Rdj/Tony Stark x Reader

(Rdj x Reader)

The weather was hot in Atlanta Georgia. Robert was feeling the slick of the heat slipping down his back, parching his mouth, and gathering across his forehead. It was beginning to wear him down; muscles tired, eyes drooping. He needed a cold damn water bottle. 

“Alright, that’s it,” he mumbled, getting up from his chair, where he’d been sitting and watching Chris Evans drag out a scene like only he could. “If no one’s going to offer a water bottle to a hot old man, I’m getting myself one.”

No one seemed to notice or even hear him. 

Robert huffed. “Wow, I’m invisible.”

His irritability and the heat combined served to make him even more moody. He was never a hard actor to have on set, but today, under this indescribable heat, he’d had enough. 

This is basically inhuman,” he grumbled as he made his way across set, wiping sweat off his forehead. He was bee-lining for the actor’s lounge where he could perfectly picture the fridge full of glorious cold bottles. But when he walked in and found the fridge empty, panic began to settle in. Upon seeing the basket of ice usually filled with sodas as empty as the fridge, Robert’s mouth began to feel sticky. 

Deciding to take matters into his own hands, he scrambled out into the sun, across the set, and out onto the streets of Atlanta. Looking around like a lost man in the desert, Robert found a Deli around the corner. Water called to him and he broke into a run. Who cares if TMZ snapped a pic of him running with a wild look on his face? A man had to do what a man had to do. 

He all but burst into the Deli, the bell above ringing, announcing his presence. The clerk looked up, sweat on his brows, and frowned deeply. 

“Water,” Robert demanded, his voice cracking. He sounded like Tom Hanks in Castaway. 

The clerk pointed slowly to the back. “Help yourself, sir.”

Robert rushed, pushing aside a client that was standing in the chip row. Ignoring the small “Hey”, Robert ripped the door of the fridge open, savoring the cold on his palms, grabbed a bottle, and twist the cap open. Water dribbled and poured down his chin as he gulped, darkening his shirt, cooling his chest. 

Finishing that bottle in half a second, he grabbed another, and this time, he sighed and leaned against the cold fridge door to savor that bottle. He’d buy the whole damn inventory if he had to. 

“That ought to give you a belly ache.”

Robert frowned and turned, breathless from gulping on a whole bottle, and looked to see the woman standing before him. She stood with her hip jutted out, arms crossed over her chest. Her hair in a braid, sweaty strands curling beside her rosy cheeks. Something in Robert’s chest shifted. 

“Who are you?” he asked defiantly, sipping on his water. 

Her left brow rose. “I’m Y/N.” When he shrugged, she added, “And you bumped into me without saying sorry.”

He was expecting some form of reconnaissance. Some sort of, “Oh my God, you’re RDJ.” Or maybe something along the lines of, “Iron Man!” He’d also heard variations of, “Aren’t you famous?!”

But she looked at him with the air of a woman who’d been bumped into by a savagely parched man. And she looked at him like he was crazy. Well, he was covered in water and sweat, breathless, gulping on water like he was straight out of the desert.