#propeller mushroom

[pokerninja2]

A few Toads have been giving themselves power-ups to help out their team. It may not be entirely legal, but it makes the fights way flashier! Fire Toads can spin around and shoot fireballs, while Propeller Toads can grab enemies and fly WAY high for a piledriver!

[galaxygermdraws]

Got some notes on this post from @emile-hides and I will not lie the ideas I presented were just ones that showed up on my brain, I had not put thought into this before...Until now here it is I’m going insane. So, here’s some of my thoughts. I’ve had the Firebrand thought for a while actually (I have never drawn him before he was fun to draw)

(relogs with tags/comments are appreciated, asks are too. I need an excuse to ramble. Thankyuuuu)

[katlimeart]

Made in 2024

If you’ve seen this anywhere else, I posted it back on my deviantArt when it was made.

Pauline in 4 Power Up Designs (Flying Squirrel, P Flying Squirrel, Propeller, & Superball) created by myself - made as part of an art trade with princesayasminstars on DeviantArt

[septillionseven]

Septra in various Mario Power ups,

Im have a lot of art & im just starting posting it for once wawa

[faerlithalgnomii]

Good morning kings let's get this bread (women DNI)

[sky-chau]

Reblog to spread democracy, and add your propoganda to propel your gender of choice to victory!

[superkirbylover]

FINALLY!!! the VERY final refs for the ponified cast of pizza tower. everypony has the same name except for pizzahead, who's called pizzahoof. pizzahoof was also designed by @c0met-dr01d!! go check them out :]

under the cut is me rambling about their cutiemarks (or lack thereof) and other design choices

gustavo's cutiemark is a pizza with three mushroom toppings, because he's a chef, and earlier in pizza tower development, he was a gnome! this isn't the case anymore though, but i still like to think he is. that, and i just associate him with gnome forest, so it felt fitting. plus, i suppose it adds to the mario comparisons lmao

peppino's cutiemark is a pepperoni pizza alongside a pizzacutter. i know people are raising eyebrows at the pepperoni, but my excuse is... uhh, they're not actually pepperoni. it's like, some vegetarian alternative. probably made of flowers or some shit. the pizza is obvious, he's a chef and he cooka-da-pizza. the pizza cutter isn't just to hammer that in, but it's also a callback to the various times throughout pizza tower development where he used to have a pizza cutter buzz-saw! especially in pizza massacre

noise's cutiemark is a bomb with its fuse lit, because it represents his explosive personality and he often uses bombs. dude is wacky, unpredictable and can be a feral fucking thing. also something about acting, being a mascot or being in the showbiz somewhere in the mix. he has a tail, but it's just... in his suit. he's a dumbass

noisette's cutiemark is a ruby chocolate bar. she runs a cafe, and while she presumably has Really Weird Taste, i figured it would be a really cute fit for her. it's sweet, just like her! and pink. just like her!

fake peppino deliberately does not have a cutiemark. it's to add to the sense of "failed clone," where many aspects of peppino have been successfully recreated (body type, hair color, coat color, outfit, facial hair) but other small things have been muddled or changed by mistake (height, eyes not staying in their sockets, hair being more smooth looking, face shape). not to mention, he's made of dough, like his original clone counterpart. in the show, it's established that only ponies can have cutiemarks. while he looks like a pony, who's to say he really is one?

stick's cutiemark is that television hud you see when you have enough money to buy a boss gate in pizza tower. i chose this cause on top of being a tv, a reoccurring object throughout the game, it also has some modifications to make it more... stick-y. it has his hat and a propeller coming from the top, and if you know stick, that man likes to make shit, specifically to sell and make money. that's also why there's a money sign in the tv. stick has a tail stub but i never really draw it myself. he's completely bald. mind you, he still has his coat, but no mane, no tail. zilch. he's a bald motherfucker. also stick's magic color is green

pizzahoof also does not have a cutiemark. he's a fucking cheese pony, why would he need one? dude just exists to be silly and whimsical. giving him one i feel would go against his character of just being clownish, doing what he wants when he wants, regardless if it means others suffer because of him or not. also, he's MADE of CHEESE!!!

[weirdmarioenemies]

Name: Salt Mushroom

Debut: Super Mario Galaxy 3

Everybody remembers when Super Mario Galaxy 3 launched worldwide for the Wii's immensely popular successor, the Nintendo Wii Too, blowing all of our collective minds with its flawless combination of the inviting and memorable atmosphere of the first entry in the series with the incredible 3D platforming of its immediate predecessor. But let's be honest, we've all seen Super Mario Galaxy 3 at the top of enough "Greatest Games of All Time" listicles by now. Today we're going to take a much more focused look at just one element which helped to make Galaxy 3 one of the greatest 3D platformers of all time, and one which hardly warrants such a lengthy introduction: the Salt Mushroom!

This item first appears somewhat late in the game, in the Briny Mine Galaxy mission Salt Mario Finds the Cure. You land on a small planetoid with some Gearmos who explain to you that the mine's been overrun with weird monsters! With a boost from a Launch Star, you propel yourself into a pipe, which takes you straight into the depths of the Briny Mine itself.

Sure enough, there's weird monsters all over the place! Excargot, to be precise! These heavily armored, tank-treaded snail creatures try to charge at Mario, leaving trails of slippery slime everywhere! But jump out of the way, and they'll go flying into the wall, causing the shell-like armor on their backs to shutter open, exposing the slimy pink skin inside. What's that? Why haven't I included an image of Excargot, an extraordinarily weird Mario enemy? Well, I mean, we've all seen it. It would be pretty redundant to show a picture, then, wouldn't it? Hm? Now you want to know why I've explained everything in such gratuitous detail thus far? I think you need to keep your voice down.

Anyway, if you try to attack this glaring weak spot with a stomp or a spin, Mario simply bounces off! Clearly, a power-up is in order. Collect the nearby ? Coin to summon the Salt Mushroom, and collect it to become...

Salt Mario!!! With his newfound powers of star-spin-propelled salt-flinging, Mario can handily defeat the Excargot, and even walk with ease across their slime (and even across ice later on in the ever-iconic Slick Street Galaxy). But that's not all! The more time Mario spends as Salt Mario, the more his Hydration Meter decreases! His movement gradually becomes more sluggish, his jump height becoming shorter and weaker, all the while delivering his voice lines with that trademark Salt Mario hoarseness, and loudly rasping his parched lips when left idle, desperately pleading for water.

Of course, we all know that there is no water anywhere in the two levels where the Salt Mushroom is found, and we all know the grisly fate that awaits our plucky plumber when his Hydration Meter finally runs out. We've all seen it! Dozens of times! Hundreds, even! I think I speak for everyone when I say I could watch it happen forever and ever, and never stop laughing!

Needless to say, Salt Mario was a huge hit with fans, and Miyamoto has even cited the Salt Mushroom as his all-time favorite power-up. Some could say the Salt Mushroom has eclipsed even Mario himself in popularity, and many consider it to be the new face of the franchise! I mean, it's a hard claim to deny when we're three entries deep in the Salt Mushroom Rally series (yes, I'm counting Salt Mushroom Rally: Alkaline Abscondence as a discrete title from Salt Mushroom Rally: Alkaline Abscondence Deluxe, I'm not arguing with you about this). And with that, much like Mario's Hydration Meter, my material has finally run dry. You know what Mario would say in this situation? Of course you do! Say it with me, everybody! "HHHHHKKH, KHKKHHHHHHHHH, HHHHKKKKHKK!!!"

[lesinquietes]

DJ!Reader, spinning hot dance beats at the club, surveying the sea of people bobbing to her jams, and catching the eye of Dealer!Dabi 😎 this shit gets real dark real fast

⚠️ mdni. abuse of power. abusive behaviour. dark au. drugging. drug use. forced prostitution. manipulation. misogyny. noncon. objectification. rimming (m. receiving), yandere.

—

🔥 By the time Let Me Love U starts playing, you spot him — hood up, scarred and tatted skin on his hands, dealing acid tabs and coke to the partiers. You aren’t new to the club scene, nor are you stupid to the fact that this genre of music attracts illicit substances. You fuck with weed and maybe some mushrooms now and then, but nothing harder than that. DMT is out; acid, too. And coke is a hard no. If you ever took any of that in your youth, those days are long gone. Perhaps you’re a rare breed. Most other DJs take whatever they can get their hands on, especially the shit that keeps your mood up. So when Dabi offers you a little yellow pill for free, so you can try his new merch, you’re not shocked that he pegged you for the type. His pretty cerulean eyes widen when you decline his offer, and he makes a comment about your set being better when he’s high. Before he saunters off to compel another customer, he glances you up and down, making sure to smirk when he’s finished. He wants to degrade you. His fragile ego propels him to minimize you so that rejection sensitivity doesn’t choke him out. By the time Let Me Love U stops playing, you’ve realized he’s going to be a fucking problem.

🔥 He returns to your gig the following weekend, at a completely different club. As soon as he enters, you lock eyes. Teen Scene bumps in the background. There aren’t many people on the dance floor yet. You try to ignore his presence, but he’s intent on addressing you. He switches up his approach this time. He calls you doll. He says you’re real cute under the lights. Blue hues bring out your irises, and red beams make your lips pop. He thinks any man would be lucky to dance with you. You ask him what he’s dealing tonight m. He tells you it’s none of your goddamn business if you’re going to waste his time.

🔥 You don’t see him for a few weekends. For a while, you think you’ve finally lost him. Perhaps he got arrested in a bust. Then, he reappears. You’re scratching ten in a lounge atmosphere. He enters the space in his usual garb, and miraculously, clears the door staff. He must have bribed them with some of his product. He spends time with a few clientele, exchanging goods for coin, before approaching you again. He asks you what you e been up to these past few weeks, that he had the cops on his ass so he couldn’t come check on you. His words send a shiver through your torso. Check on you. Why would he feel the urge to do that? You barely know each other. You tell him that you wish he had stayed away — you mean it — and his facial expression hardens. There’s a minuscule crease in his forehead for a moment; then, the skin returns to normal. He calls you a cunt and wanders off to sell the rest of his stash.

