#the anecdote made me adore this fella

[anonymocha]

Oliver Fog FREE garment!

[fandomlurker]

A Ponderous Rewatch: Battle for the Planet and Cameos

You know, I keep trying to be minimal with the amount of images I put in these posts, but I think it’s kind of a losing battle…especially when it comes to episodes animated by TMS like the second one coming later on today. I can’t help it, some of the expressions and poses are just too good to not be shared.

In any case, let’s begin with one very small cameo appearance in “Space Probed”:

Our little duo have apparently found themselves abducted by aliens, only to be kept in lab conditions much like the one on Earth at ACME Labs. This is one of those times where I wish I could know the production order of these episodes and not just the air date order… Why? Well, because this small cameo could potentially line up really well with an upcoming episode. Just keep that in mind for now.

With that out of the way, we move on to our next full skit:

And we begin with the Brain expositing to Pinky about how he came up with the plan for this episode.

“Halloween, Pinky: 1938. Mercury Radio Theatre presented an adaptation of H. G. Wells’ ‘War of the Worlds’ that was so realistic, people actually fled the cities believing that creatures from Mars were attacking the Earth. It proved that radio was a powerful tool…and now, Pinky, the advance of technology has brought us an even more powerful tool. Do you know what that is?”

Before we move on, how many of you reading this have heard about this? And how many of you know that this is actually an incident that happened in real life? Yes, people actually fled their homes after hearing this broadcast. Not a lot of people, of course. Not by a long shot. Most just made panicked phone calls to their local police station or to the radio station itself to find out what was really going on. The incident also wasn’t nationwide or anything like that, it was quite local. If anything, the radio play caused much more outrage after the fact than initial panic.

Another amusing anecdote is that Orson Welles was the man who directed, narrated, and played a main character in the broadcast. For those of you who may not be in the know, although Brain was initially based on animator and writer Tom Minton at Warner Brothers, Brain’s voice actor Maurice LaMarche based his voice on Orson Welles. Or, well, as Mr. LaMarche puts it: “The Brain is 70 percent Welles, 20 percent Vincent Price, and I don't know, there's another 10 percent of something else in there. I don't know what. Some people think it's Peter Lorre. I don't know what it is.”.

Strong references aside, I’m betting most of you can see the massive holes in the Brain’s plan already. Hoo boy…

“Umm… The rubber band?”

“The workings of your mind are a mystery to me, Pinky.”

“Ooo! I love a good mystery, Brain!”

You know, this little sequence with Brain nonchalantly stretching the rubber band while walking away from Pinky and Pinky determinedly holding on until Brain lets go off camera and sends Pinky flying is… Well, I don’t know what it is about it, but it’s kind of cute in a weird slapstick way? Like, it’s hard to tell if Brain did that on purpose to send Pinky flying for not understanding his plan…or if he actually wanted Pinky to follow him and tried to lead him to where he was walking but Pinky thought it was some kind of tug-o-war game and Brain got exasperated and let go of the rubber band.

Either way, Pinky doesn’t seem to mind.

“Television, Pinky, is our new tool!”

“We will pirate the airwaves and stage a hoax like ‘War of the Worlds’!”

Brain, you’re very good with that lasso. I’m impressed!

“Three cameras, Brain?”

“Yes… A technique pioneered by the great Desi Arnaz. And with them we will scare the people of the cities, leaving no resistance behind. We will have taken over the world!”

Well, Brain, that technique first being used by Desi Arnaz is a myth (it was more than likely actually pioneered by Jerry Fairbanks around 1947), but I’m going to give you a pass on this because you likely couldn’t fact check this very well at the time.

I do have to give Brain credit for being as dramatic as possible while announcing his plan, though. He really does know how to put on a show.

“Egad, Brain, brilliant!”

And Pinky is, as usual, full of praise and extremely excited about the plan. Look at him clapping and hopping around, aww… I’m starting to think that half the reason Brain goes through with these long, expository explanations of his plans to Pinky despite Pinky not quite following along a lot of the time is just to impress Pinky. Brain needs reassurance and Pinky always provides.

“Oh! Oh, wait, no, no…”

“Why would they be scared of us? We’re so small and we’re practically the size of mice, Brain.”

“We are mice, Pinky.”

“Oh, right! Well, there you are, then. Eh heh heh…”

…Okay, so, Pinky also tends to deflate the praise a bit when pointing out potential flaws in the plan like this, but it’s the initial thought that counts.

Yeah, I know, Brain. I know. But Pinky really is trying to be helpful.

“It’s not a question of size, Pinky. It’s a question of scale! Watch the monitor.”

“*gasp* Zounds, Brain! You’re gigantic!”

“Television, Pinky: The Great Deceptor!”

“Narf~…”

No, you aren’t seeing things. Pinky just…just stands there in front of the TV looking at live footage of a close-up of Brain and sighs in awe and affection while clasping his little hands together. I don’t even think I need to make a “Fellas, is it gay to--?” joke here. All that’s missing is little hearts appearing around his head.

We cut to a little while later, where the duo has everything set up for their broadcast. It looks like Pinky must have done the lettering for their props, since it actually looks decent and nothing like Brain’s scrawlings. Yes, I’m going to continue roasting Brain’s terrible penmanship. It amuses me.

