#footy au

[princington]

just a quick doodle based off footy au by @possibilistfanfiction ! have a read if you haven't already

#avatrice #avatrice fanart #warrior nun #footy au #author rec: possibilistfanfiction #my art

[possibilistfanfiction]

lilith

[obsessed with this ask, first of all. second of all, lilith pov from footy au for @unicyclehippo.]

//

you meet beatrice for the first time when you’re fourteen, and she’s thirteen. you’re in different club academies but you vaguely, before this, had heard of her: girls around you talk, hushed, when she walks in, because she’s the youngest and everyone is already saying she’s the best, a generational talent — beatrice xin, the next great center midfielder, the future of football. that’s what you want to be, so badly you can taste it, so badly that when you miss an easy tap in the first day of camp you bite the inside of your cheek so hard you draw blood.

it’s not your first time at national team camp, but it is hers. maybe because you’re serious and driven, or maybe because you don’t find enjoyment in the pranks other girls like to play, and you don’t eat the junk food they sneak in in tampon boxes, they have her room with you. you were the youngest once; you remember.

you’re both reserved and careful, not particularly friendly, but beatrice’s stems from awkwardness, from a split second of figuring out how to read social cues around her while everyone else laughs. she’s thin and kind of small, her face full and young. she has freckles and braces and little wisps of her hair escape her bun; she unpacks efficiently into the little dresser on her side of the room: simple underwear, sports bras, joggers, hoodies. she pulls out a little leatherbound journal and a book in a language you don’t know and a pen and lines them up with military precision on the desk. she sets her little shower caddy on top of the dresser and neatly places her toiletries in it: acne cream, shampoo and conditioner, a fresh bar of lavender soap, lotion, sunscreen. ‘i’m going to freshen up before dinner,’ she says, impossibly formal and a little funny, honestly, but it doesn’t seem kind — not yet, anyway — to tease her about it.

you wait for her to come out of the bathroom at the end of the hall and back to your room. her black hair is in a neat braid, the wet ends darkening her t-shirt, which she’s tucked into a pair of joggers, which, for some reason, hurts you a little bit. 

‘ready?’

she seems surprised when you’re still there; you’re in a hoodie and shorts and slides, and you wait for her to neatly tie a pair of — admittedly, very cool — sneakers and then nod. ‘lilith,’ she says, gently and tentatively touching your elbow, ‘thank you.’

‘for what?’

‘for waiting for me.’ i’m used to being alone, she means, and she’s quiet throughout all of dinner, only adding into the conversation when someone brings up a type of bird they saw this morning, which she knows the latin name for and all of its characteristics, and she eats with the most exacting bites you’ve ever seen.

i’m used to being alone, she means, as you both settle in your small, twin beds later — ‘goodnight, beatrice,’ you say. you’re not alone, and neither is she.

‘sleep well, lilith.’

/

beatrice is, you can admit by the time you’re sixteen, the best in the world. maybe not yet — although, some days, when you play with her and watch her beat players twice her age without breaking a sweat, one after another through the midfield, or in a tight space around the 18, or even on the touchline if she drifts for a give and go — you think maybe she already is. 

her time on youth sides is running out, you know, because she is a generational talent, because everyone wants her already. she seems, mostly, unfazed by it all, still stoic and focused and brilliant. she gets her high school diploma at fifteen; she tells you, quietly while you juggle together in the courtyard of the hotel you’re at one tournament when neither of you can sleep, that she’s enrolled in online college classes and has enjoyed the challenge so far: she’s learning german, and she’s taking a revolutionary chinese history course, and her favorite is calculus iii. she’s kind of bizarre, but you’re fond of her. sometimes she texts you pictures of her cat between camps, and you send her any meme that makes you laugh privately.

you’re a little surprised when she’s on the u-20 world cup squad with you, mostly because you had honestly thought she might get pulled into the senior squad, at least for some friendlies, but you’re glad she’s here: you’re nervous, and restless. when you had told your mother that you’d gotten called up, tamping down any expectations for excitement as hard as you could, she had said, ‘as we expected of you,’ and continued on with her day.

