boys who play soccer

The Wooden Bead - Jeff Atkins x Reader

Request - “Hello can I request a very tomboy and boyish reader x Jeff?”

(I’m English so i don’t know if this will be any kind of inaccurate, I’ve struggled with using ‘soccer’ here instead of ‘football’, sorry if there are any mishaps. Also I hope this is kind of what you envisioned!)

“PARSONS, OVER HERE! PARSONS I’M OPEN GODDAMMIT!” You screamed at your teammate, who was refusing to pass you the ball.
“DON’T FUCKING PASS IT TO KING! Oh, you fucking did it. Idiot.” You spoke more to yourself.


“What the hell, Parsons? You saw I was free but you blatantly ignored me?” You confronted the stocky girl in front of you. Although much smaller than her, you packed a mean punch and would be happy to show anyone what happens when they cross you. You weren’t really into stereotypically ‘girly’ things, you were more boyish in your mannerisms, look, and activities, but stereotypes in general pissed you off, despite the fact you probably fit quite well into the tomboy category.

“Sorry, I just didn’t feel like passing to you, L/N.” she brushed you off. You scoffed. She was unbelievable.

“You knew I was your best bet. I can’t believe you lost that for us.” You shook your head.

“It’s not my fault you can’t play soccer, L/N. there’s no hiding Coach’s charity case this year.” Romelda Parsons spat. There was no such thing as Coach letting on a charity case each year, she was just trying to intimidate you. The snooty brunette girl had been jealous ever since you’d joined the team, purely because you were so much better than her - maybe the best on the team, and coach paid far more attention to you than to her.

You were ready to show her.
“You little-” an arm eased you back, and another was put up to Parsons face.

“Easy, easy.” A smooth, calm voice interrupted your angry thoughts and soothed your boiling blood.

“Fuck off, Atkins.” Parsons gritted her teeth at the well-built honey-skinned boy holding you back.

“PARSONS! Over here now please!” Coach beckoned Romelda, and she almost snarled her teeth before walking off to talk to him.

The boy in front of you turned to face you. His blue eyes smiled at you while his lips did the same. He was wearing baseball gear, which fitted his muscles snugly. There was no denying the fact that he was insanely attractive.

You’d seen this boy around lots.

Jeff Atkins.

Loved by everyone, baseball player, popular, and you thought; way out of your league.

“You okay?” He asked with concern laced in his eyes.

“I can fight my own battles, thanks.” You muttered slightly, but stared him down nonetheless, you couldn’t let him know he phased you.

“That’s what I was worried about,” he chuckled. “1. You absolutely wreck Romelda, 2. Coach sees, 3. You get in trouble, 4. Maybe get a suspension, 5. I don’t see you playing soccer.” He smirked before continuing, “I can tell you pack a mean punch in there, Romelda wouldn’t stand a chance.”

You pretend to ignore everything he was saying, but really you were drinking in every detail.

“I know she wouldn’t.” You said defiantly.

You paused while you watched the way he grinned at your words and scratched his chin.

“I didn’t think Baseball practice was now?” You mused.

“It’s not.”

So, what was he doing nosing in your business anyhow?

“Why are you here?” You crossed your arms, your team had dissipated back to the changing rooms by now, and it was just you and Jeff on the field.

“I like to watch the girls soccer.”

“You perv!”

“Not like that! It’s just, you’re an awesome player and I hold great admiration for you, watching you play fuels me to play my own game.” He explained.

“Don’t be silly.” You scoffed.

“No, it sounds silly, but it isn’t. There’s something so clear about your passion that just makes me want to live my life.” He smirked, noticing your expression. “Don’t laugh at me, L/N.”

He knew your name??? He was just a boy from school, a boy way out of your league, who you’d never imagined knew of your existence. But instead, he was a boy who watched every soccer practice, complimented your play, and knew your name. You had to play it cool.

“I’ll keep a straight face, Atkins.”

“I should be off, we’ll be practicing soon and I wanna get a few hits in myself before the team comes, but thanks for entertaining me.” He started off, and you felt a pang of disappointment as he turned his back to you.