“How is my disguise, Pinky?”

“OH! Is that you, Brain?!?”

“You flatter me, Pinky. Now, throw the switch and let us begin…the Battle for the Planet!”

Title drop! Also, aww. To be fair, Brain, I’m not sure Pinky was intending to be flattering so much as he was actually unsure if that really was you or not. But the fact that you took it as flattery is very telling, I think.

Pinky throws the switch, and the plan is officially underway!

According to the Animaniacs wiki, these people bear a striking resemblance to Elmyra’s family. If that’s what was intended, this is quite the early omen for the horrible “Pinky, Elmyra, and the Brain” spin-off that was made after the regular PatB spin-off. I don’t think I’m going to fully cover that show in the far future. It’s not the fun kind of terrible…it’s just terrible.

Oh hey, they were watching Family Matters! Too bad this is many, many years before they could bear witness to Dark Urkle Tribute.

And there’s Ralph, enjoying coffee and a doughnut.

And…some TV station broadcast folks. It kinda bothers me that these two basically have the same model except for different hair colours.

“We interrupt your regular broadcast to bring you this important news bulletin…”

“What is that?!”

“Someone’s pirated the TV lines!”

“Scientists have just reported that a large, unidentified flying object seems to be heading towards Earth. There is no cause for alarm…”

“…But there probably will be.”

Subtle, Brain.

Oh, hi, Warners! You certainly picked a good time to escape tonight.

“We take you now to our satellite view of the planet, perhaps to catch a glimpse of this fearful courier of the unknown.”

Cue Pinky making ridiculous “shoosh” and “shoom” and “weee!~” noises. Very convincing.

“I’ve just received word that the UFO is about to crash land nearby. There should be a great explosion!”

“I said, THERE SHOULD BE A GREAT EXPLOSION!”

“Hmm? Oh! OH, right, Brain! Narf!”

Nice blep, pinky.

Somehow, people watching the broadcast are still terrified. I’ve gotta admit that I didn’t expect this plan to go this well for this long.

…Okay, maybe I spoke too soon.

“Sorry, Brain…”

“…We’ll go live to the crash site momentarily.”

He says before near-instantly cutting to the “crash site”, still in the same disguise. Brain, honey, I know you’re probably trying to reduce broadcast downtime so that the audience doesn’t start to question what they’re seeing, but you do know that quick cuts like this ruin the illusion of this being a live broadcast…right?

Oh, who am I kidding? Of course he doesn’t know that. As usual, Brain has tunnel vision and expects his plans to go one certain way, and any details that don’t fit his internal narrative are discarded or not even thought about.

Just let me slide on in…

“I’m reporting to you live from the crash site and I…I’m at a loss for words. Can we get a shot of this very frightening scene?”

He’s right. That’s the most frightening…ly obvious cardboard spaceship I have ever seen.

But okay, I love these tiny prop improvisations they had to do. The bare cardboard wings taped to some kind of spray can for the body of the ship, a stray water cooler cup for the cone, test tubes for the thrusters, random little sewing pins for some kind of antenna, a dirty beige blanket to simulate soil for the crash zone… It’s so hastily cobbled together yet so goddamn cute.

Ralph still seems convinced that this is real, though that isn’t saying much.

“I am now positioned close to the…well, I can only assume that this is a vehicle from outer space, its occupants here to destroy the Earth.”

“Oooo!~ OoooOOOooo!~”

“Wait! There is a strange noise emanating from inside. Something seems to be coming out of the ship!”

They made a glove into an alien space suit with a tiny peephole to accommodate Pinky’s face and they fashioned a little belt from something for it, aaaaa! This is so adorable! Look at Pinky trying to be scary! He’s just all >:B throughout this entire scene.

BUG FOGGER

WARNING

CONTENTS UNDE

EXTREME PRESS

GAS

I’m wondering why they couldn’t label it as “bug spray”. I’ve honestly never heard of it being called “bug fogger”. Is that an American thing? (Also: Tiny sandbag wall!)

“Oh my! It’s hideous! Ladies and gentlemen, I can hardly describe this terrifying creature before me, except to say: Run for your lives! Go on! Empty the cities! Leave everything behind!”

“I…I don’t know how long I can stay on the air. I’ll try to get to our aerial view in chopper five!”

Okay, it seems even Elmyra’s family and the broadcast folks are still under the impression that this is actually happening. And Brain instantly cuts again to the aerial view. Brain, I think you’ve been watching too many movies.

“Chopper five, high above the city. The horrible creatures from Mars…invading…destroying everything in their path! Oh, the humanity!”

Since this is a still image the impact is lessened but Brain is rapidly beating his fist against his side to simulate the sound of helicopter blades and it’s actually pretty effective. Well done, lil guy, I never would’ve thought to do something like that. Your foley work is great!

The milk carton buildings still have straws in them to make chimneys! There’s little Chinese takeout boxes as buildings, too! I’m so charmed by all these quaint ways they’ve made their props.

Also, the Pinky-alien has apparently grown to kaiju size now, somehow. Brain, you’ve got to make your hoax at least a little consistent!