‘do you have a boyfriend?’ you ask into the dark. 

you hear her roll around in bed for a few moments, probably turning to face toward you, and then she says, ‘when would i have time to have a boyfriend?’

you shrug. ‘i don’t know; seo-jun and nora have boyfriends.’

‘i guess.’

‘so that’s a no, from you.’

she laughs. ‘do you have a boyfriend?’

‘ew, no. have you met sixteen year old boys?’

‘i know. disgusting. i don’t know what the point is of boys, anyway. i’m too busy with football.’

you understand the point of boys, in a way: you like looking at mohammed’s arms when you’re training together, the way they press and cut when you’re doing push-ups. you’ve kissed him; you kiss him often. ‘yeah,’ you say, because it’s not your truth to name for her. ‘gross.’

/

it’s unsurprising to you when you get signed to the same club team beatrice debuted for two years ago, when she was sixteen. they’re building a franchise around her, bringing in young talent and trading for the world’s best veterans. she’d been on loan abroad for a spell, came back even more lethal, even more deadly — she’s taller, now, and still thin enough trainers are always on her to put on muscle. she spends extra time in the weight room — she spends extra time doing everything — and you’d never tell, but beatrice is the best in the world because she doesn’t allow herself anything else, even when she’s hurting and exhausted.

you have nothing better to do, and you’ve, admittedly, missed her, so you agree to spot her while she does more squats. when you see the weight she racks up you’re glad for the state of the art recovery facilities they have, and for the rest day you have tomorrow. 

she pushes through her first set, her face turning red but her expression perfectly calm, her quarterzip neatly tucked in, and it’s kind of terrifying. ‘you’re kind of terrifying.’

she racks the bar and steps out from under it, takes a big deep breath, shakes out her shoulders. ‘i’m small.’

‘you’re eighteen.’

she considers it. ‘i have to get bigger.’

it’s a razor’s edge, football and greatness: beatrice will train until she can’t; beatrice will eat exactly what she’s supposed to; beatrice will run until she throws up; beatrice will sleep exactly as she’s supposed to, and take all of her recovery seriously, and —

‘after this set, do you want to get a drink?’

‘a drink?’

you laugh at her indignation. ‘yeah, one drink. dinner, maybe? i don’t know any good spots around yet.’

‘oh,’ she says, ‘i don’t really go out, and i don’t drink. but —‘ it takes her a moment — ‘yes, we can. mary and shannon like a place across from the grounds.’

‘is it quinoa bowls?’

she blushes, steps back under the bar. 

‘i want a burger and a cocktail, beatrice. please.’

she does her other set, straining for the last two, unable to keep it off her face. ‘fine,’ she says, out of breath once she finishes, ‘fine.’

/

you’re twenty-one, at a celebration after a championship, and you’re drunk. beatrice is laughing, her hair somehow pulled out of its bun; she’d won the golden ball, which, since the first touch of preseason, seemed inevitable: she is, very concretely, the best in the world. 

‘come dance!’ ashante says, tugs on her hands, and she shakes her head but when you say, ‘yeah, beatrice, come on,’ she sighs and follows you out onto the dance floor. there are plenty of hot boys, and beatrice is beautiful, you can easily admit. she’s weird and a huge nerd — she has a bachelor’s degree in ecological anthropology, which she’d worked on for fun — but you love her. she’s your friend, and you want to celebrate with her. she hasn’t been drinking, so she’s stiff and awkward, even more than usual, in loose slacks and a collarless button down which she lets you unbutton down to the middle of her chest without any fanfare. a few guys walk up to you — beatrice xin, holy shit — and then you’re dancing. it’s easy, after a few shots, to close your eyes and let everything drift away around you. 

but then you hear beatrice say, ‘stop,’ and the guy she was dancing with doesn’t, not quick enough, not immediately, and you see red.

you get kicked out, which only avoids the media because the bouncers let you leave through the back. beatrice clenches her jaw and her hands and your knuckles smart, already bruising.

‘i can handle myself,’ she says, although you see the way her body is trembling.

‘i know,’ you say, because you do. ‘but you don’t have to, not all the time.’

you wait in the alley, shivering, for a car; it’s silent and just after a spurt of rain, and, after a beat, she laughs. ‘did we get into a bar fight?’

you grin over at her. ‘who says we don’t know how to have fun, huh?’

