half-finished fanfic
Wednesday, September 2nd, 2015 01:49 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
erikaArriving at Stark Tower with an invitation is the golden ticket. I feel like I'm entering Willy Wonka's factory, and my chat with JARVIS, the tower's artificial intelligence, confirms the bizarre sensation that I'll be shown sights I never dreamed of. After some chitchat, his voice takes on a rosy candor and he tells me almost conspiratorially:
"Accessing workshop level to begin your interview. May I say, it's a pleasure to meet someone who understands that strong AI is the wave of the future."
Tony Stark.
Tony. Tony. OMG IT'S TONY.
That was the first thing I thought when I met him, and then maybe the second, if you're lucky enough to see him with his shirt off in his man-cave/workshop like me (!!!), will be "those arms."
The elevator delivered me straight into the workshop, but I barely had a moment to take it in before Tony's coming at me, walking towards me while having a conversation with JARVIS. Machines whir in the distance and I'm shocked by the overwhelming seduction inherent in the skimpily-clad men's gaze.
Evidently having come from an inventing spree, he's wearing a men's A-shirt, but the real show-stopper is his pressed dark khakis, because lord, are they well-tailored.
His a-shirt displaying the curves of his biceps, his jawline firm—with Tony in front of you, you can't just give him the once over because your eyes are riveted to this man's sheer physical presence. His physique unquestionably one of the trimmest I've ever seen so I barely notice his relative lack of height (a dainty 5'8", he sometimes jokes about lifts in his shoes). I can't keep myself from tracing the symmetrical pleasure of his face and jawline, his muscular neck leading into his delicate clavicle (I cannot help myself—it's one of my favorite spots to nibble!).
His biceps, as mentioned above, are so muscular he could be a statue outlined in marble with that kind of definition. His white A-shirt betrays his inattention to time as it's littered with unidentifiable substances, but dare I say it, a hint of ab outlined by a grease-stain. That must be an incredibly fit middle because that shirt is molded to him and I feel like the luckiest person alive.
Lower, those khakis obscure my view, but I notice his sensible footwear and decide he's probably not wearing the lifts this time. On the way back up, my eyes snag on his goatee.
His famous goatee is a work of art seen up close. I couldn't take my eyes off it. (Tony later claimed Mechele, his image manager, rules him with an iron fist regarding hair appointments. "Mechele and JARVIS are conspiring. For what, I don't know, but it's terrifying." He shakes the idea off and expounds on the hair technique with some prompting. "They take thread, you won't believe it, and they twist it and it's just the perfect shaping technique with nothing but their hands." (see WHERE ANGELS THREAD on page 55 for Tony's Salon) )
He ushers me back into the elevator and I take in the woody vanilla musk of his cologne. Somehow he's wearing sunglasses now, and it's all movie star up in here. I introduce myself and my magazine, and he smiles, a wry tint of a smirk under the sunglasses.
I got in with the intention of not staring at his ass in the elevator. I don't know that Tony would have cared, but it seemed somehow indecorous to look and also worse to ignore the undoubted work of art.
With those arms as an example, how could I not want to see all angles of the possible prize?
I caved. It was worth it.
In person, Tony is just as immense a presence as you might have imagined. A brief moment into the elevator ride and he's peppering me with questions: how I use my smartphone, whether JARVIS bothers me, and so on.
I couldn't resist, and really, the only way to shut this chattering monkey up is to overwhelm him in return. "Tony, you must be doing some serious work outs to get that lean and cut. Is that all from pounding iron for your projects? Do you have any tips for the men out there who just can't get swole?"
He stops for a moment, and then I'm swept out of the elevator and he whispers in my ear: "cut the carbs!" He heads towards a section of the large room I've been deposited in, and I realize I'm standing in the famous Avengers communal living space.
The Avenger's communal living room—designed by Bruce himself in cooperation with Tony and—was recently the center spread of Architectural Monthly. The crater in the middle, left by Hulk engaging with Loki, has become an internet meme which means in any online discussion, it's likely someone will show up with a rebuttal in picture form of HULK SMASH PUNY blank superimposed over the crater.
It's odd seeing it for the first time; I already know where everything is.
As Tony expertly assembles the ingredients for a smoothie in the kitchen nook—more than a wet bar, less than a full kitchen, he opens cabinets with the ease of someone who has done this a thousand times. "Yeah, I'm half-Italian and I hate leaving that pasta out of a dish but really, bodies are better off when we eat as much fruit and vegetables as you can. Bruce showed me that, along with the yoga." He gestures.