“This is no hoax, ladies and gentlemen. I urge you to run for your lives while you can! We’re not making this up just so we can take over the world!”

Goddamnit, Brain. You are the worst liar in the history of forever.

“Oh no! It’s heading this way! Run for your lives! RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!”

I just thought these cowering poses Brain did were funny and cute. He is so small and vulnerable…

So Pinky starts to menace the camera itself and—

—Oops. This isn’t going to go well.

Poor, poor Pinky.

“We did it, Pinky. Brilliant performance!”

Holy shit, sincere praise from Brain! I’m sure Pinky will treasure it.

“Undoubtedly, the population has fled in fear from their ‘terrifying enemy’, HA!”

Umm. About that, Brain…

“Let us make haste…to The White House!”

Brain, you may want to at least wait a little while so that people can actually—

Ouch.

WOW, who needs Twitter in this universe when the press is this fast?

“’Battle for the Planet is a comedy smash… World laughs together. Stay home for this one!’”

“Pinky, are you pondering what I’m pondering?”

“Well, I think so, Brain…but if we didn’t have ears, we’d look like weasels.”

“[sighs] No, Pinky… Our hoax…no one went anywhere! No one fled the cities! They found us…humorous.”

If it helps any, boys, I also found you incredibly adorable.

“Where are you going, Brain?”

“Back to our cage, Pinky. We must plan for tomorrow night.”

“Why? What are we going to do tomorrow night?”

I like how Pinky is at first concerned about Brain’s mood and then we he sees that Brain is just walking home to plan for tomorrow night he’s bouncing on his tip-toes after him.

“The same thing we do every night, Pinky: Try to take over the world!”

TO BE CONTINUED because apparently Tumblr finds this post too long otherwise,

[himbowelsh]

Oh my lord, I went through your shiftab tag and read the secret admirer oneshot, it was so cute! 😭 I know you aren't taking requests for those particular prompts but if possible, could you write a similar 'secret admirer' storyline for winnix or baberoe? Gosh please I'd die of happiness!

i have...  done the thing.  went with baberoe, because honestly i’m never not craving more content between those two, and there are considerably more ghosts than you probably wanted, but i really hope you enjoy, darling!!!

(read here on ao3)

Every one of his better instincts — and, contrary to popular belief, Babe does have a few — is screaming that this is an awful idea.

Quit your Irish dancing around the problem and fuckin’ do it, Bill would say, if only Bill were here. Babe knows exactly what advice Bill Guarnere would give — he can hear it in Bill’s voice, like the man’s shouting it, an entire ocean away. Still, an imagined echo is no substitute for the real thing. Babe can dream up as many Guarnere platitudes as his brain can handle... but they still won’t solve the problem in front of him now.

Namely, a blank piece of paper.

“God dammit,” he says out loud. “I don’t know how to do this.”

There’s no one around to hear him. More and more nowadays, there isn’t. He never used to talk to himself before — that was always something crazy people did, in Babe’s experience, and he could be called a lot of things, but crazy was never one of ‘em. People like Crazy Joe McKloskey could stand on the street corner talking to a lamppost like it could understand him. That’s fine, because it was crazy Joe. Babe Heffron, who delivered papers and chased his brothers through the backstreets of South Philly, never talked to himself... maybe because he was never alone.

To be fair, he’s at war, and it’s tough to be alone in a company of a hundred other guys. He’s gotten good at it, though. Gene was the one who showed him how to seek out peace when he needed it, taught him all the good places to hide, how to go away somewhere in your head the rest of the world couldn’t reach. He’d never needed those skills before, but now that he’s learned them, they’ve proved invaluable. More and more nowadays, with nothing to do but soak in the Austrian summer, Babe finds himself wanting to be alone.

Yeah, sometimes he talks to himself... only because the people he wants to be around, the people who damn well should be here, aren’t. 

You’re overthinking it, the voice in his head that sounds too much like Julian declares. When Babe looks up, he can almost see him — his old buddy, leaning back on a crate on the other side of the musky garret room. Julian has a way of lounging that was so casual it made him look boneless. He was a spreader, too — how many damn times did Babe have to shove him to the other side of the foxhole because Julian’s knee was digging into one of his damn organs? The kid liked to take up space. His ghost absorbs it now, studying Babe with a sort of mocking smirk. Look. Practically tearing your hair out, and you’ve barely even written a word yet.

“Yeah, well, it’s harder than you’d think.”

Babe’s not a letter writer. He never has been. His wrists cramp up when he holds a pen too long, and he can’t find the words anyways. His kid sister writes long letters, filled with funny anecdotes and memories from home; his Ma’s letters are shorter, succinct, and bluntly affectionate. Even Bill sent a message, after agonizing months of silence, letting the whole company know he’s doing alright, back home in the states. Babe treasures every letter he receives, tucking them away in his trunk between his underwear and his Bible... but the entire war, he’s only written his family three times. So far, he can’t bring himself to write to Bill at all.

Yeah, because you’re a lazy bum. There’s Old Guarnere again. He’s standing next to Julian — on both legs, whole and healthy — arms crossed as he blatantly judges Babe’s writing ability. The ceiling’s so low, on a steady downward slope, that Bill’s head hits it every time he moves. Babe can see the disgruntled faces he makes, clear as day, and it draws a laugh from him in spite of himself.