/

‘are you gonna do the pride thing?’

beatrice looks far too calm for being in an ice bath. ’no, not publicly.’

‘yeah, that’s cool,’ you say. ‘mary and shannon are, like, the couple, anyway. marketing has an easy out there.’

she snorts. ‘easy out.’

you roll your eyes. 

‘i’m —‘ she takes a deep breath — ‘i’m a lesbian.’

‘okay,’ you say, and fight the desperate urge to laugh and say yes, beatrice, everyone and their mother knows, that’s why i asked if you were going to be in the pride campaign. ‘obviously, that’s cool with me.’

horrifyingly, she starts to cry. ‘i’ve never said it out loud before.’

she’s twenty-one, so, fair, you guess, but it also makes you so sad. ‘well, now you have. in an ice bath, no less.’

‘yes.’ she sounds a little in awe of herself. ‘i have.’

‘do you, like, want me to hug you?’

she wrinkles her nose. ‘no. but, thank you.’

‘anytime.’ you pause, then try your luck, ‘so can we find you a girlfriend now, or —‘

she splashes you with a flick of water and you could kill her, you really could.

/

‘beatrice!’ you shout into her intercom. ‘let me in!’

it takes about a minute, and you’re about to, like, scale her giant fence or something, but then the gate opens and you drive through. it’s not that you care about her — she makes it hard; you make it hard right back — but she’s your captain and you’re not going to win a fucking world cup if she’s not recovering from surgery.

‘lilith,’ she says, dry, even though it’s a little slurred and she looks wobbly on her crutches.

‘mary and shannon sent me.’ you hold up a bag of food, stupid healthy shit she insists on eating, even when she’s on pain meds. ‘i can knock you over, right now, so you have to let me in.’

‘fine,’ she says, lacking its usual precise clip. you follow her to her kitchen, slowly, while she carefully crutches, exactly how a physical therapist showed her, you’re sure. she’s exhausted, you can tell, her hair down and a little messy, her hoodie crooked on her shoulders, just in a pair of tight nike boxers and a sock on the foot opposite her cast, as if you’d woken her up from a nap.

‘were you sleeping?’

‘i’m on — a lot of medication.’

‘you can go back to sleep, if you want. i can put the food in the fridge and warm it up in a bit?’

she seems to weigh her options, slowly, but her eyes are drifting closed and she sways a little. ‘okay. you can watch anything you want. or leave, if you don’t want to wait.’

‘oh, i’m fully taking advantage of your gorgeous house and your giant tv. i’m not crazy.’

she had ankle surgery two days ago, so you know she really is exhausted. disgustingly, she was watching what looks to be like game film on her tv. ‘disgusting,’ you tell her, and she doesn’t seem to really pay you much mind because she situates her casted ankle on top of a few pillows and then pulls a soft blanket over herself and snuggles down into the couch. she’s asleep almost immediately, and you put on schitt’s creek, just in case she drifts in and out and wakes up. she doesn’t; you have to shake her awake two hours later at a normal dinner time. you warm up her food for her, as promised, and eat your bowl beside her, then get her water and her next dose of pain medication.

‘we’re signing ava silva,’ she says, marginally more awake for a good five minutes. 

ava silva, wunderkind with the worst injury you’ve ever seen; a 9 too. ‘i thought i was replacing shannon.’

‘i’m sure you will,’ beatrice assures you. ‘we need a sub, at least.’

‘you think she’ll be good.’

‘we both know she’s good, lilith.’

she settles back into the couch. ‘you think she’ll be great.’

she smiles a little absently, but genuine all the same. ‘let’s hope so.’

eventually, you wake her up and help her to bed, despite the fact that she tries to do it herself, even up her steep stairs. i’m used to being alone, you understand still. 

she gets situated in her giant, gorgeous bed in her perfect house, all gossamer curtains fluttering in the salt breeze off the ocean. ‘thanks, lilith.’

‘sleep well, beatrice.’

/

(and ava silva, it turns out, is great, although you’d rather die than say it out loud. beatrice stands in front of the full length mirror in the fitting room and smooths down the non-existent wrinkles in her traditional chinese wedding outfit, bright red and embroidered in gold. it’s probably the most incredible piece of clothing you’d ever seen.

