#writing these whoever you want imagines is fun and all TIL IT COMES TO TAGS I HAVE NO IDEA WHO TO TAG

[footbaliimagines]

to be loved and to be in love (a whoever-you-want-it-to-be imagine)

I don’t think anyone understands how badly I want to love and to be loved. It’s all I think about.

(inspired by the above post that I saw reblogged onto my dash a few times. the title is taken from 18 by one direction)

(p.s. this could really be about anyone, not necessarily just a footballer because nothing is too specific. i kind of just wrote this during a lunch break so please excuse any mistakes or bits that don’t add up haha)

(p.p.s. my exams are finished in 3 weeks tomorrow so that’s when you’ll next see some writing!! I love love love receiving all requests so please carry on sending me them!!!!)

-

 You used to lie in bed and think about what it might be like to share your sheets with someone else.

How it might feel to have someone to come home to, to kiss, to dance with, to share your days and equally, your nights with, to text constantly throughout the day.

You never thought that you’d be one of those girls, as you used to sneer.

You never thought you’d pine so desperately for someone to love you and equally, to love someone back, because you were independent, focused on your work, encircled by so many brilliant friends, men and women alike, that your romantic endeavours had seemingly been on the backburner ever since, well, forever.

It wasn’t like you didn’t meet guys.

(Or take them home afterwards.)

But your standards were impeccably high, and you would always find a fault with every guy that wanted to take things a step further, or asked you for a second date. Your friends called you picky, but you insisted it was just that you were focused and busy and knew precisely what you were looking for.

(Sure.)

And for the most part, it was fine, 100% a-okay, because it meant that you avoided the pain and the heartbreak, and steered clear of boys with little more on their mind than vodka and fucking the next girl they saw. The amount of times that your friends had approached you with horror stories of dates leaving the next morning without saying goodbye, or they had come to your door in tears because of a guy fucking them over you up entirely.

And you understood, to some extent, because you weren’t Bridget Jones, or Meg Ryan in some 1980s-romantic comedy, and you weren’t going to be swept off your feet at the top of the Empire State Building, whisked down the canals of Venice or taken on a helicopter ride across the Champs-Elysees.

You were just you.

Normal, hardworking, average you.

The feeling gradually got worse as you progressed through your 20s, you found. It wasn’t so much that you were lonely, because you were never short of wonderful people in your life or plans for the weekend, it was more that watching your friends fall in love, get engaged, meet guys, meet future in-laws, made you feel like a bit of an outsider.

You were the funny, perpetually single, serial-one-night-stand friend, the comic relief to your friends’ relationship woes, unable to relate to how they felt coming home after a date with a guy they swear could marry right there and then.

You just want to love and to give your all.

You just want to be loved and feel confident in knowing that somewhere on the planet there's someone who feels the same about you as you do them.

You want to meet him.

(And eventually, finally, you do.)

You meet him at a bar, on a Saturday night in June.

The night unfolds in an all-too familiar way– the friends you came with have all either spent the better part of the last hour talking to a cute guy that approached them by the bartender, and you’ve politely turned down the last 2 guys to approach you and ask for the same.

(One had a wandering hand which definitely did not belong curled around your waist before you’d even exchanged names, and the other started off your conversation with a crude, probably misogynist comment about your arse that made you throw up a bit in your mouth.)

(Jesus, if turning down men like that made you picky then you would gladly accept the prize of being the pickiest woman alive.)

It was a bizarre, contradictory paradox that you found yourself in. Wanting to meet a guy and fall hopelessly, ridiculously, head over heels in love, but simultaneously rejecting the vast majority of those coming over and saying hello. It was probably because you’d spent too much time constructing the idea of your perfect man in your head.

He would be tall, handsome and funny, but not overly brash or eager to become the centre of attention, more so witty and quick to make dry, sarcastic comments at lightning speed. He’d be empathetic, care about his family, and his friends and just about everything else, the environment, the state of the current world, the need to do more and say more and help those in need. And he would be nervous, or just a bit shy, because cockiness was a turnoff like nothing else in your eyes, and able to sweep you off your feet with words but not feeling the need to make exaggerated, cheesy, vomit-inducing romantic gestures. He would be driven and able to motivate you as well, but not so career-focused that he would be willing to step on everyone else to get to the top, or so competitive that everything was a game with the ultimate aim of getting 1 up on you.