“I just — it can’t be any old letter, okay? It’s gotta be perfect. I need it to be perfect.”

You need to take a nap and quit pretending you’re a better writer than you are, Bill scoffs. When has anything you’ve ever written been perfect?

Babe presses his palm hard against his forehead, fingers tugging at his uncombed mess of hair. “That’s the problem, dammit. It ain’t gonna be perfect... but it’s what he deserves.”

If this goddamn war has taught him anything, it’s that Eugene Roe deserves nothing less than the best. The war sure hasn’t been shy about giving him the worst, over and over again. Gene’s hands have been stained with so much blood that it’s a wonder he can still look at them — can still go about his life as normal, humoring nervous patients and summoning a smile when the other fellas rib him — when he’s dealt with more shit than any of them. Babe just heard about his best friend getting his leg blown off. Gene was the one on his knees in the snow, scrambling to save Bill’s life. Yet when Babe retreated into himself afterwards, grief-stricken and reeling, Gene was the one who anchored him to earth. His quiet conversation and soft smiles put Babe back together, piece by piece at a time. He’s got a gift for healing, in ways he doesn’t even realize. A guy like that... deserves every good thing in the world, and Babe wants to hand them all to him.

As it is, he can’t even write one lousy letter.

“He’s gonna hate it. He’s gonna... throw it right back in my face, cause he realizes he’s talking to a guy who can’t spell ‘adoration’. He’s gonna... he’s gonna...”

Laugh. Except that’s not like Gene at all. Be goddamn disgusted... except Babe knows Gene well enough by now to know that’s not like him either. It’s hard to tell with other guys, especially in the army, where shared foxholes can so easily blur the lines between friend and lover... but he’s seen a gleam in Gene’s eyes when other fellas talk about Rita Hayworth and Betty Grable, like he’s just humoring the conversation while wishing it’d go somewhere else. Babe knows the feeling. No, Gene could do anything, but he wouldn’t be disgusted that a guy loves him.

Maybe... just that it’s Babe.

Now you’re really being an idiot, Julian moans, tipping his head back towards the sky. Babe’s first instinct is to throw something at him — the hand holding his pencil twitches, but he’s only got one, and there’s no satisfaction in swinging at ghosts.

 “I don’t know what to say,” he mutters, rubbing a hand over his jaw again. Dear Gene, the letter reads. I’m writing because I need to tell you...

That’s as far as he’s got. Not even a full goddamn sentence.

Have you considered... you’re overthinking it? You’ve gotta actually write something before deciding you hate what you’ve written.

“Julian, you’re a regular goddamn philosophizer.”

I’m just saying! 

Suddenly, Julian is no longer on the other side of the room. He’s looming right over Babe’s shoulder, his presence like a weight bearing down on Babe’s back. Every twitch of his hand is being observed, every uncertain breath noted. Geez, he didn’t crack during jump school training, but this pressure is enough to split him in two.

“Forget it!” Babe exclaims, throwing the pencil down onto the paper. “This was a stupid idea, I give up!”

No, you fucking are not.

There’s Bill again — Bill Guarnere, and his unbeatable determination to butt his head into everyone else’s business. Babe lifts his head, glaring into the spot he imagines his best friend standing. Bill’s answering glare is an echo of the real thing… and Christ, what Babe wouldn't do to see that familiar scowl right in front of him, for real! Bill always made things simple. There was no overthinking when he was around. When Babe was being an idiot, Bill told him.

I’m telling you right now, jackass — you're being an idiot.

“And you’re winning motivational speaker of the goddamn year.”

I’m not trying to win anything here. You are, and doing a piss-poor job of it. I could cry just lookin’ at you. Look at this — ‘I’m writing because’? What kinda opening line is that? Did they not teach you how to write letters in grade school, or were them nuns too busy beating the ginger outta your hair?

“Trying their best,” Babe mutters, subconsciously rubbing the back of his head, where the phantom rap of a nun’s knuckles still stings. Today’s a day for phantoms, he guesses. While Julian cackles begins him, Bill’s specter crosses to the desk, hovering over Babe’s paper with a critical eye.

No, he finally declares, like he’s handing Babe’s bayonet back with instructions to polish it all over again. That’s it. You can’t do this.

“That’s what I’ve been saying!” Babe exclaims, grateful to hear his subconscious finally agreeing.

You ain’t gonna be able to do this… Bill turns, then reels back around, sticking a finger in Babe’s face. So long as you keep thinking ‘bout what he’s gonna do when you hand it to him. What he’s gonna say once he reads it. You gotta write something before he can read it, you realize that, Babe? And you haven’t written a goddamn word worth reading so far. 

Babe assumes there’s a point here somewhere. He curls his fingers around the edge of the letter, waiting for it.

So, if you can’t get outta your own head… then write it as somebody else.

Bill grins, broad and shameless, like he always does when he ain’t making a lick of sense.

“You lost me,” Babe says. “Way back there.”

Keep the letter anonymous, Babe! Bill’s imagined face twists in frustration, his hand coming down to tap the paper. The silent impact rings in Babe’s ears. Don’t sign the thing. Leave it somewhere Doc will find it, and see what he does.