I turn and realize Bruce Banner is standing up to greet me. He shakes my hand, offers a shrug and a soft smile, then sits back down on a sofa in a conversation pit with a great view of the art piece his alter-ego "created". His lightly salt and peppered hair flopping over one eyebrow, he seems uncomfortable with the credit.
Bruce's outfit is yet more evidence for his self-effacing nature: more pajama than scientist when he discards the white lab coat—a distressed Orbital t-shirt under plaid flannel, elasticized blue slacks that fall loosely to his ankles. When anyone else would enjoy the attention, Bruce acts to deflect it as much as possible. You'd overlook him in a grocery store, in a bank. That's the way he likes it.
The conflict between brain and brawn—work and home, you might say—is key to understanding Bruce. He can never get rid of the spotlight: his achievements ably championed by Tony Stark, and yet his only desire seeming to be for a quiet home life.
On my first viewing of the infamous hole, Bruce is serving me chai and asking me delicately how many languages I speak.
"Three," I say as I spread my notes and recorder. Bruce chuckles quietly and ducks his head when I return the question.
"Oh, enough to get by," he says, his hands clasped. "I had to learn Hindi to study yoga, you know."
He recommends yoga wholeheartedly. "Best exercise out there. Don't push yourself," he says, carefully, considering his words even as he says them. It's impossible to imagine this taut beauty of a father figure becoming the Hulk, but easy to imagine him studying Hindi and bending into impossible positions. "Accept your perception of your limits and then strive to overcome them gradually."
It's hard won advice.
Bruce seems prepared only to answer questions about his failures. When I asked whether there were anyone especially close to him, he glanced quickly to his left, unoccupied, then at Tony sitting next to him on his right, then said—quietly, his brow furrowed with deep unease—it's going well, so I don't want to chance mentioning it.
I tease him and say that expression will cause wrinkles. For a moment I've forgotten, the elegantly served tea on delicate china and Tony's complete ease with Bruce have seduced me into ignoring the Hulk in the room, but as the words come out of my mouth I hesitate.
(No, I'm not as brave as Tony Stark, but I'll just have to settle for being twice as sexy.)
Bruce immediately notices my qualms about teasing him, and tosses his curly hair in a effort to avoid my eyes. As he drops his gaze, he also tucks his legs under him, that minute habit a visceral reminder of his own unease, his literal desire to be overlooked.
"Accessing workshop level to begin your interview. May I say, it's a pleasure to meet someone who understands that strong AI is the wave of the future."
Tony Stark.
Tony. Tony. OMG IT'S TONY.
That was the first thing I thought when I met him, and then maybe the second, if you're lucky enough to see him with his shirt off in his man-cave/workshop like me (!!!), will be "those arms."
The elevator delivered me straight into the workshop, but I barely had a moment to take it in before Tony's coming at me, walking towards me while having a conversation with JARVIS. Machines whir in the distance and I'm shocked by the overwhelming seduction inherent in the skimpily-clad men's gaze.
Evidently having come from an inventing spree, he's wearing a men's A-shirt, but the real show-stopper is his pressed dark khakis, because lord, are they well-tailored.
His a-shirt displaying the curves of his biceps, his jawline firm—with Tony in front of you, you can't just give him the once over because your eyes are riveted to this man's sheer physical presence. His physique unquestionably one of the trimmest I've ever seen so I barely notice his relative lack of height (a dainty 5'8", he sometimes jokes about lifts in his shoes). I can't keep myself from tracing the symmetrical pleasure of his face and jawline, his muscular neck leading into his delicate clavicle (I cannot help myself—it's one of my favorite spots to nibble!).
His biceps, as mentioned above, are so muscular he could be a statue outlined in marble with that kind of definition. His white A-shirt betrays his inattention to time as it's littered with unidentifiable substances, but dare I say it, a hint of ab outlined by a grease-stain. That must be an incredibly fit middle because that shirt is molded to him and I feel like the luckiest person alive.
Lower, those khakis obscure my view, but I notice his sensible footwear and decide he's probably not wearing the lifts this time. On the way back up, my eyes snag on his goatee.