🔥 He disappears for a long time after that. You make the mistake of letting your guard down. You’re at a lively club, dressed up because you’re hosting a private event for a friend. You know a few people, though admittedly, not many. You stick to DJing until you’ve had enough to drink. Then, you’ll be comfortable enough to mingle. You get distracted by a friend and leave your drink at the bar for a few seconds. When you get back, you carry it to your equipment and keep bringing the beats. Skin is setting a steamy, romantic mood. You watch the audience sway with their partners, or bop with their entourage. You don’t know when you start to feel groggy. Fortunately, someone is there to stabilize you. He smells of burnt wood and some kind of aftershave. No one notices him escorting you out of the venue. They only observe your disappearance when the track ends, and nothing else comes on. It’s okay, though. You text everyone who would be worried about you that you made it home safe… at least, someone does.

🔥 You wake up to a sticky sensation between your thighs. At first, you think you’ve wet yourself. Upon closer inspection, you realize it’s semen. Your eyes widen and you whimper in utter horror. What the fuck happened last night? You don’t remember a thing. The last thing you recall is talking to your friend before grabbing your drink at the bar. Your heart sinks. Someone drugged your drink; that has to be what happened. They brought you home and fucked you, but they didn’t stay because they knew what they did was wrong. As Sleepwalker ghosts into your alert ears, from the radio he left on, only one possible culprit comes to mind. Dabi. And your fear is confirmed when you check your phone. There’s messages from a number you don’t have saved. During the process, he sent you images of you in vulnerable positions. One is a picture of his cock stretching your poor pussy wide open. Your daze face is in clear view. His threat is clear: don’t tell anyone. So, you don’t. You just use all your savings to buy plan B, break your lease to move all the way across town, stop DJing, and change your phone number. Oh, and you don’t leave the house for a while. Isolation is your best friend.

🔥 You’re a fool. You make the mistake of thinking, for a second time, that you’re safe. You’re not; you can never be when he’s around. Lurking in the shadows, obsessed with torturing you for god knows why, he’s relentless with his assault on you. You attempt to get back into DJing, after scoping out a few clubs and trying to see if Dabi frequents them. You didn’t see evidence that he does. You register under a different alias and change your appearance a bit, still rightfully cautious. The first weekend, nothing happens. The second weekend goes by without a hitch. The third weekend is when you run into problems. You’re vibing out to Cookie Chips when he finds you. It’s pure reflex when your hand rises and your drink splashes all over his face. You want to laugh at the surprise that washes over him. There’s nothing to giggle about when he threatens to pull the footage and press assault charges against you. He knows the owner of this place — a crusty motherfucker who goes by Giran — and he’s happy to use his powers to fuck you over… unless you leave with him right now. You understand that you have no choice when he pulls out his burner phone and flicks through all his contacts. Giran flashes across the screen. You have to go with him.

🔥 Dabi thinks of you as his prize. He’s been selling substances for years, ever since he dropped out of college to spite his father, but he’s never seen something he’s wanted more. He liked your tracks. He liked your style. He just wishes you could’ve made things easier for yourself. Why go through the hassle of denying him? You know he always gets what he wants, don’t you? He’s not like the average drug dealer, just like you’re not like the average DJ. He’s going to have so much fun with you. He doesn’t waste any time once he takes you home. He tears off your clothes, despite your clawing and other forms of protest. He slams you down on the floor and ravages you right there. His soft grunts and pants are all the music you hear while he gets off inside you. He growls that you’re his, and that your career as a DJ is over. You belong to him. He’ll do as he pleases with you, and if you know what’s good for you and your loved ones, you’ll let him. He promises not to go too hard on you — if you’re good. And you make a pledge to yourself, in that moment, to be good. You can’t take this treatment, this terror, this violation anymore. Your mind feels like it’s splitting in two. You close your eyes and let the madness take over. The hope that one day, you may get through this, is hanging just barely out of your reach; and yet, you continue to grasp for it.

🔥 Dabi has to put in more work to break you. He ties you up in one of the toilet stalls at Giran’s club and lets some of his customers fuck you when they’re horny as fuck off stimulants — with a condom, of course. And certainly not the grimy ones. You’re meant to be his girl at the end of the day, and he wants to make sure he can still enjoy going raw in that pussy. Tomura is a great example. Small cock. Eager to cum. Busts a load in less than two minutes. Big spender, that guy. $250 a pop because you’re not a cheap slut; he doesn’t do cheap sluts. Eventually, he pierces your labia, clit, and nipples to give himself extra pleasure as he’s railing you. He’s starting to think you like it, too, judging by how much you seem to be squeezing him these days. Maybe it’s because you want him to stop selling you to strangers. Well, you’re on the right track to convincing him you’re better than an expensive whore.

🔥 You finally prove your worth when you do everything he asks you to do. The sky’s the limit. You’ll do any one of his requests. He demanded that you suck his cock, clean his balls, and lick around his hole to get him in the mood. You dove into your tasks effortlessly, only stopping at his ask. You’re perfect enough for him to keep all to himself. He knew he could tame the fiery spirit of yours. There’s a brain dead expression on your face, now. He doesn’t hate it. In fact, it suits you. He dresses you like the bimbo you’ve become, see through shirts and short skirts that ride up when you move. What does he care if your goods are on display for others? He’s always by your side; nothing will happen to his precious little trophy with him around.

[silverskye13]

Mind control tanguish?? (i was gunna offer time loop for the hell-raisers as another one, but ut canon is Basically a time loop aint it SO!! Make tanguish do something wild)

Helsknight hummed tunelessly under his breath as he cooked dinner, piling some chicken and mushrooms into a pan to fry. He didn't know when Tanguish would be home [every trip to Hermitcraft was a gamble, when it came to time] but he figured whenever the little pest came home, he would be hungry. Besides that, Helsknight was hungry, so he might as well do something about it. Worst case scenario, he would just reheat a plate for Tanguish on the furnace when he got here. Or threw away wasted food. The point was he was hungry, so it wasn't wasted time at least. He pulled some flour out from a cabinet, frowning down at it and wondering what his chances of making a decent gravy were.

[Gravy was the bane of cooking. It either turned out like wallpaper paste, or it turned out like soup. Rarely, when every god and saint turned their greatest blessings on Helsknight for a moment, and every star in every heaven aligned, and every angel and allay and fairy-dust creature held its breath and crossed it's fingers, he would make a passable gravy.]

Helsknight sighed, tossed a few spoonfuls of flour into a pan, and resigned to try his luck. He didn't feel very lucky today, but then again, any day he made gravy, he didn't feel lucky, even if it did taste good in the end.

"I should learn how to bake," he grumbled to himself, eyeing the little bag of flour dispassionately. Tanguish would certainly appreciate it, and it would be cheaper to make a batch of muffins from scratch, instead of buying them from a cart four times a week. Helsknight stirred his fledgling gravy absentmindedly, waiting for the flour to brown, and considering his chances of finding a half-decent cookbook the next time he went to the market. Behind him he heard a clatter of claws, the unmistakable noise of Tanguish stepping into hels. A soft breath of chill dampened the room like a breeze. Helsknight threw a glance over his shoulder.

"Hey, what's your opinion on homemade--?"

Instinct made Helsknight slam to the side as Tanguish propelled himself over the kitchen island, Helsknight's rondel dagger in his hand. The point dug itself into the wall over the stove at about chest-height, a very intentional, very lethal lunge. It missed him by a decent margin; Helsknight was quick, even when he was caught off-guard. That one look over his shoulder, and years of Colosseum training and instincts, had saved his life.

Anger, hot and baffled and electric, raced through Helsknight's chest. He backpedaled towards their little dining table as Tanguish yanked the dagger out of the wall. He needed distance, he needed room to move. [He needed a house that wasn't so saints-damned small.]

"Tanguish, what in hels--?!" Helsknight managed before Tanguish was lurching for him again, a sharp, quick, dagger-pointed shadow dappled in flickering stars. Helsknight snapped a hand out, trying to bat him aside, only for Tanguish to duck nimbly beneath his outstretched arm. The dagger stabbed in towards him again, and Helsknight barely twisted away in time.

"Tanguish! Stop!" Helsknight shouted, confusion and adrenaline crashing together in his chest, muddling up his instincts. His training, his impulse, his experience in the Colosseum, demanded he fight back. He was unarmed [why would he stay armed and armored in the safety of his own home, when he planned to stay in the rest of the day?] but that didn't mean he wasn't dangerous. He knew a few ways of disarming someone with his bare hands, and he knew how to punch, and kick, and break bones. But his louder, conscious mind screamed at him this is Tanguish! He can't break Tanguish.

Tanguish didn't give him long to be horrified by the thought. He was lunging again, arrow-quick, and this time when Helsknight jolted backwards the blade nicked his out-flung arm. He didn't know if he was proud, or if he regretted how sharp the blade was -- his training had come in handy.

[It was marvelous really, how deadly his little pest could be when he put his mind to it. Helsknight had always thought Tanguish learned more than he let on. He was simply too scared of causing harm to use it. But he wasn't scared of causing harm now. No, he seemed hels-bent on shredding Helsknight where he stood, and he didn't know why.]

"Could you at least tell me what the hels I did to bring this on?" Helsknight demanded, a grin writhing across his teeth. It was something he knew intimidated people, intimidated Tanguish. There was something about baring teeth while fighting that seemed dangerous. If Tanguish cared, it didn't show, and he didn't respond. He just crouched low and gazed back at him, eyes half-shut in something like concentration. It gave him the look of a sleepwalker, and Helsknight didn't like it. He was used to the wide, curious, cat-like gaze, glittering in dandelion yellow.

"Tanguish?" Helsknight breathed, taking advantage of the pause. "Look, I don't want to hurt you--"

Tanguish lunged again when he was mid-sentence, something that might have killed him, if he hadn't seen Martyn do it a thousand times. Even with that knowledge, he almost reacted too late, side-stepping and slamming a heavy palm into Tanguish's shoulder, tossing him off-balance. Helsknight let out a short breath through his nose when Tanguish regained his feet, undaunted.