“That defeats the whole purpose of telling him how I feel!” Babe exclaims.

And how much luck are you having with that? demands Julian, coming to stand at Bill’s side. The two of them cross their arms, staring down at Babe with unabashed judgement. Burdened by the weird feeling that he’s being bullied by his own subconscious, he picks up his pencil again. What would Gene’s reaction be to finding a love letter unsigned? Babe imagines him pulling it out from under his pillow, or finding an envelope with his name on it at his makeshift aid station in the basement of Easy’s billets. How his long fingers would unfurl the paper, his lips mouthing the words silently as he read along… how his brows would furrow slowly, disbelief and awe swirling in the dark pools of his eyes… how eventually he’d look up, see Babe standing there waiting on him, and murmur, “Heffron, you’re not gonna believe this…”

And then what? Babe would pull Gene into his arms, and admit he’s loved him all along?

No. No way, not him. Not in this lifetime, at least.

Overthinking, Julian’s voice chimes again, and Babe’s never felt more tempted to swing at a ghost. Will you just write it already?

“Fine, goddammit!” Babe hisses. It’s frustration, really, that gets him to whip out a fresh sheet of paper… and as soon as he starts to write, the words flow from his pen like a dam’s burst open.

See you every day… know your heart… your caring… your sense of humor... impossible not to love you… wouldn’t know how to stop if I tried… love you more than I know what to do with.

I love you.

I’m in love with you, Eugene Roe.

Whatever you want is up to you… but I wrote this letter because I need to let you know.

He doesn’t sign it.

The envelope seals like a promise fulfilled; and when Babe looks up, he’s in the tiny attic alone.

------------------------------------------

It’s just his luck that Gene doesn’t spot the letter until Babe’s standing right next to him, alone in the cozy little infirmary.

Gene doesn’t miss a beat. “Hey,” he says, picking the letter up. “Babe, what’s this?”

There’s nothing on it, is the thing! No way to tell where it came from, and he knows Gene isn’t familiar enough with his handwriting to pick it out of a lineup. Babe stumbles back a step, alarm spiking as Gene holds the letter up. Playing dumb’s his only chance.

“Uhh… looks like a letter, maybe?”

Okay, not that dumb.

“Maybe,” echoes Gene, thoughtful, as he turns the envelope over in his hands. When his gaze is no longer piercing him, Babe can breathe again.

“Where’d you find it?”

“Someone left it on the chair. I sat on it.”

“Wow.” Wow, Babe. Just… wow. “You know, uhh, Vest made his rounds a little while ago, maybe something slipped from his pile. Or maybe he’s playing a joke, huh, you know that Vest —“

Why the hell is he implying Vest wrote his love letter?

“Doubt it was Vest,” Gene mutters, fingernail playing underneath the envelope’s fold as he carefully opens it. He even pries open mail like a doctor, slow and precise. Something in Babe’s heart soars at this tiny detail, and he almost wants to go to his knees in front of Gene right there.

“Well, it had to be someone,” he says instead, taking another few steps back. When he chuckles, it sounds shrill to his ears — like he’s fighting off the urge to scream. God dammit, Heffron, you’ve got all the subtlety of a rock, why’d you think this was a good idea?

It’s not. This is a horrible idea. He can’t look Gene in the face while he’s reading the letter, and if Babe stays here one more minute, he’s gonna give himself away. “Sorry, Gene, but I gotta go now — told Liebgott I’d help him with, uhh, this thing that he — needed help with, and… so yeah, I gotta do that.”

Gene looks up at him, distracted from the letter. Babe manages a grimace, and a tiny wave. “See ya!”

He can’t get out of the basement fast enough. Behind him is only silence, as Gene Roe begins to read.

-----------------------------------------------------------

Gene finds him much later that night, after the sun has already set over Zell-Am-See, painting the town in violet and blue. The late summer sky has always spoken to Babe in a way he can never explain, like a fist locking inside his chest and trying to tug his heart out. It’s nostalgia for a place far away, and a time he can’t return to. As daylight slowly fades out into inky darkness, Babe watches the sky, lost in a time when everything was simpler.

He doesn’t hear Gene coming until he drops onto the window ledge beside him. Babe isn’t jumpy, and Gene’s never startled him yet, so he doesn’t tumble over to the street below in shock… but the look on Gene’s face almost sends him jumping the fifteen feet down.

“Hey, Gene,” he says instead, quickly looking back out at the horizon.

“Hey.” Gene lets the word linger. He fumbles with a cigarette, long fingers moving deftly as he maneuvers his lighter. He gets it lit, and holds it out generously. Babe’s nerves would like nothing more, but his balance can’t take holding onto this will with just one hand. He shakes his head. With a shrug, Gene tucks the cigarette between his own pursed lips.

“You close up shop for the night?”

“Yeah. Unless someone stumbles around drunk and ends up knocking their head… or gets hit with a dart again. Had to pull it outta Perconte’s shoulder the last time.”

“Think I heard that from upstairs. Screaming like a cat the whole time, huh?”

“The man’s been shot before, and he complained less.” Gene exhales through his nose, blowing two long lines of smoke into the air. Babe’s eyes linger on it, transfixed.