His famous goatee is a work of art seen up close. I couldn't take my eyes off it. (Tony later claimed Mechele, his image manager, rules him with an iron fist regarding hair appointments. "Mechele and JARVIS are conspiring. For what, I don't know, but it's terrifying." He shakes the idea off and expounds on the hair technique with some prompting. "They take thread, you won't believe it, and they twist it and it's just the perfect shaping technique with nothing but their hands." (see WHERE ANGELS THREAD on page 55 for Tony's Salon) )
He ushers me back into the elevator and I take in the woody vanilla musk of his cologne. Somehow he's wearing sunglasses now, and it's all movie star up in here. I introduce myself and my magazine, and he smiles, a wry tint of a smirk under the sunglasses.
I got in with the intention of not staring at his ass in the elevator. I don't know that Tony would have cared, but it seemed somehow indecorous to look and also worse to ignore the undoubted work of art.
With those arms as an example, how could I not want to see all angles of the possible prize?
I caved. It was worth it.
In person, Tony is just as immense a presence as you might have imagined. A brief moment into the elevator ride and he's peppering me with questions: how I use my smartphone, whether JARVIS bothers me, and so on.
I couldn't resist, and really, the only way to shut this chattering monkey up is to overwhelm him in return. "Tony, you must be doing some serious work outs to get that lean and cut. Is that all from pounding iron for your projects? Do you have any tips for the men out there who just can't get swole?"
He stops for a moment, and then I'm swept out of the elevator and he whispers in my ear: "cut the carbs!" He heads towards a section of the large room I've been deposited in, and I realize I'm standing in the famous Avengers communal living space.
The Avenger's communal living room—designed by Bruce himself in cooperation with Tony and—was recently the center spread of Architectural Monthly. The crater in the middle, left by Hulk engaging with Loki, has become an internet meme which means in any online discussion, it's likely someone will show up with a rebuttal in picture form of HULK SMASH PUNY blank superimposed over the crater.
It's odd seeing it for the first time; I already know where everything is.
As Tony expertly assembles the ingredients for a smoothie in the kitchen nook—more than a wet bar, less than a full kitchen, he opens cabinets with the ease of someone who has done this a thousand times. "Yeah, I'm half-Italian and I hate leaving that pasta out of a dish but really, bodies are better off when we eat as much fruit and vegetables as you can. Bruce showed me that, along with the yoga." He gestures.
I turn and realize Bruce Banner is standing up to greet me. He shakes my hand, offers a shrug and a soft smile, then sits back down on a sofa in a conversation pit with a great view of the art piece his alter-ego "created". His lightly salt and peppered hair flopping over one eyebrow, he seems uncomfortable with the credit.
Bruce's outfit is yet more evidence for his self-effacing nature: more pajama than scientist when he discards the white lab coat—a distressed Orbital t-shirt under plaid flannel, elasticized blue slacks that fall loosely to his ankles. When anyone else would enjoy the attention, Bruce acts to deflect it as much as possible. You'd overlook him in a grocery store, in a bank. That's the way he likes it.
The conflict between brain and brawn—work and home, you might say—is key to understanding Bruce. He can never get rid of the spotlight: his achievements ably championed by Tony Stark, and yet his only desire seeming to be for a quiet home life.
On my first viewing of the infamous hole, Bruce is serving me chai and asking me delicately how many languages I speak.
"Three," I say as I spread my notes and recorder. Bruce chuckles quietly and ducks his head when I return the question.
"Oh, enough to get by," he says, his hands clasped. "I had to learn Hindi to study yoga, you know."
He recommends yoga wholeheartedly. "Best exercise out there. Don't push yourself," he says, carefully, considering his words even as he says them. It's impossible to imagine this taut beauty of a father figure becoming the Hulk, but easy to imagine him studying Hindi and bending into impossible positions. "Accept your perception of your limits and then strive to overcome them gradually."
It's hard won advice.
Bruce seems prepared only to answer questions about his failures. When I asked whether there were anyone especially close to him, he glanced quickly to his left, unoccupied, then at Tony sitting next to him on his right, then said—quietly, his brow furrowed with deep unease—it's going well, so I don't want to chance mentioning it.
I tease him and say that expression will cause wrinkles. For a moment I've forgotten, the elegantly served tea on delicate china and Tony's complete ease with Bruce have seduced me into ignoring the Hulk in the room, but as the words come out of my mouth I hesitate.
(No, I'm not as brave as Tony Stark, but I'll just have to settle for being twice as sexy.)
Bruce immediately notices my qualms about teasing him, and tosses his curly hair in a effort to avoid my eyes. As he drops his gaze, he also tucks his legs under him, that minute habit a visceral reminder of his own unease, his literal desire to be overlooked.