‘what do you think?’

it’s an insane question, really. ‘you look… you look really beautiful, beatrice.’

she smiles, shyly; you’re thirty, now, old enough to be able to feel an easy fondness. ‘thank you.’

‘you owe me a burger and many, many cocktails after this, though.’

‘sure, sure.’

if you cry at their wedding while ava stands in a wispy, open-backed dress and smiles so big her eyes almost close and, with steady hands, promises everything to beatrice, to, maybe, your first friend — well, no one says a word.)

#footy au #wn #prompts #warrior nun fic #avatrice #but mostly bea & lilith honestly just... being weird horribly soft friends #i WILL post ch4 by the weekend sorry !!!!!

[osaka-lilac]

Hi, Allie. I love love loooove the football au strollonso post. Obsessed with that idea. Thank you for putting that out here. My strollonso brain is loving it. Also sorry but I'm new here and I would like to know your ao3 username please. And how old would Fernando be if he is playing for Lawrence's team and Lance is in college 😆 that old man would not care about his age in any alternate universe and play whatever sport he's into until he's 60 or something I think. Fuck the pundits whining about him being too old to play in la liga or whatever. I can just hear Peter Drury announcing Fernando as the oldest player ever to be chasing the world cup for his country. Thanks again for the football au strollonso.

omg thank u so so much! it's my first kind of plot point-driven post like that n i'm very happy to see people enjoying it :] i am relatively new to writing fics, my forte really is through fanart.

my ao3 is osaka_lilac, however i only only have an art piece i did for last year's f1 big bang, and a art piece plus an unbetaed, 1k-ish galex oneshot fic i wrote for last year's f1 hallmark fest. i do have many recommended bookmarks there in lieu of my own creations that i would highly recommend you check out. i'm very inspired by all the amazing work that happens here and i want to share it as much as i can.

HOWEVER. i did overlook the maybe Huge age gap that would have to take place for lance to be still in school. so uhhh maybe he's like one of those graduate folks who go back after their first go-around. or maybe he's interning or maybe!!!! he's working with his father in the team, and has finally found a reason to stay working with him - through Fernando. however, i can imagine that gap being similar, possibly a bit younger on fernando's end, just for dynamics sake.

#anon thank you so so much again it means a lot to get discussions like this and im so happy you enjoyed #i am working on another strollonso au project with cellie so that will hopefully be happening sooner rather than later #strollonso #anon #answered #footy au

[clexalab]

Hayley Raso with her bow hair ties, tendency to body slam opponents twice her size, her incredible story of recovery and these two goals she just scored in front of her home crowd. So Ava Silva from @possibilistfanfiction Footy AU coded.

#avatrice #ava silva #sister beatrice #beatrice #warrior nun #save warrior nun #footy au #wwc 2023 #womens world cup #womens world cup 2023

[sunny-side-up-mm]

I missed the St kilda match...I wonder if Max king and his brother played against each other...anyway shame for lose.

What happened to Carlton! Good big win.

#melbourne #afl #footy #footy au #carlton blues #st kilda

[galacticfootyleague]

Translated from Aurebesh: GFL

Galactic Footy League

#star wars footy au #footy au #galactic footy league #gfl #i'm too proud of this logo not to make a separate post for it

[viratfc]

Congratulations men! What a great game to watch. Both teams fought hard but one team wins! Good Old Collingwood Forever…🖤🤍🥳🏆

#afl grand final #collingwood #brisbane lions #footy au

[puppetmaster13u]

Who wants a WIP

Someone meets lil baby Dick Grayson for the first time

🦇🐤🦇🐤🦇🐤🦇🐤🦇🐤🦇🐤🦇🐤🦇🐤🦇🐤🦇🐤🦇🐤

   “Since when did you have a kid?!” He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Gordon so shocked, which is surprising. 

   He blinked, glancing down to where Dick was scribbling in his notebook with a matching robe on before looking back up at the older man. How long has it been…? Oh. “Since six months ago…?” he trailed off at the strangled noise the commissioner made. 