“You, uhh —“ Suddenly, he’s frightened of silence, but his mind’s too scattered to keep a conversation in one place. “You get dinner?”

“Yeah. You?”

“Yeah.”

Quiet again. Christ, even when he was a kid, Babe could never stand the quiet; his Ma sometimes pushed him out of the house and locked the door behind him, just to get some peace. Why is it so hard to find words now?

“Look, Heffron —“ Gene starts, and the exact moment Babe blurts out, “Gene —“

They both go silent, staring at each other. Babe inhales, holding the breath in his chest until he feels like he’s gonna burst with it.

A familiar voice in his head — the one that’s a dead-ringer for Bill Guarnere — groans, Will you please spit it the hell out already?

“So,” Babe says, “the letter.”

“Yeah,” says Gene. His gaze doesn’t leave Babe’s, sharp as a needle.

“Look, I wanted to —“

“I know,” says Gene.

“I wanted to say —“

“Babe,” Gene cuts in. “I know.”

Finally, Babe meets his gaze head-on. It’s never possible to read what’s going on in Gene’s head, but his face gives something away, sometimes. The way the corners of his lips twitch when he’s trying not to laugh; the line that appears between his eyebrows when he’s really worried; the way his eyes go soft when he knows someone needs comforting, and turn to hot coals when he’s furious.

Right now, Babe can’t pick a damn thing out of Gene’s expression… but his eyes are very, very soft. It feels like a punch to the stomach.

“You know,” he says slowly, “but…”

The words linger between them for a long, charged moment. Babe’s chest feels like it’s caught in a compactor, being slowly squeezed until his lungs burst and his ribs turn to dust. He huffs out a laugh — a dry, desperate thing. “Jesus, Gene, you look like you’re about to break my heart.” Gene still doesn’t say a word; Babe looks up at him, wide-eyed. “Why’s it you doctors just love to drag things out? Rip off the band-aid quick, and save us both the trouble.”

“Edward,” he says gently, laying a hand over Babe’s own. Babe jerks away like he’s been stung.

“Don’t Edward me right now!”

“Babe,” Gene says, and his voice is softer than ever. Babe’s throat is tight, eyes stinging… but damned if he’ll let himself cry over this, not where Gene can see. Christ, he’s an idiot. He’s so stupid, he should never have done anything, why did he even think —

“I have known... for a while, now. Didn’t need a letter to tell me some things.” Gene pauses, like he’s chewing over the words, before adding, “But it was good to read. Just to know.”

“Now you know,” Babe replies, and inhales a deep breath. “You happy now?”

Gene doesn’t answer. When Babe risks a glance over, Gene isn’t looking at him at all anymore; his eyes are on the sky, watching as the first pinpricks of starlight pierce through the indigo curtain. He looks thoughtful, almost mournful. It gouges something in Babe’s chest.

“Gene,” he says again. “Are you happy?”

“I don’t know.” When Gene inhales, it’s almost like a whisper. When he exhales, it’s like he’s singing to the night air. “Thought about it for a long time. Trying to figure out how I feel.”

“You’ve had a whole afternoon to do it. You get it all sorted out yet?”

“Longer than that,” Gene replies. His gaze flickers over to him. “I told you, Babe. I knew.”

Jesus. So he wasn’t as subtle as he thought. Babe exhales, praying to make the sick-to-his-stomach sensation go with it. Instead, it just churns even harder. If this goes on any longer, he’s gonna need a damn bucket.

Gene’s never been the best with words; expressing himself has never been easy, which is why Babe’s gotten so good at reading between the lines. Gene’s really trying now — for his sake, Babe supposes. “Reading that letter, seeing all those feelings laid out on paper… Babe, you didn’t have to sign it. I’d ‘a known it was you, just from what you said. It was like… listening to your heart. And a part of me already does that every day, so I guess it was easy.”

Can Gene hear his heart screaming now? Babe grips the windowsill until his knuckles turn white, grounding himself. 

“I wasn’t sure how you felt before… and I wasn’t sure how I felt for you. Knew you felt something, but not what, and not how…” Gene swallows, pale throat bobbing. “But now I know.”

“Now you know.” Babe dwells on this statement for a moment before turning, hesitation heavy on his tongue. “So… what now, Gene?”

Gene takes a deep breath, clinging to the night sky for one last moment, before turning his gaze on him. “Do you— “ He pauses, licks his lips. “Do you really mean what you wrote? All of it?”

“Gene,” Babe replies, “I meant every word.”

Something calms in Gene’s eyes, like a storm settling. Babe isn’t expecting the way his gaze clears, or the flash of steely certainty that follows. “Well,” Gene says, “there’s only one thing to do.”

Another thing Babe isn’t expecting — how sweet Gene tastes when his lips are suddenly pressed to his own.

Somewhere far away, beyond the depths of his own consciousness — which is really just a victory parade and firework show, that’s all he’s capable of at the moment — he thinks Bill would be proud of him. Beyond the grave, Julian’s probably cheering for him, glad his buddy’s finally getting some.

For once, though, their voices are drowned out completely. It’s impossible to hear anything over the storm raging in his ears, which only swells to a fever pitch when Gene leans back and smiles at him.