“Oh, and Y/N? That goal was incredible. Best thing I’ve seen in days.”


It had been a few days since Jeff Atkins had saved your arch nemesis’ life, and incidentally pervaded into your life. He smiled at you in the corridors now, and you could’ve sworn he even winked once. On Tuesday, after a few judgemental comments about your clothing, you found a note in your locker;

You always look awesome Y/N. In fact, i might have to steal some clothes sometime. -J

Which you could only assume was from the man himself. On Thursday, Atkins slipped you the last chocolate muffin in the cafeteria. And on Friday, you had practice again.

Your play was slacking, your usual fire was off and you were distracted.

“L/N- pay attention! Ball coming your way!” Jess warned. You kicked your foot out just in time, but the hit was poor. You continually looked up at the bleachers, hoping to see Jeff watching you, but to no luck. His no show disappointed you.


“What is wrong with you today, Y/N?” Jess caught you up after practice. She was clearly concerned.

“I don’t know, Jess, I guess today isn’t my day.” You sighed.

“You drop your lucky charm or something?”

“Something like that.”

The team left for the changing rooms and you slumped on the bottom row of the bleachers.

“So a lucky charm, huh?” You immediately knew the voice coming from above you. You turned and saw Jeff coming down the steps.

“I don’t have one.” You were blunt, you needed to remind yourself not to get feelings for a boy so out of your league.

“Maybe you should get one, you looked in need of one.” He slumped down next to you.

“Thanks, I appreciate the compliment.” The sarcasm dripped from your tongue.

“Not because you played badly by any means, but because you looked a little lost out there today.”

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me, my brain doesn’t appear to be working recently.”

Jeff dropped a wooden bead in your hand. It was nothing special, simple, wooden, spherical, with a hole in the middle. A plain wooden bead.

“Uh, thanks?” There was question in your voice.
He chuckled.

“It’s your new lucky charm. Don’t lose it, I promise it’ll help you win the match next week.” Sincerity coated his words and his eyes bore into yours, with a jokey overtone.

“I will keep it close. But I might wash it first, if you found it on the floor.” Of course, you didn’t really care where it had been, and you wouldn’t really wash it, but you were curious as to where it had appeared from.

“Don’t worry, it wasn’t on the floor.” He chuckled again, and started to stand. “I’ll see you around, L/N. Keep an eye out for me at the match.” He winked before walking off.


You squeezed the bead tightly before placing it back in your gym bag. The game was starting, and you were not ready.

Obviously, all your nerves went out the window after your third goal of the match, at only 20 minutes in.

You won, which was no surprise to everyone, except you. You spotted Jeff making his way down the stairs and ran up to meet him.

“You were right! I can’t believe it worked!” You shone like the sun from happiness.

“I hate to say I told you so.” His eyes sparkled at you.

“It’s insane, you’re magic!” You mocked, feigning shock.

“What can I say?”

You smiled at each other for a moment, basking in your happiness.

“Actually, can I admit something embarrassing?” His tone turned awkward.

“You’re not magic?” You joked. He laughed.

“No, um, actually I was really nervous to talk to you. Seeing Romelda and you at each other’s throats the other weeks sent me into immediate rescue mode, (not that you need rescuing), and I didn’t realise until the adrenaline had worn off that I’d actually ended up speaking to you, but by that point I was too far in my rescue.”

You laughed at the idea of Jeff Atkins being scared to talk to you.

“You’re just so cool. You don’t care what anyone thinks, you’re passionate, you’re an amazing player, I love your style, not to mention how smart and gorgeous you are.”
“What I admire most is honestly, how badass you are.”

You blushed, taking compliments was a struggle.

“Jeff stop messing, it’s not funny.” You rolled your eyes playfully.

“I’d never- this is the most embarrassing part-” he took a deep breath, “I sorta like you.”

You couldn’t believe what you were hearing. Jeff Atkins? Likes you?

“You do?” Was all you could think to respond with.

“Yes.” He breathed, and moved closer to you.

