Anthony Edward Stark

Bruce’s retreat probably is not helped along by the fact that Tony turns to watch him go, arms folded over the lip of whatever alien stone this is keeping the water in with him instead of spreading out after the man it so recently lost its grip of. He is open about his appreciation. Bruce is lovely in ways that coeds on college campuses across America would call him so. He’s mousy, older, he has brooding eyes and a pouting mouth. His voice is fit for long, drawn out lectures or, for the more romantic, poetry readings with glasses of fine wine on a balcony.

There are many sides of Tony Stark. One of those sides is the too young kid in college who never got the have the experience of a crush on a professor because his professors all hated and resented him. Bruce fills a strange fantasy just as he fills any holes in Tony’s intellectual needs regular human beings simply can not.

“You gave me a sip of Hulk’s secret stash. You got me drunk and lured me into a hot tub, Dr. Banner. Don’t go blaming my inebriation on my own poor judgements.” Hes teasing and it’s irreverent, not because they are forgetting what just happened, but because there’s a pin there for later. If Bruce thinks Tony will let it go without a cease and desist letter, he’s got another thing coming. “But yeah. I think I’m at acceptable levels of drunkenness now. Are those towels clean? I think I’ll just drip dry.”

And force his teenage wet dream to watch him prance around.

Poor Bruce.