"I'm not running away," Helsknight said witheringly, dashing for the door. He could feel Tanguish following like a wasp over his shoulder, more the impression of danger than a true knowledge of what he was doing. Helsknight ducked out the door and managed to yank it shut behind him before Tanguish could follow, and was treated to a heavy slam as Tanguish tried to follow. Helsknight held it shut for a second, trying to figure out -- trying to figure out anything.

[Would Tanguish try to break down the door? Surely he couldn't. Even as... weirdly determined as he was to harm Helsknight, that wasn't something he was strong enough to do, especially with Helsknight bracing the other side. But the house had windows. Would Tanguish care about glass? It would cut him to ribbons. He could seriously hurt himself if he -- why was he worried about Tanguish jumping through a window? If the little idiot wanted to deal with a face full of glass--]

Helsknight released the doorknob and stepped aside. He needed to get that knife away, pin him still, preferably without hurting him too badly. His guts gave an uncomfortable squirm.

[How bad is too bad? And why? Why was this happening? It wasn't just strange, it just wasn't Tanguish. He didn't have a dangerous bone in his body.]

The doorknob clicked. Helsknight pressed himself against the wall, hiding behind the door as it swung open. He just needed a few seconds. He was stronger -- that's all he needed. Tanguish stepped onto the street, and before he had the chance to look around, Helsknight lunged forward and wrapped his arms around him, pinning his arms to his sides. He lifted Tanguish off his feet, trying to keep the thrashing feet from kicking anything.

"Tanguish, I need you to--"

Tanguish's head snapped back suddenly, slamming into Helsknight's mouth and nose. He swore, and his grip loosened, and Tanguish's sharp elbow dug itself into his side hard enough wince away some of his breath. A clawed foot came down on his ankle, and then Tanguish was twisting, and Helsknight, whose only objective narrowed into [don't get stabbed you fucking idiot] drove a punch into Tanguish's sternum. Tanguish's breath left him in a whoosh, and he curled in on himself a little, some sense of self-preservation kicking in. But he didn't cry out in pain, and he didn't drop the knife.

A lancing, twisting feeling darted through Helsknight's guts. It was a feeling so unfamiliar it was nearly foreign, hard to place, and hesitant to name. Dread. Dread as Tanguish turned that sleepwalker's gaze on him again, re-positioned his dagger to continue fighting. His tail gave a contemplative lash, a cat figuring its best approach on a bird, and it had been a long, long time since Helsknight felt like prey. Dread made his mouth dry, closed his throat, blanked his already reeling thoughts.

[What should he do? What could he do?]

Helsknight took a hesitant step back. Tanguish's eyes narrowed, and glittered blue.

[Blue? Blue. A little ring of blue, like a clear, winter's morning, ringed his yellow iris. That hadn't always been there. He knew the color of Tanguish's eyes.]

"Tanguish, talk to me," Helsknight said, taking another hesitant step back. "What happened? Whatever it is, we can fix this. I promise."

Tanguish let out a slow breath, and the blue ring around his iris seemed to flicker, then flashed brighter. Helsknight swore again as Tanguish pounced. He caught Tanguish's wrist, and might have even considered breaking it, had Tanguish not twisted out of his grip in the second of hesitation he gave in to. Helsknight's perception narrowed to the point of the knife as he dodged it, sidestepped it, and then spun on his heel and ran.

Helsknight needed time to think, needed time to figure out what was, whatever was happening. And he was faster than Tanguish. Even if he couldn't fathom harming him, he would always be faster. And armor-less as he was, he felt unnaturally fleet, near to flying. He was down three blocks, into an alley, over a wall and two more blocks over before he stopped, panting, to check for pursuit.

"I'm not running away," he breathed again, to himself, to his Saint, to Tanguish. He wasn't. He just needed time. He just needed to pull himself together, to figure shit out, to stop shaking. To stop shaking? Helsknight looked down at his hands, at the tremor starting. He swallowed hard.

[Okay, he was a little freaked out. He was allowed to be a little freaked out. His best friend was trying to kill him, and he didn't know why, and apparently the veil between "Nice Normal Tanguish" and "Silent Death-Machine Tanguish" was unnervingly thin. And Helsknight wasn't used to someone trying to kill him assassination-style, through dogged pursuit and bloodless silence. He was used to arena fights, and occasional back-alley brawls, where things were loud and obvious and made fucking sense.]

"I'm going to kill him," Helsknight hissed, stealing down the alley as fast as he dared. He didn't know who he was going to kill. Whoever had done this, maybe. Certainly not Tanguish. He hadn't really tried, physically he thought he could, if he'd just commit. But he had no weapon, and his options for killing his best friend [one of a slim handful of people he would gladly die for] were all slow and grim and painful, and not something he would inflict on anyone willingly.

[He would just have to evade, and try to knock some sense into him? But head wounds were difficult. The margin between unconsciousness and death was illusive, and he was a knight for helssakes he didn't bludgeon people. He was so ill-equipped for something like this, it was staggering. But why would he be equipped for his best friend randomly trying to kill him?]

There was a sound. There must have been. The whisper of breathing. The slide of claws. The crackle of gathering frost. Something set Helsknight's hair prickling, the gooseflesh on his arms raised.

[The rooftops.]

Helsknight didn't have time to look up. Suddenly a weight fell on his shoulders, and he was slamming to the ground. Tanguish's hand dug claws into the back of his neck, his knees dug into his shoulders. Helsknight twisted his whole body as hard as he could, wrenching his elbow back to slam into Tanguish's side. He flipped over, throwing Tanguish off him for just a moment. He got an arm underneath himself, tried to scrabble backwards, boots digging into tiles. Tanguish lunged on top of him again, and Helsknight threw a hand between them. A noise escaped his throat as the knife slashed through the webbing between his thumb and his forefinger, but he managed to wrap his fist around the hilt.

Tanguish was on top of him, bearing his full weight down on the dagger, trying to drive it into his throat. Helsknight clenched his bleeding hand around it, while is other arm scrabbled at the cobblestones, and through the haze of half-panic finally found its way around one of Tanguish's wrists. They were too close. He couldn't make full use of his longer arms, his strength, his leverage, and while his feet scrabbled, Tanguish's long tail twisted out for balance, and he held firm.

There was a buzzing starting in the back of Helsknight's mind, a panic he wasn't used to. His hands shook. His hand was bleeding, and it had to be his hand, didn't it?

[Note to self, Tanguish had laughed once, Helsknight is weak to hand wounds.]

He couldn't pass out. Little sparks and stars crowded his peripheral vision, his awareness narrowed itself to the space between his hands, and the slickness of the dagger, and the tear in the webbing between his fingers, and how stupid that was. A Colosseum gladiator, a knight of Blood and Steel, laid low by a flesh wound.

"Tanguish, you don't want to do this," Helsknight grunted, his voice buried beneath the buzzing of panic and his heartbeat in his ears. "You don't want to hurt me."

Tanguish threw his shoulder forward, and the twist sent tearing pain through his hand, and his grip slipped dangerously. Every muscle in his body tightened in dread and desperation, and he screwed his eyes shut as he clenched his bloody fist tighter. An undignified wince of a noise squeezed its way out of his throat, but it was better than screaming.

"Okay! Maybe you want to hurt me. Fine." Helsknight grimaced. He could feel the blood from his hand dripping onto his neck. A dangerous foreshadowing of just where the blade was aimed. "Tell me why. Tell me anything."

He managed to crack an eye open, to blink away the blooming stars. He gripped the knife and a spinning world in his bloody hands, and clung to consciousness and life with equal fervor. And Tanguish watched him, impassive and cold, that little blue ring a persistent chain around his iris. It reminded Helsknight of something, something that made his stomach twist. It took a moment to place a coherent thought to the feelings, a long moment where he breathed and shook and bled, and Tanguish watched.

[Wels. The open sky blue of Wels's eyes. Ice dagger blue. He clawed at his memory for any way that made sense, and in his flailing finally remembered what Tanguish had said about those golden, inescapable commands. How far could they compel? Surely not this far. Surely--]

Helsknight swallowed hard.

[Right. He just needed to break the command. That was all. That was all.]

Helsknight reached into himself for any lie of calm, any ghost of reassurance. He tried to steady his voice. Tried to force command, and calm, and certainty into his words. Stilted and shaky, and hoarsely whispered, he half commanded, half pleaded.

"Tanguish, let go of the knife."

Above him, Tanguish blinked. The pressure on the knife didn't relent, nor did the blue ring around his iris.

"Please let go of the knife."

Tanguish's fist balled tighter, and as it did the knife twisted just barely. He felt the burning in his hand, and Helsknight lost his words behind pain that should have been insignificant, and stars and noise in his head.

"You're scaring me," Helsknight whimpered, and then managed more firmly. "You don't scare people. This isn't you. You don't want to do this to me."

He searched Tanguish's eyes again. Was that a flicker in the blue? He couldn't tell. He couldn't tell.

"Helssakes," he swore. His hand grasping Tanguish's wrist reached up to grab the back of Tanguish's head, fingers tangling in his hair. He wished he could force Tanguish to focus, to center that sleepwalker's stare on something other than his general direction. "If you're going to kill me, look at me."

Tanguish blinked again. There was a shimmer in his eyes, and Helsknight winced as a tear dropped onto his face. A grim smile worked its way onto his teeth. No, that blue ring hadn't flickered. Tanguish had simply started crying.

"You're not going to kill me." Helsknight whispered. He closed his eyes, and his voice was a prayer, and it was a command. "You're not going to kill me."

He couldn't tell how much of the shaking in his arm was from him, or from Tanguish. He couldn't tell if the pain in his hand was from pressure, or from the wound. But he knew this was hurting them both, and he needed it over with, one way or another.

"You're not going to kill me."

Helsknight had been killed by wounds to his neck before. The Colosseum was a terrible place to die sometimes. He told himself he could bear it. Told himself if the pain came, he would try to hide the terribleness of it. He wouldn't gasp, or scream, or any of the other horrible, dramatic thrashings a person could do when they bled. He would make himself small and silent. He would respawn, if he could, and he would find his way back here, and he would find a way to fix this. Helsknight released Tanguish, and, eyes closed, braced himself for whatever happened next.