“Well, Babe,” he says, as Babe cups his face like a reverent thing. “Think we can figure things out from here.”

“Jesus, Gene,” Babe declares, and swoops in to kiss him again.

[imaginethiswrithethat]

On Top of the World

Fandom: MCU

Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader

Warnings: Cheesy, fluff, nothing more.

This is the very first thing I post in here. It took me a while but I couldn’t come up with anything for the longest time. I have tons of drafts and this is the most decent thing I could finish. Hope you like it, please feel free to comment it or reblog it. If you have any ideas or requests don’t be afraid to let me know.

Thanks again for reading! Now, go and enjoy some Peter Parker fiction

_______________________________________________________________

He was on top of the world.

Yeah, he could easily climb to the top of the highest building in New York. He was Spider-Man after all. He loved the feeling he got when he would swing from building to building. The adrenaline that rushed through his body when he fought danger and the feeling of achievement every time he saved someone were some of the highlights of his life, until you came along.

Peter was sure that there was a before and after in his life once he met you. He had first met you as his masked alter ego when he saved your bike from a couple of “little punks”, as you called them. He was enthralled by your shy smile and sincere look when you thanked him over and over for his help.

“Always a pleasure to help someone. Especially a pretty lady like you.” He complimented, earning a blush from you. He swore he had never seen something so beautiful, and he wanted to be the reason for that blush for the rest of his life. And he would be.

The next time he ran into you was outside of your favorite coffee shop, during a busy, rainy day in Queens. This time he was himself, he was just Peter Parker. And you loved it. You were coming out of the coffee shop trying to open your umbrella and not drop your coffee, at the same time Peter was coming out of Delmar’s, he was too focused writing Happy a text to notice you. You crashed into each other, fortunately his spidey reflexes saved you both from falling into a puddle. Your coffee didn’t have the same luck.

“Let me buy you another one” said a breathless Peter. His arm still holding you close to him, your umbrella protecting you both from the rain. With blushing cheeks you could only nod to accept his offer. Gosh! That blush! It drove him as crazy as the first time he saw you in that alley.  

Both of you made their way into the coffee shop and decided to stay inside “at least until the rains stops” you suggested. He rewarded you with the brightest smile, one you wanted to see for the rest of your days.

With warm drinks and a seat in the cozy couch in the corner, right next to the window you started chatting. The rain stopped, but you didn’t. You stayed inside the warm cafeteria sharing laughs and silly anecdotes until closing time.

You learned he liked his sandwiches with pickles and “smooshed down real flat.” You mocked him for ten minutes straight for his “quirky taste in sandwiches, Mr. Parker.” He acted annoyed but he would endure jokes about sandwiches and anything else just to see you smile.

“No way! You like Star Wars too?” he asked, big smile and bright eyes. So bright you swore the sun came out from behind the stormy clouds.

“Sorry, fellas. But we gotta close. It’s a school night anyways” said the manager interrupting the silence surrounding you. You had stopped talking a while ago, comfortable silence engulfing you. You stared at each other when the other looked away, permanent flushed faces. He noticed the way you would put a strand of hair behind your ear every few moments or how you would blow into your cup even though it was already lukewarm. You noticed how he would scratch his neck when he got nervous, or the adorable nervous chuckle he let out when you smiled at him. He was so cute!

Once outside neither of you knew what to say, you didn’t want to say anything, afraid that this would be the end of such a perfect afternoon.

“So uhh can I walk you home?” asked Peter, nervous smile and eyes bright as the sun.

You gave him a million dollar smile. “Though you’d never ask” you answered, taking his hand in yours as you started to lead the way through the crowded streets.

In that moment, you walking in front of him, hands still intertwined, with the orange of the fading sunset reflecting on your hair, Peter swore there was no better feeling in the world. Kicking a villain’s ass, climbing to the top of New York’s tallest building, nothing compared to this moment, to what you made him feel after just one afternoon.

He was on top of the world.

[jamessmith0000121]

LatinFeels | The Online Dating Guys We Never Talk About

I don't trade photographs. What's more, I'm not searching for a substantial sexual talk with an outsider. In any case, some great allusion and tease? Hell, definitely!

His timetable was testing since he was working 12–14 hours every day. In the end, we crushed in a scaled-down date.

There was something sort of clumsy about him. Actually no, not the charming sort of unbalanced.

He was impeccably charming, however, the entirety of the wise, fun language was no more.

Gruffly: in person he was dull. Indeed, even his intonation couldn't rescue any fascination I may have had.

Right up 'til today, he's the main British fella I've dated that fell so level for me.

He was a complete honorable man around me, constantly kind, and not in any way shape or form rude.

Be that as it may, I felt literally nothing and realized I didn't have to see him until kingdom come.

I met him at the eatery a couple of squares from my home. He was svelte and looked precisely enjoyed his photos.

I'd been vacillating about him, however, he had been deferential, monitored me, called me once, and been happy to drive over an hour one approach to meet me in my new little town on the shore of Mississippi.

I've been doing this LatinFeels online dating thing for quite a while. In view of our constrained communications, I realized that it was improbable I was going to feel a sparkle, however, you never under any circumstance know 100% until you meet somebody faces to face.