(It was idealistic, sure.)

(But wasn’t being that the very essence of romance in the first place?)

“I don’t mean to seem like a stalker, but you’ve drank four of those funny-coloured cocktails in the space of about 20 minutes, and I was wondering if maybe you needed to talk?” A deep voice chuckles over your shoulder, soft and light over the jazz music playing in the background.

You roll your eyes, as if by instinct, and shrug your shoulders. “They’re non-alcoholic, but I appreciate the observation.” You remark.

“Ah.” He nods, and you look at him properly.

He’s fiddling with the bottom of his shirt, holding a glass of coke in his other hand and looking at you intently. He’s tall and well-built, with broad shoulders stretching the material of his white shirt and there’s a hint of stubble casting a shadow on his jawline. When he looks at you directly, you’re pretty sure everything else in the room save his smile and the pleasant flickering of the ambient lighting disappears.

It’s romantic and fuzzy and dream-like, and it must be too good to be true.

Surely.

(Right?)

You attempt a smile, but it’s probably more like a grimace at this point, and he returns it, a light pink washing over his cheeks. “Can I sit?”

“I don’t own the bar.”

His face falls at your comment and he frowns ever so slightly, but he attempts a smile once more and takes a seat on the stool furthest to your right, leaving a seat empty in between. You can’t help but smile. Was your resting bitch face and default hostile tone really that intimidating?

“I’m sorry.” You pipe up.

“For?”

“For being an arse.”

He laughs. “If that’s being an arse to you, then you must be a bloody nice person.”

His eyes crinkle at the corners when he laughs, and you can’t fight the grin on your lips. “I’m not usually this moody.” You muse. “When you’ve been ditched by all your friends, it’s kind of a given, though.”

“Ditched?”

“They’re here, somewhere.” You spin on your stool and turn away from the bar, scanning the vicinity, glancing across the tables and the makeshift dance floor in the middle. “There's Emma, with that guy in the corner. Megan’s on the dance floor over on that side and that’s- wait, no, that's Hannah getting off with that middle-aged guy by the smoking area.”

“Does this happen often?”

“What, me being left by myself while my friends go off and get with random guys?”

He nods.

“Happens more times that I’d like to admit.” You laugh, slightly resentful at how bitter you sound, and sip at your straw until only slush is left at the bottom of your glass.

“I’m not sure how.” He speaks up, after a moment of lulled silence. “You’re, well- you’re…” He trails off and is unable to meet your eyes.

You desperately try to meet his gaze, subconsciously tightening your grip on your glass and mentally willing him to talk. Raising an eyebrow, you drill your gaze into him further, prompting him to say something.

(Say something.)

(Speak before I throw my glass at your beautiful head, you think.)

“You’re beautiful, is what I’m trying to say.” He eventually stutters out.

This time, it’s your turn to blush.

“God, I’m sorry.” He groans before letting out a nervous laugh and pushing his stool back to stand up. “Right. I’ll be off. I’m sorry Have a nice night.”

“You don’t have to leave.”

“Are you sure?”

“100%.”

And he sits down again, clumsily introduces himself and reaches to shake your hand only to knock over your glass and accidentally grope your chest when reaching over to apologise.

He asks for your name, and then your favourite vegetable and if you’re a cat or a dog person. He’s a footballer, just turned 28 and in the prime of his career, a committed Netflix-binger who loves his dog more than just about anyone or anything, recycles absolutely everything and has been committed to improving and bettering himself since the day he decided that kicking around a ball was what he do everyday.

(Driven, empathetic, funny, caring, dedicated)

(Pretty much a full house.)

He laughs when you tell him you’re perpetually single because you can’t quite seem to find the guy who makes it all click for you, because he’s the complete same, in love with the idea of love and being in love, wanting to find that one great person to spend the rest of his life with and stay with until his end of days.

(And a very, very happy six months later you discover that apparently, it’s you.)

(Who’d have thought?)

#my writing #whoever you want it to be #whoever you want it to be imagine #footballer fanfiction #footballer one shot #football one shot #footballer imagine #writing these whoever you want imagines is fun and all TIL IT COMES TO TAGS I HAVE NO IDEA WHO TO TAG #antoine griezmann fanfic #antoine griezmann imagine #calum chambers imagine #hector bellerin imagine #paulo dybala imagine #rafinha imagine #julian brandt imagine #aaron ramsey imagine