He couldn't stop himself from flinching when a few more teardrops fell on his face. But the blade didn't come. Helsknight dared to crack an eye open.

"Tanguish?"

Tanguish moved, and Helsknight stiffened, only to relax again when the blade clattered to the ground beside them. Helsknight let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, and before Tanguish could scramble away from him, or devolve into a blubbering mess, or shake apart or fall under some new spell, or any of a thousand other things Tanguish could probably do, Helsknight wrapped his arms around Tanguish's neck and dragged him into a hug.

"Helsknight--"

"You idiot," Helsknight snapped, crushing Tanguish against his chest. He had the grace to drag them over to the side, so he couldn't bleed quite so much on both of them, but when Tanguish squirmed he held him tighter and refused to let him go. "Don't scare me like that again."

"H-helsknight I'm s-"

"You're sorry," Helsknight interrupted him, screwing his eyes shut, suddenly scared he was going to start crying too. From relief. From the ridiculousness of whatever had happened. From the closeness to disaster. From how angry he was that Tanguish felt the need to apologize. "Gods. I thought I'd lost you."

Tanguish had the audacity to laugh, a miserable hiccup of a noise that tangled itself in growing sobs, and muffled itself against Helsknight's chest. "You thought you lost me?"

"You were so quiet," Helsknight said, feeling dread lance through his stomach like a knife wound. "It's like you weren't even there."

"I was there," Tanguish whispered, his fists balled into Helsknight's shirt, like he could somehow cling closer. "I was there."

"Of course you were," Helsknight murmured back. "Of course you were."

[crippledgiraff]

New Stickers -1/21/24

I hope everyone's having as good of a weekend as we are here at Crippled Giraff Decals, because we just launched some new stickers from @kabewski! Buy all three and you'll get this shiny little mushroom fella for free! crippledgiraffdecals.etsy.com

To celebrate the Year of the Dragon we've got this adorable draconic gun witch and her ghostly familiar! Printed on transparent vinyl she looks like she's floating! https://crippledgiraffdecals.etsy.com/listing/1648616892/year-of-the-dragon-gun-witch-transparent

Continuing the gun witch theme, we've got this white mage, ready to cast fireball! https://crippledgiraffdecals.etsy.com/listing/1648622718/rocket-propelled-grenade-gun-witch

You know me, I just had to get some Orky art printed! This crew of adventurers and their snazzy red tank will look fantastic on anything you stick it to! https://crippledgiraffdecals.etsy.com/listing/1648620074/kabewskis-red-tank-transparent-vinyl

If I know @qsycomplainsalot's fans, they love a bizarre, gross joke. Slap this Oreo'le up in the bathroom of your local dive bar today! https://crippledgiraffdecals.etsy.com/listing/1648612616/oreole-transparent-vinyl-sticker-45

OVER THE TOP! IRON WITHIN! IRON WITHOUT! Everyone loves Iron Warriors, and everyone loves @diceyjune's art! We've got both here at Crippled Giraff Decals! https://crippledgiraffdecals.etsy.com/listing/1655143621/veteran-siege-engineer-helm-glossy-vinyl

Damn the Torpedoes! We've got a Salamander! He's got a Multi-Melta! Zorch your foes with the heat of a million suns! https://crippledgiraffdecals.etsy.com/listing/1655140267/heroic-dragon-knight-transparent-vinyl

Were you hoping to buy a sticker which was so bright it'd make your eyes bleed? Well you're in luck, because we here at Crippled Giraff Decals have acquired some of Hive Fleet Hyper's overstock! https://crippledgiraffdecals.etsy.com/listing/1648628024/hive-fleet-hyper-tyrant-holographic

[amateurduhhh]

What About Me | Harvey x Reader

Summary: A story about how Pelican Town's bus revamp sends Harvy into a world of worry with the farmer.

Content warnings: injury

It was a calm evening in Pelican Town. Closing time was nearing, but Harvey always stood by for any emergencies that may need to be addressed. That was part of the glory that came with living above his practice.

"Okay, Dr. Harvey, I just clocked out, I'm gonna head home now!" Maru declared.

"Alrighty, see you!"

He leaned back in a desk chair, filing paperwork and checking inventory. In a quiet town like Pelican Town, it was relatively uncommon for anyone to need something when he wasn't open. Occasionally, the farmer would pass out in the middle of god-knows-where and that horizon would only be expanded by the new bus repair that was somehow managed.

Harvey didn't mind helping you out. In fact, he found it amusing at first. He understood it may have been hard to fully understand the body's limits with the work experience of an office worker. It was just something to scoff and roll his eyes at. What a silly farmer, he thought. 

That is until it became more frequent. It took a copious amount of begging and guidance to improve your habits. Harvey even informed you of the purple mushrooms, starfruit, magma caps and nutritious meals that might keep you in good shape while monsters tear at your flesh. As a result of your constant accidents, he made sure to keep his elixirs extra stocked. He only hoped that the distance from the Calico Desert and Ginger Island from Stardew Valley would encourage you to be safer.

A shrill ring from his phone blared next to him. He sighed and picked up the receiver, holding it to the side of his face. Regretfully, Harvey never even glanced at the number who called. Never did he expect it to be dispatch, calling in about an emergency trauma situation.

"Emergency? How bad is it?" Harvey stood up, and scrambled through the building to prepare for the patient. "Uh- y-yeah, bring ‘em in... I have the supplies."

He prepared an operation room as fast as he could. 

The emergency door burst open, and two people propelled a bright yellow stretcher to his operation room. The person was unconscious and blood sprouted out of their arm in sync with their heartbeat. "Patient was found in the Skull Cavern mines of Calico Desert. Patient is hypotensive and we can't find a pulse. We believe they suffered blunt force trauma to the chest. We recorded several medial lacerations on their left arm. There is atrial hemorrhaging–"

"I can see that!" He said. Harvey, examined the patient, his eyes catching sight of the face, causing his stomach to lurch and anger to set in his chest. In his residency, he was always good at handling the sight of blood, broken bones, and organs. It was never an issue. Until they had come from you. It wasn't something he could prepare for. The sight had caused a rock to form in his stomach.

"What the hell," he breathed out in white-hot rage. Harvey was fuming. "Why hadn't you put a tourniquet on their arm yet!"

"Doctor," the paramedic's voice was worried. "Patient's heart rhythm..!"

Harvey's eyes widened at the monitor. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. There was no other option than to remain calm.

"Sinus Tachycardia. Shit, the hemothroax is making her heart tamponade. Get me an eighteen gauge needle, I need to get the fluid out of their chest, ASAP."

"I'll prep the EGC first!" A paramedic offered.

"I don't have time for an ECG, dammit!" Harvey snapped. The paramedics scrambled at his outlash for his request.

He felt his nerves explode and knew it was for the worst. Panic made his hands sweat and slick underneath the latex gloves he wore. There was a great tightening in his chest like a furnace of hellfire every time his eyes dared glimpse at yours.

The paramedics prepared the entry site and handed Harvey a large needle. Now he knew he had to get it together. He drew in a sharp, deep breath. To calm his nerves he thought it was good you were unconscious to spare you the image of the largest needle you'd ever seen plunge into your chest.

The thin needle glided through to your flesh, without any navigation Harvey bore the task with nothing but intuition, until the needle penetrated the pericardium. Behind him, one Paramedic had their back turned, unable to watch this infinite medical wager. A true test of a gut feeling.

Sweat slid down Harvey's forehead when he felt the needle had found the pericardium. He steadily lifted the syringe, the paramedic watching it fill with blood while Harvey had his eyes on the heart monitor. A great flood gate of stress opened and deposited his mind to see your heart rhythm steady.

After the surgery, and the departure of the paramedics, Harvey remained slumped against the hospital wall. It took a while for him to work up the energy to be upset. First, he was thankful, second, he was angry. He decided to wait until you woke up to be angry.

Days passed since the surgery.

As of now, he stood weakly beside your bed, he had a tight grip on your hand. His brownish locks swept messily over his eyes, dangling like vines in front of his glasses that slid down his nose. He was no longer wearing his white lab coat and the sleeves of his button down were rolled up, his necktie was nowhere to be seen.

After shock exhaustion hit him hard– something he experience a lot during his career but even harder since it was you on the operating table.

Harvey began coming up with random grievances, many of them being very valid. Like why is there no medical center near a very dangerous mine, let alone a desert. And why must you always venture alone? Especially without telling anyone? Why didn't you think things through before going down there?

A soft groaning sound came from your mostly motionless form. All except your eyelids remained still. A sudden wave of fatigue and a bone chilling pain all over made it almost impossible to move without wanting to die.

"Har... vey...?" you muttered, slightly craning your head to the side. He was just in the corner of your vision. His flustered face in all of its glory.

Harvey's physician instincts kicked in and began checking your vitals as well as asking you questions. "Do you know what day it is?"

"'s it the seventh of sp...ring?" you recalled.

"Where do you live?"

"Stardew Valley."

"Do you know my name?"

"Harvey."

"Now last question," said Harvey, a little irritated. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

It took you a moment to reply. The question didn't quite sound like it had an answer. You opened your mouth to answer but nothing came out.

"What?" you said, tensing up a little.

"I've lost count of how many times I've asked you to please be careful." His tone was desperate and distraught. You didn't pick up on the sincerity of his voice, being too involved in the pain in your side.

As soon as you realized what this was about, all the tension in your shoulders deflated. You rolled your eyes and sighed. "Come on Harvey. I'm going to be okay."

"You don't know that," he stressed. There was a hot anger in his tone that sent tendrils of worry down your spine. "So stop acting like your skin is made of platinum. You don’t even realize it, but you may just be the luckiest person in the Ferngill Republic! This isn't the first time you came into my clinic an inch away from death and every goddamn time... I don't know if you're going to make it."

You frowned. "Now... wait a minute..." Everytime this happened you saw the way Harvey's jaw locked, waiting for you to go home from his emergency surgery so he could break down over the fact he'd have to do it again.