   “Did… I can’t believe I’m going to ask this,” Gordon whispered. “Did you steal a child Bruce?” 

   He blinked again, confused. Did he? No, he was going to go with no. “No?” Honestly he might have more confusion in his voice than the other did. What was so surprising- Oh! 

   “I have a foster license,” he informed his… friend? Ally? Ally worked. He informed his ally. “But we’re waiting for the adoption to go through.” Technically he could pay to speed it up but that would also risk media coverage which he didn’t want, nor did Dick need it. Reporters were like vultures, he swore. 

   Well, actually, at least vultures were an important part of their ecosystem so there was that. 

   Gordon breathed a quiet curse, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Okay, alright, sure, you’ve had a kid for six months and somehow no one has found out, alright.” Well it wasn’t like he liked going out into public so that had honestly probably helped. 

   “You couldn’t have,” the red-haired man made some sort of motion with his hands. “I don’t know, warned me ahead of time before someone broke into your house? What if someone had taken the kid?!” 

   Bruce frowned, nose scrunching up at his own distaste at the thought. “I wouldn’t let them,” he informed Gordon seriously. 

   “How, Bruce? You can’t fight and would get hurt yourself, then what?” Well he could fight, even if people didn’t realize that with how passive he acted in public. “How did you even get a child, you’re never even out?”

   “A big bat-thing dropped me off!” Dick was the one to cheerfully answer, causing another officer to choke while Gordon looked close to having a stroke, looking between the two of them. 

#batman au #batman #dc #dcu #cryptid batman #jim gordon #dick grayson #bruce wayne #what's out there au #what's outside au #writing wip #story wip #my writing #snippet #Dick grayson is a little shit #I love him #I must have you know they're both wearing fuzzy pink robes #it's not exactly important but just for visualization #Dick is also wearing footy pajamas underneath his robe #but he wanted a matching one

[delta-pavonis]

Fic: Slip Edition

Dreamling (Human+Football AU) || Rated E || 5.5k words || complete

Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Football, keeper!Dream, goalie!Dream, journalist!Hob, sports reporter!Hob, gratuitous references to Ted Lasso because I cannot fucking help myself, D/s overtones, Light BDSM, discussion of harder BDSM, Semi-Public Sex, Voyeurism, Exhibitionism, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Lingerie, men in lingerie, Love Confessions, Established Relationship, Coming Out, Dirty Talk, Come Eating, Romantic Fluff

Sequel to Keeper and Runner (you really need to read those first for context)

Read on AO3

They – none of them – should be surprised when it happens. Everyone knows, technically, that it couldn't last forever. Even if thirteen shutouts in fourteen matches breaks the record for number of consecutive wins by a team in the Championship League. It was never going to last an entire season. But that doesn’t mean that the shock of the ball rolling past Morpheus' fingertips and into the net doesn't stun the entire stadium into silence.

#Dreamling #Footie AU #Football AU #keeper!Dream #goalie!Dream #journalist!Hob #sports writer!Hob #Richmond 'til We Die series #Pavonis writes

[f1-birb]

a little f1 fc au for @geooooooorge

Charles isn't jealous.

No matter what Pierre says, he's not.

Sure, there's a tiny part of him that burns whenever he sees Lando all over their teammates. And yes, there's another part of him that sees everything with a green tint whenever Lando plants a kiss on someone’s cheek, or head, or shoulder, or neck. It’s not jealousy though.

The bench is tense, his leg still bouncing with the adrenaline of the game even as he gets to rest. He watches as Lando sprints down the wing, almost dancing around the opposing team with how gracefully he moves. He finds a fraction of space and the ball is launched across the pitch in a beautiful cross, expertly caught by Max’s downright enviable first touch to then rocket across to where Mick has been left unmarked. The ball meets the back of the net as the keeper stretches for it and the stadium’s home crowd is on its feet.

The cheering crescendos as the team celebrates, the players on the bench slapping at each other and grinning as they go another goal up, but Charles’ eyes are glued to his teammates on the pitch.

Mick is beaming where he's trapped between bodies, laughing as he's clapped on the back and has his hair ruffled, all while keeping a firm hold on Lando who clings to his back. George backs off, leaving a perfect view of Lando pressing an affectionate kiss to Mick’s neck.

