, like he's a first grader just learning how to properly read.

Is that meant to be a threat? Or is Daniel getting defensive over something so minor it'll disappear like it never even happened? It wouldn't be the first time he's done that. "Not sure what you mean by that." He thinks he's done a decent job disposing of his meals... it's not like he's got some built in incinerator like Louis and Lestat had in New Orleans... or access to donors like Louis and Armand had in Dubai. He's just trying to figure this shit out.

it's easy to hang back in the shadows; amalia has never been one to make a big, dramatic song and dance about things, has only craved the limelight when she's actively on stage. it's easier to maintain control if she's quiet, if she's an observer. easier to feel as though time is not constantly slipping through her fingers. her confidence is real, and something she has fought hard to maintain, but it's not, she hopes, an obnoxious thing. but it's easy, too, to slip out of them with a dry, ❝ congratulations, ❞ instead of an apology as she closes the gap between herself and the fledgling, heels loud on the concrete.

her gaze is curious, assessing, but not aggressive. her body language is relaxed; this is not intended as a fight. amalia's the last person who goes around starting them.

❝ hello. i don't suppose you'd know anything about the bodies that are suddenly being improperly disposed of, would you? it's dangerous for us, is all. ❞