He felt like his soul was becoming too big for his body, like a shaken Joja Cola threatening to burst. All he could do was tremble with desperation and anger. "You can't go back to Skull Cavern... and don’t think I don’t know about your little ventures into the Ginger Island volcano, hell, even the local mines-- you’ve lost your fucking mind-- you can't--."

You felt indignant. "That isn't your call Harvey." Even in your most vulnerable state, you stood your ground. It made sense to Harvey why you always ventured out into danger. "I can't believe you would even suggest that... that's so... selfish!"

"Maybe it is," he argued.

"What about my job, I make money by doing this! What about me leaving Joja Corporation to be here? The community center, too. Didn't get fixed without a few broken bones. What about that?"

The Joja Cola inside Harvey had finally exploded. A loud thud shook the bedside table and Harvey was standing, fuming. Tears cascaded like waterfalls down his eyes, ignited with fire and determination. His voice was broken and sounded like a scratched CD. 

"What about me!" He gestured to himself with intensity. “What about me! Oh, it’s just one crisis after another and it doesn’t seem like a crisis to you, but every time I see you on that goddamn gurney I feel like my world is coming to an end! Dammit, if you come in again, and I can’t save...” he choked on his words. “I thought you were going to die, don’t you get it?”  

You clenched your jaw, your face radiated heat. Harvey had scanned your eyes, as if he was frantically searching for something. He must have seen something because seconds after, he looked away, rubbing his eyes from underneath his glasses. 

“Would you save me again? If I ignored this little debacle between us. And as soon I could get back up on my feet, and I go back into the mines, come in with a hole in my chest, the size of your hand. Would you save me, if you knew you could? Or… or even if you knew you couldn’t?”

He winced, his moustache wrinkling on his lip. His head bobbed, nonetheless. “You’re so cruel, you know that.” he said, looking at you like you asked what color the sky was. “You have this terrifying grip on me and I don’t think you realize it. I would rather not think of anything like that... you dying. Yet you force me. Not just now, but every time I see you rolling into this hospital. If you died, if you were on my operation table, my emergency room, and you flatlined... I doubt I could bring myself to hold a scalpel again. I am so deeply in love with you. I'd save you a billion times in a billion different lives. Again and again and again, I would save you in a box, with a fox, here or there, or anywhere. I am saving you now, and you’re oblivious. The most potent medicine I can administer for the madness within you is my own goddamn pleading.”

"I'm tired of this," you confessed. There was long a silence of him examining you. There was dark reddish-purple bruising around your face and various large ones dotting the lengths of your appendages. Old bruises that hadn't yet healed reopened and fading lacerations from being handled by Void Spirits throbbed around your wrists. "You're right. I... need a break from the mines. I haven't let myself heal."

Harvey looked caught off guard. He froze, eyes glued to your pathetic, ragged form. Hooked up to countless monitors and machines. 

"I can't keep getting hurt like this. I... I try to act like it's no big deal but... I haven't been sleeping, it's so scary. I need stone and ore and money to expand my farm. I've gotten so caught up in boosting my efficiency I've completely turned into who I was when I worked for Joja."

Harvey was silent for a good moment. He took your hand. "(Y/N)," he spoke tenderly, his throat raw and shakey. "You live comfortably enough to take a medical leave from work. Doctor's orders, you understand?"

You frowned. Farming was your passion. But he was right, and the break might raise the prices of your crops if they become higher in demand. You took a deep breath, barely managing a nod. "I'll be awfully bored and lonely if I'm not working." You complained.

"Don't worry." Harvey managed a gentle smile. "I'll make my visits frequent."

"And long."

Harvey smiled. "One day, they'll be permanent."

[galaxygermdraws]

Do you have any particular thoughts/headcanons for the Propeller Mushroom and/or Penguin Suit? <- has been playing through NSMB Wii

If i wasnt exhausted tonight I’d draw some concepts for them, but as someone who’s first Mario game WAS New Super Mario Bros Wii, I always really liked the two. The Penguin Suit especially because it feels like the closest thing we’ve ever gotten to the Frog Suit again and I really miss the Frog Suit it is silly. The fact the Penguin Suit also stops you from experiencing Ice Physics is nice. I cannot stand ice levels in the NSMB games cause I suck at them. I do headcanon that it’s probably slightly weaker than a regular Ice Flower since it’s not just for the throwing ice, it’s for swimming and walking on ice too. The ice is just a benefit in my head. I also think it helps with cold weather and doesn’t give the user frostbite lookin hands

as for Propeller Shroom? That thing is like. One of my beloveds. I think it’s neat but also it looks so hilarious and dumb and I love it. No particular headcanons except all 4 of the playable characters tease each other for how stupid the thing looks. also i can only assume these two power ups were either discovered recently (by NSMBW time not recently overall) or were made artificially because there are a ton of flying power ups already (tanooki/raccoon, bunny ears, etc) as well as the Ice Flower and Frog Suit both existing. So perhaps these are some artificial power ups made by researchers or smth?? Or maybe power ups can like. Fuse??? Propeller is most likely artificial but Penguin could easily be like. An ice world variant of the frog suit. Power Ups intruige me I need to do more with them.

[the-authoress-writes]

Up Where We Belong Part Two

Pete “Maverick” Mitchell x Writer!reader

Up Where We Belong Masterlist

Synopsis: When a writer experiencing horrible writer’s block goes to the Apple Valley Airshow for inspiration, she meets a certain older, daring naval aviator, leading to maybe a little more than just inspiration.

Warnings: Age gap (reader is in their late thirties to early forties), some to-be-expected cursing, depiction of the beginnings of a panic attack (it doesn’t become a full blown one).

But really, this is just fluff.

Author’s Note: I intended this to be a two part story, but as always, it didn’t turn out that way (my brain is like a mushroom farm at this point), and the third part of this (fingers crossed), is going to be the final part.

I’m choosing to look on the bright side and I’m telling myself I’m more than halfway done with this.

*sighs in frustrated writer*

This part is a little more MavDad than shippy, but it’s where this wanted to go, so…

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Again, I name a story after a song, from another movie about the Navy, funnily enough.

(Only three of my stories on my masterlist are not named after songs)

I can’t stop, apparently.

So here we go!

Pete “Maverick” Mitchell had been expecting a normal day when he met her.

Or, well, as normal as a day could get for him.

It was a bright and sunny weekend at the Apple Valley Airshow, where Mav had just flown an aerobatic sequence for the gathered crowds in Bianca, his beloved P-51, and Bradley had not taken much convincing to come out for a day with his dad and the chance to see planes, despite the fact that he was already around them Monday to Friday.

Most aviators were plane nerds after all, and airshows like these were heaven for aviators like him and Bradley.

“You okay back there, Baby Goose?” Mav asked through the comms, raising his voice slightly to be heard over the engine of the P-51.

“Yeah—yeah, I’m fine,” Bradley breathlessly replied from the backseat, his exhale turning into a weak chuckle. “You’re crazy, you know that, right, Dad?”

“Your father and uncles might have mentioned that a few times,” Mav grinned.

He gracefully looped the venerable Mustang around and brought her smoothly onto the runway, mindful of the P-51’s unstrengthened landing gear, gently flaring the aircraft so she caressed the tarmac, unlike the unflared, hard landing he instinctively would have done in any Navy aircraft.

After an uneventful taxi back to the flight line, he pushed the canopy back and climbed out of the cockpit, Bradley a second behind him.

“At least we didn’t have anyone shooting at us this time around,” Mav half-joked, patting his boy on the back, once he���d also jumped down from the wing.

“Thank Heaven for small mercies,” the younger man muttered.

“Come on, you can’t tell me you didn’t enjoy that, Brads.”

Bradley chewed the inside of his cheek, before amusement shone in his eyes, and he cracked a smile. “Okay, yeah, it was pretty cool.”

“She’s still got moves, huh?”

His son looked affectionately at the P-51. “Yeah, she does.

But it’s not the plane, it’s the pilot, isn’t it?”

“I’m willing to share when it’s this girl,” Mav grinned, patting her sun-warm silver fuselage.

After the two of them had stacked their parachutes and harnesses between the landing gear, Mav was busy putting the chocks on the wheels, when he heard a smooth female voice say, “Excuse me?”

“Yes?” Bradley replied.

“Is this the P-51 which flew a few minutes ago?

She is a P-51, right?”

“That’d be a yes to both questions, ma’am.”

A low, rich chuckle. “Are you the owner?”

Bradley scoffed amusedly. “Nah, that’ll be my dad.

Hey Dad, someone wants to talk to you!”

Mav ducked out from beneath the undercarriage and under a propeller, coming face to face with a very unexpected, but not unwelcome sight.

The first thing he noticed about the woman standing before him was her air of extreme competence, which immediately had him wanting to know more about her.

(He was decidedly ignoring the memory of Halo saying he had a competency kink after he’d told some stories from when he was in relationships at a Dagger Squad get together [non-explicit; the Daggers, especially Bradley, didn’t need to hear… intimate details of his life, after all].)

A quick appraisal had him estimating her to be older than Bradley, but younger than him.

She was beautiful, with lips glossed just right, shining, lush hair that he could already imagine running his hand through, a smile he could look at forever, and a figure that ticked all his proverbial boxes, visible even with her long, loose brown cardigan and cream button-down shirt over black jeans.

But what hit him like Mach 10 (and he would know) was the spark in her eyes, keen and intelligent, and they held a warmth and passion that called to him.

“Hi,” he began, extending his hand, ignoring the fact that he was stunned by this woman so he could attempt to be his usual self.

He’d been delighted to show her around Bianca, and he even went so far as to let her sit in the old girl.

Mav had not been expecting what she said about the book she was writing—her granduncle’s story hit home on practically every level possible.

He was absolutely honest with her when he said he wanted to help, but… he’d absolutely be lying if he said he didn’t give it with the hope that she’d call him in the first place.

It’d been years since he’d felt like this about someone, and he tried to stifle a smile as he recalled how they’d collided on Bianca’s wing, his quick reflexes preventing them from falling off the wing with a snapped-out right hand on the cockpit edge, his left instinctually protectively pressing her against him.

He’d never forget the way his heart raced as he realized their proximity, his battle-honed wits prompting him to swiftly move his hand before she could register his touch, though he kept his arm close enough to catch her if she began to slip off the trailing edge.