Charles folds his arms tightly across his chest, fingers pressing harshly into his biceps as he fights to keep the grin on his face, just in case the cameras catch him.

Okay, so maybe he is jealous.

#little sneak peek #f1 fc au #charlando #charles/lando #anja and lexi keep me on the footie train of suffering #so why not write it #birb writes

[princington]

"...brilliant. you are brilliant."

#footy au #fic rec #author rec: possibilistfanfiction #avatrice #footy au bea and ava are smth so special #fighting for my life doodling this on the bus

[possibilistfanfiction]

footy au - epilogue

to bea, by ava

To Beatrice Xin, the footballer, captain, champion, Greatest of All Time: you deserve, so much, to rest, but please know your absence will be felt. The game will miss you profoundly.

on ao3 here

#wn #wn fic #avatrice #avatrice fic #just a lil ending - it's happy it's just after bea retires after the coolest career #footy au #happy world cup day to those who celebrate

[radioactivepeasant]

Snippets: Free Day Thursday PART TWO!

Surprise, now you get Baby Croc stuff that needs no trigger warnings! Still borrowing Star Wars "swears", still not sorry.

Part One Here:

The Slam Dozer rolled to a stop in the midst of the Strider Range. Three Wastelanders stepped out, looking around them for what should have been a missing warrior. There was nothing. No vehicle, no sign of the Wastelander who had activated their beacon.

"Eyes open," their leader grunted, "Could be a trap."

Something moved among the boulders, and the men raised their rifles instantly. In response the pale something shrieked and dropped out of sight. Long ears were still visible from the sides of the rock it had chosen as its hiding place, trembling. Then, as if gathering its courage, it raised its head above the boulder.

The men recoiled.

It looked almost like a human child, but...but not quite. A leathery hide the color of a bloodless corpse, pupils so dilated that no sclera were even visible, horns poking out of wiry gray hair. This was not a human. But it didn't look like an animal, either.

"What the kriff!"

The largest of their number raised his gun, sighting down the barrel onto the creature's forehead.

The leader grabbed the barrel and forced it down.

"Hold your fire!" he snapped.

"But sire, look! The rottin' thing's gotta be a metalhead!"

The third man wrinkled his nose incredulously. "You see any gems on that thing? Strewth, man, I think that's a bloody spirit!"

Their leader eased closer to the rocks, noting with some disquiet that the beacon they'd picked up was in the same direction.

"Who are you?" he demanded, as if the creature could understand him, "Are you friend or foe?"

To the surprise of all three, the creature responded.

In the broken SparSign of an extremely young child, it signed, "I Croc! Help Croc? Help big brother! Help! Help!"

On legs shaped more like a Leaper's than a human's, "Croc" bounded away to crouch over a crumpled form in the sand. This time, it was clearly human.

"Eeeeg. Ep!" The spirit thing made a pitiful squeal and patted the boy’s face.

"Big brothers not get up! Too tired! You help? No hurt!" Suddenly he bared sharp fangs, revealing how he'd gotten his name. "No hurt my brothers! You not Red Armor Crunchies? I eat Red Armor Crunchies."

The men wondered whether they really wanted to find out what a "red armor crunchy" was. Slowly, one hand out in a placating gesture, the leader of the band began to move closer. He kept his eyes on the spirit-child and its human "sibling", ready to halt if they made any sudden moves.

"We will not attack you if you do not attack us," he said to the creature. "Where are your people, little traveler? How have you come to this place?"

The spirit-child nestled closer to the motionless boy and uttered a distressed chittering. "I no know. Fancy bad man say us are monsters and taked us here so us would get dead. I no wanna get dead!"

"Exiles?" The big man murmured to the man with the eyepatch.

"Haven's really gone to the crocadogs," Eyepatch muttered back. "I thought their nature spirits had already abandoned them. Didn't think they were killin' em."

"It ain't a spirit, Drake. Nature spirits don't wear clothes."

"Then what is it? Sure ain't a metalhead, tell you that much."

"Enough," their leader interrupted sternly.

He continued to approach the exiles, one foot in front of the other, and pointed his staff behind him.

