Novel & Cerita Iron Man Aesthetic

Not only was I covered in shit, but of all the days I get saved, it happens to be from falling on my shit-covered ass by a living personification of my best collective fantasies in living form. The man could only be described as, a seven-foot-tall, Adonis with seductive warm caramel-coated skin wrapped over massive planes of muscles that would make a full-blown nun sigh. I continued to size him up, I catch a glimpse of his long flowing dreadlocks dangling ever so teasingly above his pectorals covered in black and rose gold armor. Painfully preventing me from getting a glimpse of what would no doubt be the most heavenly chest I’ve witnessed on a man like this up close.

Or close enough that her mind scrambled, working to reconcile the two truths. She’d forgotten how unnervingly handsome he was. Sharp jaw. High, aristocratic cheekbones. A mouth carved for cruelty and sin in equal measure. Skin that glowed faintly from Hellfire beneath, as if lit by hidden embers. He was still too big—towering, thick-muscled, powerful beyond any mortal—but his lines now resembled a human shape. Danger disguised as beauty.

His gold eyes drifted across my form, and for a fraction of a second, a genuine shadow of shock flickered across his sharp features. I stood tall and slender against the iron pillars, my posture retaining the graceful, refined elegance of a high-born male who had spent his youth within the sacred sanctuary sanctuaries. My dark curls were brushed neatly behind my ears, and my fair, pale skin made my sharp features stand out even more prominently despite the lack of ceremonial paint. Those cool, almond-shaped eyes gave my beast an air of untouchable, aristocratic poise. My appearance carried a distinct masculine beauty that no warrior could easily dismiss.

The man was beautiful. So ridiculously fucking beautiful it was hard to get your head round it somehow. He looked like a film star. Not the modern sort—not one of your amiably shaggable Chris Pines or Charlie Hunnams—but a screen idol from a lost age, all perfect symmetry and effortless poise, the remote and overwhelming splendor of a temple to cold and ancient gods.

“But… what kind of surgery are you about to have?” “It’s a little hard to explain. You know Colonel Rhodey in the Avengers, right?” “The other Iron Man? Oh, what was his name again?” “Yes. War Machine. You remember when he got injured in Civil War?” Kate’s eyes light up. “Oh right! After that, he was wearing those high-tech leg braces designed by Tony Stark.” “Exactly. Except I won’t have any leg or arm braces. It’ll still be me. My own limbs, the bones inside my skin etc.”

"You don't understand what we've been through, Indra. Why are you putting us through this?" Vimar is a handsome and muscular man of nearly two meters. His wide jawline is covered in a short-trimmed beard. His hair is full and dark blonde and he usually wears it in a ponytail. His eyes are a bright turquoise hue and Indra thinks they are his best features. Vimar is used to having an effect on people, both with his good looks and his confident attitude. He's an idol who leaves a deep impression in people.

“I guess it’s easy forgetting. You are only human,” His voice is lethally calm, yet his words send a brandish of fury through me and replace the pleasant chills from earlier. I glare up at him, daring him to criticize me again. “Only human?” The urge to slap him has never been stronger. “What do you mean by that?” A slow smile touches his face, and his stormy eyes seek mine. He is devastatingly beautiful with features that look inhuman. Seeing him brings my mind to airbrushed images in fashion magazines, and I quiver under his attention, intimidated by how attractive he is.

I said with a shrug. "I wouldn't go so far as to say Ultron was a killer..." She laughed nervously, still not getting the reference. "Iron Man created him for killing." "What?" She blinked up at me. "Iron Man doesn't have a cat." "And neither do you." "Yes, I do." "You just called your dead cat Ultron." "That's not right..." She outwardly cringed. "Odwalla?" "That's a drink. You're actually getting worse at lying the more you talk."

Can he not feel the electricity snap around us? The white dress shirt and suit jacket are gone, and now he's wearing a plain black T-shirt stretched tight across his broad chest. He looks powerful and intimidating, yet all I want to do is rub up against his body like a kitten. He carries an aura that warns people not to fuck with him. But like a moth to a flame, it just makes me want him even more. His dark hair and dark green eyes are the highlights in my fantasies. His hard jaw and the rough angles of his face might make people think he isn't handsome, but I've never wanted a man more.

And fuck, he was beautiful. Sharp jaw. Pale grey eyes like fractured stormlight. Lips that looked like they’d been made to smirk and sin in equal measure. He wore tailored black and silver, but the open collar and rolled sleeves made it look like armor he’d been born into, not dressed in. His energy? Effortless. But lethal. He didn’t speak right away. Just looked me over like he was taking inventory of every bruise I hadn’t covered, every piece of skin still damp from the bath, every heartbeat I thought I had under control.