“What’s with that look, Dad?”

Bradley’s voice brought Mav back to the present, where he sat on his favorite chair in his hangar, Bianca’s flight log book in his right hand, pen in his left. “What look?”

Bradley shut the locker for the safety gear, the last thing on the P-51’s post-flight checklist, and strode over to the couch opposite. “You look sappy.”

“I’m just happy I had a great day flying in my girl, and with my Baby Goose, no less.” It was not a lie at all, but it wasn’t the whole truth either.

Any other person would have probably bought that excuse, but Bradley was one of the very few people he’d ever met in his life who could read him like a book in every situation, a skill unfortunately inherited from his father. “Uh-huh, sure, I think you’re just thinking about __,” his son incisively replied.

Mav absently bit his lip, “…That obvious, kid?”

“…It’s about as obvious as an F-14 in cloudless sky at 2,000 feet.”

“So, pretty damn obvious,” he squinted speculatively.

“Yeah.

You guys were like something out of a romcom, honestly.

Was that thing on the wing on purpose?” Bradley grinned.

“No, it wasn’t,” he smiled.

“Because you know, if you were any shorter, you might’ve ended up kissing her.”

Mav felt himself turn a little red, but was still amused despite himself. “Shut up.”

Heedless, Bradley continued, “You would have liked that, I’m sure.”

“You’re just as bad as your father,” he sighed.

His gosling’s grin turned sentimental. “Learned it from both of them.”

Bradley had openly called him “Dad” for years before, and again after their reconciliation, but statements like that never failed to warm his heart.

Helpless, Mav stood, and, going over to his son, stooped slightly to place a hand on his shoulder and a kiss at his temple. “Love you, Baby Goose.”

Before he could pull away, Bradley wrapped both arms tightly around him. “Love you too, Dad.

Mav was more than content to let the moment sit, the two of them still making up for almost twenty years of no hugs from the other.

Bradley eventually broke the silence with, “I’ll go heat up that pizza we got from the grocery last night, Dad, how about that?”

He frowned, pulling back, “I can do that, B,—”

“I’ll do it, Dad, you just sit and relax,” Bradley said, already walking towards the Airstream, and just as he was about to step inside the silver trailer, the kid fired off, “Think about your writer!”

Mav spluttered, looking incredulously at the Airstream’s door.

Bradley was really too much like Goose and him, he chuckled silently to himself.

The weekend’s end saw the two of them return to the duplex he and Bradley had bought together last year, sitting about fifteen minutes drive in the Bronco (about half that on the Ninja, at full Mav power) away from TOPGUN, where they were both posted as instructors; Mav himself permanently, Bradley, for a three-year period before his next deployment cycle.

Monday dawned, and he found himself glancing at the screen of his phone every time it dinged, so much so, that said son repeatedly glanced between him and the cellphone laid out on the Officer’s Mess Hall table over lunch.

“What?” Mav asked, confused at the younger man’s consterned expression.

“Who are you, and what have you done with my Dad?

You have not looked away from your phone since we sat down, Mav.

You used to have no idea what TikTok was, and now you look like Hangman after he posts a new photo on Insta, and I would know—God, he was insufferable that time in Sigonella.”

“…I’m guessing Insta is Instagraph?”

Bradley made a noise quite like his callsign. “l—you don’t even—Instagram, Mav, Instagram.

It’s like you’re expecting a call or so—” brown eyes excitedly widened as dots were abruptly connected, “—ohh shit; you gave her your number, didn’t you, your writer?”

Mav rolled his eyes, “She’s not my writer, Brads, but I… I did give her my number just in case she needed more help with—research.”

“Oh, research, sure, Mav; I bet you’d love to help her with her research,” the younger man chortled.

“You sound like your Uncle Slider.”

“Uh-huh—” Bradley brushed off, “we’re getting off topic here, did she say she’d call you or something?”

“No, she didn’t.

I told her to call if she needed me.” He wondered if, instead of being subtle, he should have just out and asked her to call him—or even just asked her out directly; the Maverick of over thirty years ago would have.

His son’s eyes comically widened. “Please, for the love of God, tell me you did not say it like that—that is as bad as you serenading that ex of yours with, of all the songs, “Abracadabra” by The Steve Miller Band.”

“Hey, that’s a good song!” Mav protested.

“It’s also creepy as hell—‘I wanna reach out and grab ya’?

Tell me you hear that?!”

Well, when the lyrics were said like that… “In hindsight, I hear it, no, I did not say it like that, and now who’s getting off topic, Roo?”

“Fine—so you were playing subtle, huh?” Bradley wrinkled his nose, tilting his head from side to side. “Well, we’ll just have to see if the subtle play works, because the Maverick charm was on max power, so you likely made an impression—”

“Thanks, kid?”

“—so I’d say… there’s a sixty-five percent chance she’ll call you,” was the determination.

Mav paused and raised an eyebrow. “Only sixty-five?”

“I’m taking into account the variable that she might not go for… people like you, you know.”

“…No.”

Mav could see both himself and Nick in Bradley’s shit-eating grin. “Old men.”

“An old man, huh?

Well, this is an old man who can still kick the asses of people less than half his age, and you too, Brads, six ways to Sunday, in the air or on the mats.”

A fork promptly got brandished daringly. “I almost had you when we did that demo on the death spiral two weeks ago, Dad, and if you hadn’t slipped my headlock on Wednesday, I’d have gotten you to tap out.”

Mav reached over and affectionately ruffled his son’s brown curls. “Almost only works with grenades, Baby Goose; now eat your shitty mashed potatoes.”

The week ticked by, and after every hop, he tried not to make it too obvious to Bradley, whose locker was right next to his in the Instructor’s Locker Room, that his phone was the first thing he checked.

By Wednesday evening, he was starting to lose what hope he had, and he ignored his son’s sad look as he surreptitiously looked at his phone.

On Thursday evening, Bradley slung an arm around his shoulder as they walked together to the parking lot. “I know I give you shit about being old, Dad, but you’ve still got more than enough charm and looks for women to be attracted to you.

I mean, you should have heard the stuff Phoe and Halo were saying about you during the detachment training—ugh, especially after Dogfight Football.

The thirst was real.”

At his confused look, Bradley continued, “Long story short, they said you were—bleh—hot.

I’m not repeating exactly what they said, even though I can, it’s all seared into my memory, unfortunately,” he finished, shuddering.

Mav laughed, “I’m sorry for the trauma, but, what, uh, brought this train of thought on, Baby Goose?”

He was pressed closer into a Hawaiian shirt-clad side. “I know you’re sad about not getting called by your writer.”

Knowing it was useless to deny it, he shook his head, “I won’t lie and say it doesn’t sting, because I really thought we had a connection, but it’s probably for the best, because I’m… well, you know.”

“No, I don’t,” his son adamantly stated. “Because you’re… kind and loving, with a heart about a billion sizes too big for his body, who gives so much of himself in literally everything—except maybe following orders; any woman would be happy with you.”

Mav reached and gave the vague vicinity of a shoulder a loving pat. “You give me too much credit.”

“No, Dad, you would make someone very happy—I want to see you happy,” Bradley squeezed a Nomex jacketed arm.

“I am happy, kiddo;” he cheerfully stated, “I can fly, I have the rest of the Flyboys, the Daggers, Bianca, and most importantly, I have you, my not-so little boy, who’s become a better man than I could have hoped.”

Bradley halted in his tracks, and tugged him into a hug with a laugh that could have been a sob. “Fuck, Dad, how do you just say shit like that?”

“Like what, that I’m so proud of you?” Mav beamed.

His son’s heatless “Shut up, will you, old man?” sounded suspiciously wobbly, but Mav chose not to remark on it, and hugged back before they continued walking after a moment.

“But back to my point,” the younger man pointed, “unless there’s something you’re not telling me about your relationship with Bianca, she doesn’t count as a woman in your life.

I know you have me, the Daggers, and the Flyboys, but it’s different from being in love and getting that love back.” Bradley suddenly snapped his fingers, “I know, I should start you a dating app profile!”

“Oh no, I’ve heard horror stories about dating apps, and I’m not desperate, Baby Goose.”

Bradley threw both hands up, “It’s not about desperation, Hangman has—okay, that’s not a good example—but you know, you need to put yourself out there more.

Meet someone.

Come on, Dad, please?”

The kid looked so hopeful, he couldn’t outright say no. “I’ll think about it.”

“Yes!

It’s not a no, I’ll take it.

I’ll look through the photos at the hangar tomorrow night—we gotta pick the right one—that can make or break things!

Maybe one of you in the dress whites or blues—or hey, ladies love the flight suit, and it’ll be even better if you’re in front of your F-18…”

At Bradley’s musing, Mav had a smile on his face all the way to his Kawasaki, and the whole way home, trailing in the Bronco’s wake.

After work early Friday evening, both men began the preparations for their weekly getaway to the hangar, packing their respective bags with whatever they deemed necessary for a two-day stay in the Mojave.

Mav was busying himself with checking his duffel before he hopped in the shower, when he heard clattering from his kitchen, and immediately, a dismayed “Damn it!” rang through the house.

“You okay, kiddo?” he called out.

“Yeah, I just—we’re out of Doritos!”

As amusing as it sounded, that did constitute a little bit of an emergency—the triangular chips were Bradley’s go-to snack, ever since he was a child, and he’d be bemoaning the lack of them the whole two days at the hangar if they really were out. “Did you check your kitchen?”

“I looked there first—we can’t leave without Doritos, Dad!”

A soft chuckle escaped him. “You still have time to go grab some if you want, I still have to take a shower, Brads,” he offered.

“Good idea, I’ll just go to the store and grab some, be right back!”

“Okay, drive safe!”

“Always!”

Mav waited to hear his front door shut before turning for his bathroom and starting the shower, tossing his shirt in the hamper on the way.

A few minutes later, he’d just begun to rinse off when he heard a faint noise from downstairs; his phone was ringing, he realized.

He initially paid it no mind—he’d been getting scam calls the last few days, which always ended up disappointing him—but then… it kept ringing.

And ringing.

And ringing.

And ringing.