"There are others here. Animals. At least one is a species capable of speech -- they may shed some light on this. Drake, get the animals and give them some water. Kleiver, put the boy in the truck. He's still breathing."

The child brightened, losing all trace of his former ferocity as if a switch had been flipped off. "You help? You good guys?"

"We try to be," the man with the staff answered, a little dryly.

As he came to a stop by the bodies, he knelt. The human "big brother" was painfully thin, cheekbones sharp against a face that looked younger than anticipated. He had the same matted hair "Croc" did, as if no one took care of him at all. The refuse of Haven: it was not an uncommon condition for exiles to be found in. But most were older, and either coherent or already dead. This boy was somewhere in between.

"He an' Daxter no answerin' me!" Croc fretted. "Not Bad Guy, you wake him up, okay?"

"Damas. Not "not bad guy"," the man grunted as he took a waterskin from his belt. It was half empty, but it would have to suffice. "If I'm to call you by your name, I request that you do me the same courtesy."

"I no can curtsy, Damas man," Croc answered solemnly, "Tail too heavy."

"I said courtesy, not- nevermind." Damas lifted the human boy's head and poured water into his mouth. "Where did you learn our sign language, little traveler?"

Immediately, the child pointed to the unconscious boy.

More mysteries.

🐊🐊🐊🐊🐊🐊🐊🐊🐊🐊🐊🐊🐊🐊🐊🐊🐊

"Yrrp!"

Jak was rudely reintroduced to consciousness by the full weight of his half-brother...clone...person...slamming into his stomach. His eyes flew open as the breath was driven from him in a pained wheeze. Instinctively, he shoved the scaly child off and rolled to his side, gasping for air. The kid was no lightweight.

"Jak!" Daxter's worried voice cut in over his wheezing, "Are- are you okay?! I tried to keep the menace distracted, but he was going crazy while they took the IV out!"

The what?

Jak slowly opened his eyes and blinked until his vision cleared. They were in a room made of metal and some kind of reddish brown stone, radiating a comforting heat -- nothing like the murderous sun in the desert. Jak made a face.

"Wh- rr?" he rasped, unable to say much more until he'd swallowed several times.

"Off. You could have hurt him," a new voice interrupted, deeper and sterner. It wasn't anyone Jak knew.

Croc chirped indignantly, and then the surface Jak lay on rose slightly as if a weight had been removed. Was he on a mattress? Oh. Yes, he was on a remarkably clean mattress. And for that matter, he seemed to be remarkably clean.

That was...a little disturbing. A lot disturbing, actually. Because Jak knew he hadn't washed himself.

"Cr-oc?" he croaked, and finally rolled back onto his back.

An unnecessarily spiky man stood at the end of the bed holding Croc, bundled up in his arms like a particularly naughty puppy. Croc didn't seem to be too upset about it, which was unusual, seeing as Croc bit anyone who wasn't Jak or Daxter. Even Tess had gotten nipped once.

Jak stared at the weathered warrior at the foot of the bed, and the warrior stared back.

"If this is another mirage, I'm going back to sleep," Jak muttered in a creaking voice.

The man laughed.

It was a crackling, raspy sound, as if he were unused to it.

"If this were a mirage, I wouldn't have to make sure the young goblin here did not undo the monks' hard work to repair your ribs."

"My ribs?"*Jak’s face twisted in confusion. "Nothing was wrong with my ribs."

The stranger fixed him with a measured stare that left him feeling oddly defensive.

"Young man, you had two cracked ribs and three that had healed improperly from past breaks. Surely you noticed that kind of pain!"

The boy's blank stare was dismally telling.

"Nobody cares about cracked ribs as long as you can still fight," Jak grumbled. "I've had worse."

Daxter cringed beside Jak. "He's not wrong. Jak here's been through stuff that would give a metalhead nightmares. Don't uh, don't take it personal, y'know? Him and me, we got raised to think pain only mattered when it happened to someone else."

"Why isn't Croc biting you?" Jak interrupted. "He hates strangers."

"Because biting one's host is not an acceptable way to treat the laws of hospitality," the man answered, then bounced Croc a little higher in his arms. "Is that not so, little one?"

