I Nobly Refrained From The Obvious Stark Naked Puns

Today was a productive day! By which I mean, AHAHAHAHAHA NO. Didn't get nearly half of my to-do list checked off. I was even foiled in the great fridge-cleaning endeavor by the fact that it was raining. Woe, I shall have to rangle with it tomorrow instead.

I did get a lot of writing done though! The Tony Stark Five Things fic is so close to being done I can taste it. All it is missing is the last section where Pepper catches him making out with Steve, and I will probably make that a good bit shorter than some of the other sections. BECAUSE I WANT IT TO BE DONE OH MY GOD PLEASE.

Have a sample of what I wrote today, which involved gratuitous naked!Tony. Mmmmmmm.

Tony blinks several times, swaying slightly where he stands. “Am I in trouble?” he asks slowly. “What did I do this time? You have to tell me, I don’t pay you to let me figure out things on my own.”

The question, so utterly unexpected, shocks her out of her anger; she can only stand and gape at him.

“Tony,” she says very carefully, after she finally regains her composure. “Tell me where you just went.”

“Jogging,” he answers, clearly baffled. “Are you ending your pro-exercise crusade? Because if you are you should have sent me a memo. I finished drafting the new specs, I took a shower, I remembered I hadn’t gone in a few days, so I went for a run. I thought it would keep you from yelling at me, which, obviously, I was mistaken about.”

“Okay,” she says. “Okay. That’s very good, Tony. Just one more thing. Do you want to tell me what you’re wearing?”

Tony glances down, and…keeps glancing, and Pepper’s eyes involuntarily follow his - well-muscled chest, faintly glowing reactor, flat but still-soft stomach – and exposed like this Tony can’t hide that he’s blushing when they both reach the thin trail of dark hair that starts under his belly-button.

“Oh,” he says. “Well. That’s –”

“Go to bed,” Pepper sighs. “I can hold off the press for a few hours. But I swear, if you aren’t wearing clothes the next time I see you, you can face them on your own.”

Tony flashes her a bemused, sleepy smile and staggers off.

An Epic For The Modern Age?

There comes a time in every man's woman's life when she must do battle against a foe so vicious, so terrible, that the very thought of it makes her tremble in her boots; if she rises victorious from this battle, only then may she call herself a true warrior.

Today I did battle against just such a foe: my refrigerator.

Now, several times recently when I have, offhand, mentioned my fridge and the fear it inspires me, the people I was talking to expressed disbelief that it could be all that. "Surely," they say, "When you say it has months-old leftovers in it, you are using a form of hyperbole or exaggeration to impress upon us the untidy state of your vegetable drawer." Oh, how I wish that were so.

But no. When I say months-old leftovers, what I mean is that the sole contents of my fridge for the last 5-odd months has been two take-out boxes, containing within them the last mortal remains of a meal that was eaten on September 21st. When I endeavor to fail at house-keeping, I really and truly fail. Many times have I thought of cleaning it out, only to realize that if, as I suspected, the leftovers had in fact achieved sentience and mobility, opening the door would unleash a terror unto the world, or at least the part of the world that is the Bay Area.

But today I said no more, and I took arms against the terror of the fridge and the Leftovers That Should Not Be. And by arms I mean a ziploc bag, several plastic grocery bags, and a can of lysol, by which means I subdued the take-out boxes until I could dispose of the corpses in The Rubbish Bin Outside Ujamaa. Frankly I was a bit disappointed; the smell was most odorous and foul, certainly, but I expected the leftovers to put up much more of a fight.

In any case, I emerged triumphant, and this weekend I'm going to Trader Joe's and buying the fuck out some fancy cheese and shit to celebrate having a fridge again.