“Is this-” he asked as he leaned in toward your face and cupped his hand on your cheek. You nodded forcibly in consent, before he pushed his lips onto yours.

After a while, and with regret, you broke off.

“But- you’re so out of my league.” You breathed, doubting yourself.

“I play baseball, Y/N, leagues are my thing.”


“Jeff! Please tell me you sent out the invites on your way home!” You screamed downstairs at your boyfriend.

“Of course I did!” He shouted back up.

You threw various wedding catalogues off the bed to reach the top you’d been looking for, before throwing it on.

“You ready babe?” Jeff yelled at you.

“Just coming!” You yelled back, before pulling out from under your top, a string, with a plain wooden bead on it.

Shoutout to the black boys

Shoutout to the black boys who do ballet.
Shoutout to the black boys who are gymnasts.
Shoutout to the black boys who are acrobats.
Shoutout to the black boys that do yoga.
Shoutout to the black boys who are cheerleaders.
Shoutout to the black boys that play soccer.
Shoutout to the black boys that play volleyball.
Shoutout to the black boys that play tennis.
Shoutout to the black boys who are models.
Shoutout to the black boys who are poets/writers.
Shoutout to the black boys who cook/bake.
Shoutout to the black boys that are opera singers.
Shoutout to the black boys that are fat.
Shoutout to the black boys that are skinny/bony.
Shoutout to the black boys with eating disorders.
Shoutout to the black boys with mental illnesses.
Shoutout to the black boys with disabilities.
Shoutout to the black boys who are gay.
Shoutout to the black boys who are trans.
Shoutout to the black boys who are bisexual.
Shoutout to the black boys who are asexual.
Shoutout to the black boys with crooked teeth.
Shoutout to the black boys with huge/tiny ears.
Shoutout to the black boys with weird belly buttons.
Shoutout to the black boys that are short.
Shoutout to the black boys that can’t grow facial hair.
Shoutout to the black boys that are afraid to be themselves.
Shoutout to the black boys that never feel like they are enough.

You are enough, and we love you. If they don’t, I sure as hell do. Don’t let anyone tell you that you aren’t talented or beautiful, or “not black enough” or “man enough” because of the things you enjoy or deal with in live. You are valid. You are loved. You are important. And that’ll never change.


Happy birthday to my baby, Jisung Park; the boy who loves to dance more than playing soccer. For the first time I became an older fan and when I casted you on the SMRookies app I knew then that you already took my heart away. I adore you very much, you’re like my little brother I’ve never had. I wish you’d stop growing. It’s a bit painful watching you turn from a little boy into a man, growing taller everyday. I’m so proud of you and can’t wait for you to surprise the world even more. MAKNAE ON TOP. I love you very much.


SPN Hiatus Creations || Week Sixteen: Subtext
 ↳ John Winchester did the best he could.
                                  subtext being his best was absolute crap.

I know we as the SPN fandom like our subtext to be of homoerotic nature, but I thought I try something different.
I’m not sure if this even qualifies. probably not.
but let’s all pretend it does

Keep reading

because i’m the biggest sucker for cliché soulmate aus. i was actually going to write this, but i’m consumed by writing the tfc hellbeast au (all @hopingforcoordinates fault) and it’s fallen by the wayside. so here’s the bulletpoint outline version!  

