she is messy, but she’s kind

for @kingdonmicrofic | rated: g | word count: 483 | for @ironcharliee (hbd diva and god bless the uswnt)

“Langdon, good game mate,” the interviewer offers, which is more than he deserves. They played like shit. “What do you think happened out there?”

Fuck if I know.

“We just couldn’t find our footing,” he says. Langdon thinks he had three total touches on the ball. He can’t even remember if he got a shot off. “Just wasn’t our game.”

Has it ever really been their game? The USMNT has been notorious for delivering meals but never the whole feast.

“Must be disappointing then,” the interviewer continues. “For the US’s chances at their first world cup win to be over just like that then, huh?”

Oh for fucks sake.

“The US has four titles.”

“Uh…” the guy pauses. Langdon wipes the lingering sweat from his brow and stares at him, hands on his hips, until it clicks. “Oh, right. I mean I wasn’t talking about—”

“You said US,” he reminds him. His manager is going to have a field day with this. Whatever. They fucking suck. “The women have four world cup titles.”

“Yes, but—”

“They’re Olympic gold medalists too,” Langdon continues. He waves a hand out and almost hits the interviewer's microphone with his hand. “We haven’t been able to do that either.”

“Well, maybe next time—”

“Man, I seriously doubt that,” he scoffs. “The closest I’m coming to a gold medal is the one my wife has hanging in our office.”

“… your wife?”

“Mel?” Langdon reminds him. Jesus, who the fuck is this guy? “Mel King? She’s been the starting full back for almost a decade.”

The interviewer just blinks at him and Langdon dismisses himself before he ends up going on a rant about how maybe they would’ve had a chance if Mel was playing defense for them over fucking Whitaker.

He passes by a few of his teammates in the throes of their own interviews, ignoring the calls of his own name in favor of escaping to the seclusion of the locker room.

“Frank!”

That gets him stop—the combination of his first name and her sweet voice that he could pick out of any chaotic crowd. He turns in time to feel her slot up against him, his lips automatically finding the crown of her head.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

“That was pretty awful,” Mel tells him bluntly. It’s accompanied by a gentle smile and kindness behind her eyes that makes him relax for the first time since the cup began. “Robby really needs to consider restructuring your defensive line. And why was Donahue up front? He always performs better at midfield.”

Frank kisses her again, smiling at the little wrinkle her nose gets afterwards.

“I have no fucking idea,” he tells her. “But how about I shower and you tell me all about what you would’ve done differently afterwards.”

started as an idea in the groupchat, spiraled out of control into a 17K+ fic. bon appetit?

with ptmc short-staffed, jack has worked himself to the bone. samira tests a theory that she can get jack to take care of himself if he thinks he's taking care of her.

Spring water scintillates over clean sand.

'Mohabbat', which in Urdu and Hindi means love! It writes itself.