As we plunked down to a light supper, I can really say that I was keeping a receptive outlook.

The discussion began curiously — he'd been on a gator chase prior that day. He explained that he'd never done anything like that and that it's a piece of a firmly observed overpopulation system. I was charmed, figuring I would most likely never date another person who had gone gator chasing.

We moved onto different points, similar to his living in his sibling and sister-in-law's treehouse for a long time. (He had his own place now.) And then it kind of diminished from that point.

He was an online dating veteran like me. We were both upbeat that the other hadn't turned up missing or dropped at last. That was truly the bar for the two of us!

He gave me a warm embrace and left. I felt zero science for him. I made a point to content him somewhat later to express gratitude toward him for making the lengthy drive to meet me and for the delightful supper.

Furthermore, we never conveyed again. I assume he wasn't pulled in to me either.

He was extremely savvy however not self-absorbed. (That combo is so subtle!)

In all actuality, he decided to meet alongside his work environment and not even close to my home. Be that as it may, I had that day away from work, so I approved of accommodating his far busier calendar and schlepping down to our gathering place.

Goodness, and he had picked a bustling espresso joint. With restricted stopping.

I don't drink espresso. What's more, trusted I wouldn't get towed from the Whataburger parking area.

I knew quickly that I was not genuinely pulled in to him. He wasn't ugly, however on the off chance that you don't feel it, you don't feel it.

I guess I got the opportunity to look at a fashionable person espresso place in Austin. (For the individuals who don't have any acquaintance with me, hanging out at a trendy person espresso place with horrible stopping is basically Dante's Fourth Circle of Hell for me. At any rate, it was a flawless day!)

I drank water since they didn't have Coke.

In this way, no doubt. I recollect the vast majority of the subtleties of that date, yet I can review extremely, minimal about what we discussed.

My date was impeccably pleasant. He was astute and wonderful. Be that as it may, we never met again. What was the point?

That is only a little examining of this specific sort of online dating man, the impeccably ordinary person!

I'll give you access to a mystery, an admission. Notwithstanding the accounts you've perused (and that I've composed), there are certainly absolutely typical, aware, charming men out there in the online dating domain.

I haven't deliberately failed to expound on them as such. Or maybe, there is this badly designed reality: those folks don't make for fascinating stories to entertain.

It would be increasingly exact to state that I've abstained from composing an anecdote about these folks since it's basically not as exciting or titillating or scolding to compose (and read) about folks who appeared, weren't unpleasant or bizarre or discourteous, and afterward left.

That is to say, that basically is the story.

I realize that the vast majority of the stories that get expounded on online dating share the two limits: the most awful folks or the upbeat endings.

Clearly, I'm not expelling the huge number of liars, controllers, befuddling, confounded, guarded, aloof forceful, irate, abusers, and sleazoids.

There is an excessive number of those folks out on the planet! (Furthermore, a lot of ladies who submit a considerable lot of those transgressions, as well.)

Regardless, it's erroneous to expect that there aren't any or not many ordinary folks out there.

Possibly a better than average relationship is looked at the pool of online dating suitors to a pyramid. At the base are the folks with the exceptionally most exceedingly terrible qualities (liars, clients, and so on). At the sharp top are the folks that are a generally excellent fit for you. The center contains the folks I'm discussing today.

I am asked continually for what valid reason I continue getting myself through online dating. There are a lot of reasons that I do, yet this is one of the greatest.

I know from my own experience that, indeed, I have had awful dating karma and met too much, ahem, disgraceful suitors. In any case, I have completely met a lot of folks who are ordinary joes. We weren't a decent match, yet they were impeccably not too bad fellas.

Another explanation I needed to compose this story is on the grounds that I've generally moved toward my dating stories as an endeavor to share as impartial and genuine a point of view as could be expected under the circumstances.

I believe it's essential to recognize the folks out there who are the acceptable ones. The ones that appear, pretty much do what they state they will do and have no enthusiasm for corrupting ladies!

I've seen that even the "pleasant person" has been insulted of late. So I'm explicitly considering these men the "heroes."

The heroes, well, they're out there. You must search for them, however, they are totally out there.

Of course, you probably won't be pulled in to them. Or on the other hand, the coordination probably won't work out. Or on the other hand, you may understand there's a dealbreaker.

They probably won't be the most energizing. No firecrackers. Not, in any case, a fail spectacularly.

Simply one more human on earth searching for some rendition of adoration, or if nothing else like.

It's about time that I recognized and saluted the heroes.

Indeed, I would not like to go on a second date with them and regularly they felt a similar way. In any case, that is not significant.

Meeting the heroes gives me a fragment of expectation.

Note: I generally put exertion into my dates. I put on something decent, bring a grin and my best endeavor at great discussion, and am unfailingly obliging. Regardless of whether I've realized I wasn't into the person, I ALWAYS attempt to be the best date that I can be.

With just about 6 years of online dating experience added to her repertoire, Bonnie has a Ph.D. in LatinFeels Online Dating. Plainly, she has flopped stupendously at dating.

For more information visit this site: https://www.datingreviews.online/latinfeels-com