  • neil has encountered thirteen andrews before meeting andrew minyard
  • the first three had been back when he lived in baltimore. none of them had nathaniel on their wrist to match his andrew
  • after they started running, his mother orders him to never tell anyone his real name. he is not nathaniel anymore, he is alex, he is stefan, he is chris
  • and in the back of his mind, the only part not consumed by fear of his father and his mother’s orders and the urge to run and never look back, he wonders how his andrew will know him
  • he doesn’t meet an andrew during their time in england, his first time being someone other than nathaniel. he isn’t sure whether or not he’s grateful for that.
  • in fact, he doesn’t meet another andrew until his time in germany. this andrew is an american exchange student, a friendly, nice boy who spends most of his time playing soccer and trying to convince older students to buy him beer
  • after five weeks in the same class as this andrew, he can’t take it anymore and asks to speak to him after class. quietly says that he goes by his middle name, but his first is nathaniel, and there is an andrew on his wrist.
  • this andrew nods in understanding, but pulls the band up his wrist to show emma written there in gently looping handwriting
  • he smiles understandingly at not-his-andrew, who claps him on the back and assures him that he’ll find his andrew soon.
  • (he does not tell not-andrew to keep his true first name a secret. he’s only been running a few years, but he knows secrets attract attention more than anything else.)
  • (this is a mistake.)
  • because this andrew is a friendly, nice boy, and goes out of his way to include him in his activities from then on, calling his name – not his current one, but nathaniel, loud and so, so friendly across the classroom. soon enough it catches on with their classmates, and nathaniel, terrified of admitting his mistake, does not tell his mother
  • (he asks this andrew to stop calling him nathaniel – he really does prefer his middle name, and nathaniel is such a mouthful, i hate it – but andrew points out, laughing, that he can’t find his andrew if he’s always going by his middle name. ‘i’m not supposed to’ is not an acceptable answer he can give, is not a normal answer, is an answer that would attract too much attention, and so he’s forced to drop the matter)
  • his mother finds out anyways, at a parent-teacher conference two and a half weeks after his talk with not-his-andrew
  • when she gets home, she grabs him by the hair and beats him more badly than she ever has before
  • they’re gone that evening
  • there are nine more andrews after that, all but one in the states, but he’s learned his lesson by then. none of them know he might be theirs.
  • (he doesn’t dare write it down, doesn’t speak a word of it out loud, but he remembers every single one of their last names and where they’re from. andrew carson in colorado, with eyes so blue they almost matched the ones hidden behind his contacts. andrew derouen in louisiana, who had expressive hands and an easy laugh. andrew martinez in texas, who was at the top of all of his classes. he knows he will never know if any of them are his andrew, so he remembers them all, hoards his memories of them jealously. maybe, a tiny voice inside his head whispers, maybe someday. but he doesn’t let it get any further than that. he can’t afford hope.)
  • and then someone slams a racquet into his gut so hard he falls to the ground, and he doesn’t need an introduction to recognize andrew minyard
  • and neil has nine andrews who could be his in his scattered past, but there’s no way this psychotic midget, whose wide grin isn’t nearly enough to hide the violence ingrained in him, is his andrew.
  • and most of canon proceeds the same, down to neil whispering nathaniel to andrew in an airport
  • and andrew, andrew who views his feelings for neil with nothing but dread, andrew who is scrabbling for a handhold at the edge of a cliff, andrew who hasn’t even begun to grasp how to feel again, andrew who doesn’t believe in fate
  • andrew keeps his face blank and says nothing
  • and if his pulse ticks up even more, well, it’s just because he’s about to get on a plane
  • and neil watches andrew carefully, waiting (and perhaps hoping) for a reaction, a flicker of eyes to the wrist, a glimmer of interest. but he sees nothing, and takes it as confirmation that andrew is not his andrew (and when had he started believing that he could be?)
  • so their lives continue on
  • cue the binghamton game
  • and after it’s over, after lola’s threat, neil stands before andrew and lets go of the other nine andrews in his memory. lets himself forget the names and places. he wants to tell andrew that it doesn’t matter that they’re not matched, that he is the only andrew who ever mattered, that whatever other andrew with nathaniel on their wrist could come up to him right now and he wouldn’t care, because the andrew on neil’s wrist will always be for the man in front of him
  • but he can’t say that, can’t say anything unusual when andrew can already tell there’s something wrong just by the set of neil’s shoulders and the look in his eyes
  • so he settles for “thank you. you were amazing.”
  • “leave nathaniel buried in baltimore with his father,” andrew says after it’s all over, his shoulders brushing neil’s in the backseat of browning’s SUV
  • “neil abram josten” neil murmurs in return
  • and though no one will see it for hours, underneath a black armband, a name changes

if skam was an america show:

  • eva would the typical main character who falls in love with the assole of the main guy

  • vilde would be the rich and annoying girl, cheerleader with a stupid gang of girls who bullies other girls