Hope suddenly bloomed in his chest, and he hurried to get out of the shower.

He nearly faceplanted on his own bathroom floor in his haste, stumbling when his lunge for his towel missed, but he was able to keep himself upright and the second attempt had the fabric in his hand, then around his waist.

Mav dashed out the bathroom and down the stairs, tapping the green “accept call” button.

“Pete Mitchell,” he spoke into his phone, trying not to sound like he’d just run a marathon while his chest heaved.

A slight pause later, a hesitant “Hi,” came over the phone, and his heart leapt. “I don’t know if you remember me, we met at the Apple Valley Airshow—”

She had to be joking if she thought she was that easily forgettable. “__, right?

The writer,” he replied, pushing the dripping strands of his hair out of his face.

“Yeah, that’s me, you said I could call if I had any questions.”

“Uh-huh.

I’m guessing you have one,” he smiled.

The following invite to the hangar was twofold; he’d be able to help her without the hassle of dealing with emails or something like that, and he’d be able to gauge if she was actually interested in him.

He remembered the way she’d slightly frozen, when he stepped out from under Bianca, how she’d glanced at his hand when he’d extended it for a handshake.

But he’d been wrong about a great many things before, and he didn’t want to immediately assume she was interested, because everyone knew what the first three letters of assume were, and for all he knew, she really just needed help.

Regardless, he smiled while they bantered as easily as breathing; it was invigorating, and… maybe a little bit of a turn-on, if he was honest.

(Maybe Halo was right.)

Shortly after they said goodbye, Mav sent the address of the hangar with a “How does 3:30 sound to you?” to her number, and three beats after it registered delivered, a “That’s perfect—see you tomorrow 😊” message came in, which had him sigh like a teenager as he leaned against the counter for a moment, before he pushed off to get dressed.

By the time Bradley came back with four grocery bags full of Doritos, from two different groceries, Mav was already dressed in his usual t-shirt and jeans, ready to go. “You got enough Doritos there, Baby Goose?” he gawked at the sheer amount of chips.

“I’m restocking us, Dad, it’s not all for the weekend,” the younger man replied, emptying one grocery bag and a half into Mav’s snack cabinet. “I just need to put another bag and this half at mine, and the rest I’m taking.”

He bit down on his laughter and watched as his son dashed next door to stock his own snack cabinet, before returning in time to catch him staring at the “That’s perfect—see you tomorrow 😊” message on his phone.

“You’re looking sappy again,” Bradley squinted suspiciously at him. “It’s almost like you got a call from your writer.”

Mav tried to keep his face neutral, but as always, it was pointless with his gosling.

The kid’s eyes widened, “Holy shit, she did call you, didn’t she?!

Fuck, you still got it, Dad.”

He waved off, “There’s no guarantee she actually is interested in me like that, and she called me because she needs my help.”

“Oh, your help, of course,” Bradley grinned. “Well?

What’s the profile?”

Mav rolled his eyes. “She wrote a dogfight scene she can’t cut, and she wants to make sure the tactics are sound.

So I invited her to the hangar tomorrow so we don’t have to do any emails and stuff.”

The younger man whistled, impressed. “That was smooth as hell, Dad.

You have an idea of when she’s coming over?”

“1530ish.”

Bradley planted his hands on his hips with a sigh. “Well, that’s a good amount of time, but we’ll still have some work to do.”

“Work—what are you planning, Baby Goose?”

“We have to make the hangar a little neater than usual—make you seem like a responsible adult,” his son replied, as if it were the most obvious thing.

Mav burst into laughter while picking up his duffel. “If your father, your uncles, and nearly forty years in the Navy couldn’t do that, what makes you think spiffing up the hangar could?”

“Worth a shot, you never know—she might be fooled,” Bradley muttered, locking Mav’s front door behind them both.

“I heard that!”

When the afternoon set over the hangar the next day, now the neatest it’d been in a long time (admittedly, it wasn’t that bad, Mav just had a particular system, which didn’t much look like one in the first place), Bradley clapped his hands, “Now, I’m going to head into town, Dad.”

“What for?”

“Dad, your writer is coming in about ten minutes, and the last thing you need is me cramping your style, so I’m going to head into town, I’ll be back at around… let’s call it 2345–please don’t be naked when I come back—”

“Bradley!” Mav exclaimed, a little bit scandalized, though they were both hardly virginal.

“—and, and, prior notice of if I shouldn’t come back would be greatly appreciated.”

“Bradley!”

“What?

I’m just covering the bases.”

“There’s no bases to cover here, I’m just going to review her scene,” he replied.

“Annnd?” the younger man deadpanned.

“And then… we’ll see what happens.

But all I know is I’m not about to—whatever you’re thinking is going to happen.” Mav sighed, picking up a screwdriver that had fallen off the maintenance cart next to Bianca, and placed it back in the toolbox. “And I don’t… this probably isn’t going to go anywhere, because—I’m pushing sixty, kiddo, and really… I don’t think I have casual—anything—left in me anymore.”

Bradley slowly nodded, a proud look on his face. “Good for you, Dad.”

“Yeah?”

“Mm-hmm,” he replied, nodding, mustache quirking up. “I’m happy you know what you want.

But you gotta be more optimistic than this, because who knows, this could lead to your more-than casual something.” Bradley slapped him on the arm, “Come on, where’s the ‘I’m going anyway’ Maverick Mitchell who proved he could fly a suicide mission on a crazy profile, with fifteen seconds to spare?”

Mav scoffed self-deprecatingly, “Doing crazy pilot shit; that makes sense to me, Baby Goose, but… relationships—I’ve always FUBAR-ed them.

Oh God, I don’t actually know what I was thinking, giving her my number—this was a mistake,” he muttered, thoughts beginning to spiral as his breathing picked up.

Bradley grabbed both his arms, squeezing them to ground him. “Hey—hey, Dad, look at me—look at me.

Take a breath.

You did not make a mistake, you made a connection with someone, you offered to help them, and she took you up on the offer.

At the least, you help someone in need, and you come out the other side with a friend; if everything goes well, maybe you get more than friendship.

But like you said, you’re just checking the scene she’s having trouble with, like she asked.

Don’t put pressure on yourself—just see what happens.

You got this, Dad.”

“I got this,” Mav murmured, partly confirming his son’s statement, partly reassuring himself, and partly asking if he did, indeed “got” it.

“You got this; come here.” Bradley pulled him into a tight hug, one to which Mav clung, while he got ahold of himself.

When he pulled back from his son’s embrace and repeated “I got this,” a minute or so later, it was still slightly shaky, but held some of the classic Maverick confidence.

“That’s the spirit.” The younger man checked his watch, wincing. “I don’t want to cramp your style, and I’m cutting it close, but I don’t want to leave you if you’re going to spiral again.

You good, Dad?”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “I’ll be okay.”

“You sure?” Bradley frowned.

“Yeah, I’ll just check on Bianca a little while I’m waiting.”

His son exhaled heavily. “You do that, alright?

Don’t get in your head—don’t think, just do, remember?”

“I remember,” Mav smirked.

“Okay.

I’m gonna go now.” Bradley cautiously backed out of the hangar, as if ready to pull him into another hug if he showed the slightest tell of another mental spiral. “Call me if I shouldn’t come back, and remember, 2345!

Please don’t be naked!!”

“Go!!” Mav chuckled, feeling mostly like himself again, if not slightly nervous.

“Love you!”

“Love you more, kiddo!”

Soon, the sound of the Bronco’s engine rumbled through the dry air before it faded, leaving the air still and silent except for the distant sounds of the Mojave.

Before his and Bradley’s reconciliation, he was used to the stillness and silence, a consequence of choosing to make the hangar his home a few years ago, upon his assignment as a test pilot at NAWS China Lake, despite the long commute; he’d never liked base housing, and avoided it like the plague.

He’d even found the stillness and quiet comforting in a sadistic way, thought it was maybe something he deserved in cynical moments.

But now, the hangar which Hondo had once referred to as his “Fortress of Solitude”, was a place of life, love, and joy, the old silence and stillness now the strange one.

Before he could think too much about his relationship with silence, he went to Bianca and started some busywork with her engine, allowing his mind to get lost—and more importantly, his body to relax—in the process.

He’d gotten so absorbed in his beloved plane’s maintenance that he almost missed the sound of an unfamiliar car pulling up to the hangar.

Immediately, his heart started racing again, but he’d accepted that for better or worse, this whole thing was going to play out as it would; if that involved him fucking something up, he just prayed he could fix it.

Moment of truth; the car door opened.

“Ghostrider, up and ready,” he muttered to himself.

“Hello?” she uncertainly called.

“In here,” he replied.

Mav swallowed thickly upon seeing her; he liked to think he had a decent memory, but his memory did no justice to her.

The desert afternoon light streaming in through the open hangar door haloed her in an otherworldly way, only making her even more beautiful to him, the breeze blowing her hair around and billowing her loose blouse.

His eyes were drawn to the little smile at the corner of her lips, and it was only because he’d been looking there, that he realized she was speaking.

“Hey, glad you could make it,” he brightly said, hoping that that wasn’t too out of left field from what she’d said, because he’d completely missed it.

Her smile widened, “Not going to miss it—for all I know, this is a one time opportunity.”

The replies that immediately came to mind sounded creepy, stupid, or worse, so he settled for, “Who said it was?”

She chuckled, lighting up her already sparkling gaze, biting her lip briefly before looking around the hangar, her eyes soon landing on Bianca. “Great place you’ve got here; must’ve been hard to get, though, with it being Navy land.”

“Not that hard when you’re got friends in high places.” Mav recalled the moment Ice and the Flyboys gave him the title to the hangar for his fortieth birthday, which they were celebrating along with his promotion to Commander.

She tilted her head slightly, and he realized that she probably heard the somber tone in his voice—remembering Ice was still hard, but it was getting better.

“Anyway, uh,” he clapped his hands, pushing forward, “you had a scene that needs checking?”

She blinked as if clearing her head, and raised the leather messenger bag on her shoulder. “I have my laptop right here.”

Mav gestured to his couch, and as they moved towards it, he prayed that he wouldn’t somehow make a fool of himself today.