"I not bite the Damas man, that's rude," Croc confirmed. "But I maybe bite the stinky man a little bit."

"No, we don't bite Kleiver either," the man -- Damas? -- corrected firmly. "You don't know where he's been."

"I bite only a little bit!"

"No."

"A just a little bit!"

The man adjusted his hold on Croc, shifting him to his hip as though a half-metalhead baby was a perfectly normal thing to encounter.

"You are not biting Kleiver and that is final."

Then he turned his attention back to Jak.

"This one led me to you and your friend in the desert. I brought you to my city. In return, I expect you to be honest when I ask you some questions."

Jak pushed himself up into a sitting position and grimaced at a faint wave of dizziness. "That's it? Just answer some questions? I don't buy it."

Damas looked annoyed. His lips flattened into a thin line for a moment, and his eyes grew calculating. Then he seemed to come to a decision.

"Answer questions for now. Should you choose to remain in my city, you will be expected to prove that you will contribute to the good of the community and not sit idly while others do the lion's share of the work. It is so for all newcomers, although dispensation can be made for your age."

Jak bristled. "What about my age?"

Their rescuer -- and host, apparently -- raised an eyebrow and Jak found himself quieting unexpectedly.

"Exiles as young as the three of you are rarely found alive. Most of our laws apply to older survivors."

Daxter blinked. "Huh. Well. Nice of someone to notice for once."

Damas barely nodded. "The monks will inform me when you are considered recovered enough to be moved. In the meantime-"

He bent and set Croc down on the floor.

"Go, amuse yourself, little one. No biting."

Then he reached into an open bag sitting on the table at the foot of the bed and held up the beacon.

"Let's discuss this."

#writing prompts #fic prompts #jak and daxter #dadmas #king damas #jak and daxter au #free day thursday #my art #baby croc au #Croc is two and he likes to Chomp #Damas is about to have his hands full with these three #unfortunately for Croc Damas has toddler clothes from Mar and he WILL make him wear the footie pajamas with the ducks on them #Daxter starts getting dadded within two weeks #jak is the stubborn one but Damas is more stubborn #Croc can smell Jak's blood running through Damas’s veins and vice versa and he doesn't understand why they don't smell it too #jnd croc

[ermakeys]

Agricorps Thersher Player Torrel Ranto has joined the field.

#star wars footy au #footy au #pantoran #galactic footy league #gfl #torrel ranto #agricorps threshers #threshers #agricorps #look i tried making a tall and buff dude #and i hate these pens at work #but i love him and his eyes

[sunny-side-up-mm]

That was intensive match. I'll go to watch collingwood or some team in the stadium this year.

#melbourne #afl #footy #footy au #collingwood #australian football league

[galacticfootyleague]

Welcome to the Galactic Footy League!

Dru: We welcome our viewers tuning in from all over the galaxy for a new season of Galactic Footy. My name is Dru Achas, retired player for the Dorin Skippers.

Sors: And I am Sors Idrall, former player for the Corellian Runners. Go Runners! We will be guiding you through the four footy leagues throughout the year and the clashing teams that we will encounter along the way. Isn’t that right, Dru?

Dru: You bet, Sors. For all our new viewers, there is a link being shown at the bottom of your screen where you can read up on the Rules of Galactic Footy. Of course, Galactic Footy is always evolving with the addition of new species and abilities, so please feel free to send us your suggestions and questions.

Sors: Those of you interested can take a look at our History of Galactic Footy page. You can find out how the GLF came to be.

Dru: That same page will tell you all about us too.

Sors: We also have a constantly expanding list of teams and players! Follow the link on your screen to our current lineup of teams and their players. The Teams and Players of GFL! Please, share the teams and players you love watching and tag us, so we can share your love for the game!

Dru: I am so excited for this season, Sors!

Sors: So am I, Dru. However, we should be mindful of how we act. Fair play, respect and kindness are a must on and off of the field! Please, be kind to each other and be mindful of our younger viewers.

Dru: Very true, Sors. On that note, let’s tune in to our next game! It’s going to be a good one I think! I am Dru Achas.

Sors: And I’m Sors. We look forward to hearing from you!

#star wars footy au #footy au #galactic footy league #intro post #dru achas #sors idrall