  • noora would be the normal girl who is new in the school and tries to make new friends

  • chris would be the girl who suffers bullying from the cheerleaders and the popular dudes

  • sana??? she wouldn’t even exist in an american show cos of reasons

  • william would be the typical asshole and stupid main guy who plays basket and soccer

  • isak would be the boy who is always suffering bullying from the basket team
  • the rest of the character probably would be just assholes and bitches 

1. you have a toothbrush in her bathroom. you have a toothbrush in her bathroom and a hair brush in her drawer and her mom knows you don’t like rice so she always makes noodles instead when you’re over. you talk in the dark and her soft breath on your collarbone makes you want to cry. don’t.

2. she always falls asleep before the movie’s finished so you pause it before the climax. you always let her sleep for 20 minutes before poking her in the ribs. she giggles awake and pushes you off the couch. laugh, but don’t look. the crinkles next to her eyes will make it too hard to sleep tonight.

3. she’s on your bed sighing every 45 seconds about algebra and you’re on your computer scrolling through the wikipedia article for Henry VIII. she goes down the stairs without a word and comes back with two cups of chocolate milk; your favorite. thank her, turn back around and close your eyes. try as hard as you can not to kiss her. succeed.

4. you’re at an end of school party that she dragged you to. she spent the first hour and a half glued to your side but then she got distracted and hasn’t come back to where you’re stitched into the corner of a couch playing tetris on your phone. she finds you and wordlessly pulls you away, a manic smile smeared across her lips. she pulls you into the woods where no one can hear you and you can’t see her. she tells you how she made out with some soccer-playing boy who doesn’t deserve her time of day. she says it was amazing, describes it in detail and your ears start ringing. be glad she can’t see you. look up at the stars all bleary-eyed, chest split wide open and curse every god you can name for giving this girl to you. you deserved better. even I know that.

5. forgive her.

6. when she sits next to you at lunch, give her your applesauce. she always forgets how much she loves it and it will make her kiss your cheek. take that kiss and press it deep into your bloodied heart so you can pull it back out when the monsters come to play at night. they’ll tell you she’ll never love you. show them the kiss and tell them she already does.

—  how to pretend to be straight for her, vol. 2, by windy sharpe

anonymous asked:

Hi Tabibi! Do you and/or your girlfriend dress like a tomboy? Thanks for sharing manhwa links btw!

Tomboy meaning butch? Is that what you mean? Coz tomboy seems juvenile to me. Like describing a high school girl who plays basketball or soccer with the boys. 😂

Anyway, we don’t dress like that. We’re adults and we wear age appropriate clothes depending on the occasion or place. We don’t normally dress too girly (except on formal events) but definitely not masculine. 😊

Here is the issue with people making young girls/people in general feel like liking and riding horses is an embarrassing thing/not socially acceptable.

When I was in elementary school, I was made to feel so embarrassed for liking and riding horses and drawing pictures of them on my own time that I lied about what my favourite animal was to avoid being made fun of. That’s right, I never said my favourite animal was a horse because I didn’t want to be ridiculed behind my back.

Up until very recently, I’ve been scared to share too many photos of my horses on my personal facebook or instagram despite the fact that boys who only post photos of them playing soccer, hockey, etc are made to feel completely cool and okay with sharing their sports and there is no negative connotation to doing that and literally living and breathing whatever their favourite sport is and wearing a jersey every day.

Not only that, but often when my sport is accepted and it isn’t being made fun of, people sexualize it and then go and use that as ammo on why horseback riding is weird. If you’re fucked up enough to make it into a sexual thing, you’re the one who isn’t socially acceptable because your mind is in the gutter. Not only is it gross of you to do this, it also teaches young women that their sport and their passion is only considered acceptable when a man can sexualize it and make it into something it isn’t.

This type of ridiculing leads so many young people to give up their passion or feel like they need to hide it and act differently about it or pretend that it’s just a hobby. While this goes on, people continue to be 100% okay with other people sharing constant photos of their soccer, hockey, painting, photography etc and basically affirm that certain hobbies/sports are okay, while others are not and that’s pretty messed up.