To be continued…

Previous Part Next Part

Because the P-51 was an Air Force aircraft, her landing gear was not designed for hard, unflared Navy-style landings, which are flown in that manner for carrier operations.

However, even if naval aviators land on a full-length runway, carrier habits die hard, and if you watch planespotting streams, such as my favorite, L.A FLIGHTS, you can make reasonable guesses as to who was former Navy, as the landings will tend to have a shallower flare at landing.

Chocks

The Apple Valley Airshow takes place every year in the town of Apple Valley, located in San Bernardino, California.

(I considered setting this story at the annual Miramar Airshow, which takes place at MCAS (formerly NAS) Miramar, but I imagine that Mav would probably want to avoid going to MCAS Miramar for obvious reasons.)

The trailing edge of a wing is its back edge, the edge closer to the tail—its opposite is the leading edge, the edge closer to the nose.

The chair I write as Mav’s favorite chair is the one he sits down in in the opening scene of TG:M.

As Mav is a Maverick in most aspects of his life, I thought it was perfect for Mav to be left-handed—and as Tom himself is left-handed, it couldn’t get more perfect.

The F-14 is notable as being quite large as fighter jets go, and she is practically impossible to miss in the sky, once within visual range; and she is sometimes called the Flying Tennis Court, a nickname she shares with the McDonnell Douglas/Boeing F-15 Eagle.

Bradley and Mav living in what is essentially the same house, having bought a duplex together, is something I can see them doing after they reconcile, because to me, these two are basically orange cats with separation anxiety, and I feel like they would be the epitome of healthy codependency, if that’s possible.

Mav power is a play on words/reference to the engine throttle conditions of fighter jets; Max power is the maximum engine power with afterburner (wet power), and MIL (which stands for Military) power is the maximum engine power without afterburner (dry power)

Do not quote me on this, but as I understand it, in the Navy, you don’t deploy all the time.

There are years you are given a land-based assignment, like Bradley being assigned to TOPGUN, before you are put back on ship deployments for a similar amount of years.

TL;DR: Deployment cycles in the Navy have you rotating between ship-based assignments and land-based assignments every few years.

NAS Sigonella

“Abracadabra” by The Steve Miller Band

I chose this song because of this piece of art by @woodsywarbler, and “Abracadabra” is my favorite song by The Steve Miller Band, despite the really creepy lyrics.

A death spiral is this little bit of crazy pilot shit, as shown in TG:M. (Timestamp 7:34)

Nomex is the flame-resistant material which flight suits are made of, and it’s also what Mav’s green jacket is made of.

Doritos came out in 1964, plenty of time for Bradley, ‘80s baby that he is, to develop a yen for them.

(Flight) Profile: a graphical timeline of the operational characteristics, configurations, and speeds of an aircraft along a flight path in a specific phase of flight or maneuver.

FUBAR: Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition (or Repair, people argue which word the last letter is)

Fortress of Solitude

Ghostrider was Mav and Merlin’s operational callsign during the Layton Mission, and again, do not quote me on this, but you get to keep the operational callsigns you received during notable missions, a detail alluded to in the TG:M screenplay, so Mav uses it here to psych himself up.

Taglist

@ohtobemare

@callsign-skydancer

@permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88

@tadomikiku

@malindacath

@aviatorobsessed

@lynnevanss

@djs8891

If you’d like to join my taglist, just send me an ask!

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

I've been dreaming of the Undersea Marauder.

There are so many rules in this world. So many shackles to keep him down.

Let nothing obstruct his errant path.

How does a moment last forever? How can a story never die?

A fish is bound to the water his entire life.

It’s not a life for him.

Floyd is on his back, set adrift in the face of the Coral Sea. His hands cradle the back of his head, and he finds himself staring up. A flock of birds form an arrow, slicing through the sky. He wonders where they're going, what they'll do there.

Some merpeople dreamed of trading scales for skin, but Floyd thinks about giving up his fins for feathers. A pair of wings with which to witness all manner of strange things…

He chuckles soft.

Wouldn't that be so freeing?

“Eheheh. I wanna try it, too! Wait up for me, birds. Here I come…!”

Floyd rights himself and dives unto the frigid waters. His powerful tail undulates like a teal ribbon, propelling him after and faster. He steadily gains, chasing the shadows of the birds that skim the surface of his home turf.

Floyd approaches, lifting himself toward the shimmering boundary between sea and sky. A second later, he breaks through with a mighty splash.

His body elegantly arcs in the leap. He’s a skipping dolphin, a flying fish.

Free.

Floyd launches higher and higher, zipping past the flock. He collides with some birds, screeching with laughter as they spin like cars out of control.

Here come the clouds now—he easily bursts through them. They’re made of cool and fine-grained beads of water, refreshing him as he flies.

And higher still he goes, the sky dimming, a gradient of light to dark.

Floyd is among the stars, each twinkling like diamonds in greeting. The planets, like massive globes of sugar orbiting him.

The eel is weightless, effortlessly floating through space. With his arms, he paddles--and though there should be no gravity, the space warps and gives like water, letting him sail as smoothly as a ship after a storm.

He reaches out and plucks a star out of the cosmos, giving it a curious lick. The taste is like sweetened milk, and so he pops the entire thing into his mouth.

Then begins his descent.

At the peak of his jump, surrounded by the stars, he bends downward and plunges.

But there are no longer any waters waiting for him.

He crashes through a canopy of leaves. They scatter like papers, raining down verdant, brown, scarlet, tangerine, and gold. Sunlight pierces them, giving each a magical glow.

Roots come, skittering by him like a snake might slink. Thin tendrils extend from them, brushing his face.

Maybe there is some other name for them? Hyph-something, myce-whatever. Floyd does not care to remember his twin's excitable rambling.

Alarmingly, he spies an ugly bulbous cap poking out from a root. His nose crinkles with disgust.

Shiitake mushroom.

Floyd paddles through the fungi and plants, the scent of dirt and chlorophyll filling his nostrils. It's fresh and green mixed with damp and earthy, nothing like the salty smell of the sea.

Jade would like this, he thinks.

Daisies push through, their petals tickling his skin. He takes a shaky breath, holds, shakes again, and...

Sneezes!!

A great gale is unleashed, clearing his surroundings in an instant. Floyd is sent flying up, up, and away--

He shoots out of the dunes. Sand scatters from the force he emerges with, throwing particle clouds up into the air. Floyd flails, trying to balance his body. No use--he flops uselessly under the pull of gravity.

A scream rips from his throat. Not of terror, but of joy.

The landscape unfolds into a sandy expanse. In the distance, he sees an oasis guarded by palm trees. And below, a great city crowning the desert.

There are bright tents and stalls pitched, merchants hawking their wares. Vases and lamps with unique patterns, ripe fruits, adornments in a variety of designs.

Families and friends mill about in the packed marketplace, satisfied with their mundane lives, the schedules they keep. So content, so peaceful.

Floyd grins.

And he lets himself plummet straight into a stall.

The weight of him collapses it with a loud THUD. The merchant looks on, horrified, and his circle of customers gasp, putting distance between themselves and Floyd. Sticky with fruit juices, he removes the strand of black hair that clings to his cheek.

"Eh, guess it could be worse," Floyd shrugs, tossing off a chunk of watermelon sitting like a hat on his head. A line of juice dribbles down his forehead.

He notices the crowd staring and wiggles his tail in a casual pseudo-wave. One person immediately faints--but luckily, they're caught by a concerned onlooker.

"Riffraff!" the merchant shouts, waving a fist. "Scoundrel!! I demand compensation for what you've wrecked!"

Floyd rolls his eyes. He sounds like Azul.

The eel hauls himself off the pile of fruit--and peels right past the feet of the customers. The merchant's face heats.

"Guards! GUARDS!! Come quickly, HELP!! There's a sea monster on the loose!!"

Floyd rapidly drags himself across the market, digging his talons into the ground, his tail pushing him forward. He gleefully writhes as people scream and flee, clearing a path for him. His laugh, cackling.

He's at the waterways that thread the city when heavy footsteps spill into the street.

"He went that way!!"

Floyd doesn't look back before he dives back into his natural element.

The water welcomes him, its streams washing off the sand that paints his skin, loosening the hair that clumped from fruit juices. A tender kiss, a kind hand.

He has returned to the sea.

The channel goes deeper than Floyd thinks. It widens, becoming an entire ocean bathed in sunlight. A coral reef teeming with life stretched out below him, and when he runs his hand along it, tiny seahorses escape and trail bubbles.

He turns his head this way--a school of rainbow tropical fish race by. The other way, a band is in full swing. A carp on the harp, the plaice on the bass, bass on brass.

Floyd twirls as he passes, happily humming along to the tune. The music wraps around him, giving a warm embrace. He almost misses his name being called, almost forgets himself.

"... od....... loyd... Floyd! There you are."

A face that matches his appears beside him. He is followed by a boy with lilac skin, a series of squirming tentacles at his beck and call.

“Where did you vanish off to?” Jade asks. “Azul and I were starting to get worried about your whereabouts. Weren’t we, Azul?”

“I’m more concerned for the places he visits rather than Floyd himself. Who knows how much collateral damage he could cause unsupervised,” the octopus merman grumbles.

“Oya, Azul… Could it be that you lack faith in Floyd? Even though he has unquestionably served you since middle school?"

"You're saying strange things again. I recall him losing interest and changing his mind last minute more often than 'unquestionably serving'." Azul raises a brow. "So? Where were you all this time?"

Floyd flings himself at the duo, slinging his arms around their shoulders and pulling them close.

"F-Floyd?! What is the meaning of this?" Azul sputters, struggling against his binds.

"I was everything and everywhere all at once," he responds with a laugh. "I was as free as a bird! I'll tell you guys about it~"

"Fufu, it sounds as though you've been away on quite an adventure. We would, of course, be more than happy to hear of your escapades."

[thepipeplaza]

Fact: Propeller Mushrooms and Penguin Suits were gifted to Princess Peach on her birthday in New Super Mario Bros. Wii. These items were spread across the Mushroom Kingdom after being shot from a cannon by a pair of Toads.