Anthony Edward Stark

Tony doesn’t do clubs. They’re too noisy, forcing you to get right into personal spaces to shout vague things at people who probably have no idea what you’re selling. “Traded it for war paint!” for instance, shouted at Bruce to explain his waist up nakedness, had actually been ‘traded it for water.’ And technically, neither makes sense so there’s no matter about it.

Tony hates clubs for other reasons too. People tend not to respect your boundaries. They’re always running against you on purpose or in passing and both, when the experiment isn’t controlled, doesn’t please him in the slightest. Usually. He’s bumped into by a tall, purple squiggly line with eyes, which makes him bump into Banner, but there are worse things that could happen (and have already happened) so he just grooves on with it. It’s ridiculous. He doesn’t seem to mind.

And usually, there’s only young idiots in clubs who are as interesting as sand but he wraps an arm around Bruce’s neck, seeing as he’s the coolest guy he knows other than himself. So all in all, the rave isn’t really all that bad.

“I think you’re a Jew,” Tony shouts, a garbled version of the intended: ‘I was looking for you.’

Words really aren’t that important. Sakaar, and all of its hedonistic ways to forget that you’re in Sakaar, has made talking mostly obsolete. Kissing is better. And there’s nothing lost in transmission that way.