You are a complete douche bag if you choose to stereotype people as being “weird” for liking or riding horses. Most young children are a little different. I could also have 1000 stereotypes towards various other sports players that may be true for some of them, but not for all.

Troubled nights / Niall centric

Prompt: Niall is five years old, Larrry Brothers (12) and Ziam parents. Niall wets the bed and his Brothers think its funny.

word Count: 2k

Zayn and Liam Malik were living the perfect life. They were fathers of three boys called Louis, Harry and Niall. Louis and Harry were both twelve years old while their youngest son Niall had just turned five. They were living in a nice house in Wolverhampton and neither of them would want to be in another position.

Their sons were their life and Liam and Zayn would never regret their decision of adopting them. They had wanted to adopt one baby but when they had seen Harry and Louis they had known that they weren’t going to separate them and so they had decided to give both of them a place to stay. Harry and Louis were two funny, energetic boys who loved to run around the house or to play soccer in the garden.

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anonymous asked:

playing soccer in the garden with niall :)

Niall was seven when he was first introduced to the household garden. He was short, smaller than you, and held a football underneath his arm. The flush in his cheeks was still there (Maura had pinched and cooed and he had shook her off and tried to glare), but he was a different person; he wasn’t broad shoulders or a deep, enchanting voice. He was a boy with a passion. He was a boy who learned to play soccer before he was the boy who picked up his grandfather’s guitar. 

The children had been left outside to play while the parents idly watched on from the sprawling windows of the kitchen. At first, he wouldn’t share the ball with you, and you thought of running into the house and screaming with tears in your eyes. When he began showing off his juggling skills (which were more of him tossing his foot out into mid-air and dazedly catching the ball upon his toes), you stuck your leg out for him to get caught on. With a wicked gleam in your eyes, you watched him fall into a heap with dirt shuffling into his mouth. 

Niall stuck his tongue out at the ground and tried to wash away the taste with his fingers shoved down his throat. He winced when you picked the ball up with your hands and admired it, turning it at all its full angles. 

“That’s not how you use it, arsehole,” he spat. You tilted your head to the side as he brushed his trousers off and stood at his full (and slight) height. “You’re supposed to kick it! Everyone knows that!” 

That was his first mistake; he made it when he was seven. He went home early with a split lip and a ruined football. Your mother’s clay plant pot had been destroyed and was left in pieces. 

Niall was at the front door the next day, a scab having formed on his mouth and Maura standing behind him with her hands firmly on her hips. He held a new vase towards you. When prompted to speak, he bowed his head and admitted that it had all been his fault. 

After that, he was allowed in the garden every spring and summer day. Smiles and laughter filled the void of dried blood and crushed flowers. 


Your first kiss had been in the garden; it hadn’t been with Niall. You went to school the next day, thirteen and pimply, voice squeaky with delight. A group of your friends had gathered around, binders pressed into their chests like they were trying to hold back the thundering of their hearts. 

Standing by, Niall snickered when you closed your eyes and sighed longingly. With one of your eyes opened and your attention fully rested on him, he shrugged his shoulders and slammed his locker shut. 

"Josh Acker is shite,” he murmured, arms pulled in tight. “I bet he kisses like shite, too." 

You ignored the jab and turned to your best friend. She placed her hand on your arm, squealed much like you had earlier, and squeezed your skin. “Was it by the daisies?” 

That was Niall’s second mistake; standing around for the conversation to take place while he was merely thirteen. Freshly picked daisies were on your front porch the next morning. Niall was the only culprit in mind. 

When he walked past you in the doorway to get to the garden a few days later, mumbling something underneath his breath about teaching you how to chip, you grazed your fingers over his right shoulder and said thank you. Face flushing, Niall didn’t reply, but he didn’t deny anything either. 


At age sixteen, you had your first real heartbreak. Niall was there to pick up the pieces on a dark and desolate night when you had your legs tucked to your chest and your forehead resting upon the tops of your knees. The garden didn’t need to provide much light, for you had the moon and Niall’s shining eyes gazing at the side of your face. 

He hadn’t known what to do. He simply listened and curled his arm around your shoulders when he felt like you needed the support to stay upright. 

For a sixteen, nearly seventeen year old boy, the only thing he could think to say was sentiment hidden underneath a pile of underwhelming humor. “Would it make you feel better if I let you kick tha ball at me face?” 

Laughing brokenly, you choked back on a particularly wet sob and rubbed your shirt sleeve against your nose. “No,” you whispered in reply, turning your head so you could hide your face in his shoulder (one that he was growing into; sprouting out of). “I don’t think that would make me feel better at all.” 

Gazing into the distance, Niall’s eyes flickered over the spot where you had once broken the flower pot. He wondered where all those pieces had gone once they were picked up. Were they glued back together? Perhaps they were swept under the rug. 

Niall didn’t want any part of a broken you to be hidden underneath a concealing object. He wanted to glue you back together. He wanted to take the sap from the trees in the garden and use it to smooth out your edges; put you back into place. 

"Alrigh’,” he had said a moment later. He turned his head sideways so his jaw was pressed to the underside of your cheek and his eyelashes were fanning against your warm skin. “I’ll just hold you for a little while then, yeah? Won’t open my dumb mouth." 

With a murmured ‘yeah’ underneath your breath, you let him curl his arm tighter around you and block out the cold from the rest of the world. 

That was Niall’s third mistake; he was sixteen. He should have told you he loved you right then and there. 


Nineteen years later and with a garden of his own, Niall wasn’t paying enough attention to the outside grass. His hands were on your shoulders as he stood behind you, conversing with the next door neighbors who had a young son, and he was kissing the back of your head when the back door slammed open. 

Dad,” your son wailed, pushing forward until his head was resting against his hip and he had his tiny arms wrapped around his waist, keeping him anchored. “He kicked the football at my face.” 

Niall shared a look with you over the top of your son’s head. A moment later, Niall was crouching down onto his haunches and ruffling the blond hair he shared with his child. 

"What happened?” he asked in a hushed whisper. The parents of the other boy sought out to make things right. 

“I don’t know.” Your son’s lip wobbled. You pressed a comforting hand to his back. “I might have said something dumb because I thought he was pretty." 

Niall knew the feeling. 

(That wasn’t a mistake. That was a lifetime with you.) 

Kids Preference!


You and Michael have two beautiful little girls who love everything their mommy does and love to dress up in your clothes and heels. And you and Michael have a little baby boy and he looks so much like Michael and Michael can’t wait till he’s old enough to play guitar.


You and Luke have two beautiful children. A girl and a boy. The little girl is really girly and loves little flowers in her hair and loves her daddy. And the little baby boy loves to chew on everything and explore.


You and Calum have two handsome boys who love dressing up as their daddy and love to play football(soccer). And you and Calum have a pretty little girl who loves to sleep and gets treated like a little princess by her daddy.


You and Ashton have 1 big girl! She grew up so fast and really loves fashion and she’s really kind to people. You and Ashton also have 2 little boys. Your older boy really looks up to his daddy and always tries to run up the stage to drum away with his daddy. And your little baby boy is a really happy and smily baby.

But do you know what bothers me the most? The fact that in an instant, Neymar’s dreams were crushed. That little boy who dreamed of playing in the World Cup, who was extremely joyful when his name was chosen so he could play in the World Cup, that little boy from Mogi das Cruzes who just wanted to play soccer, not be famous, is out of the World Cup. He’s come so far, being Brazil’s top goal scorer in the Cup, and just because someone was foolish enough to knee someone who’s been hurt for two matches, he’s done. Ruled out. I know, there’s always another four years, but I’m sure he wanted to finish strong, win or lose. And the fact that he won’t be able to makes me upset. All my prayers go to Neymar, so he can feel better. I just want him better. I want him to recover. Thank you, you spiky haired, sweet, and talented boy who carried Brazil’s dreams on his shoulders, and helped the team get so far. Your work definitely didn’t go to waste. Win or lose, this semifinal is for you!