The Dark Mistress

Taglist: (if anyone wants to be added for this fic just let me know!)

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You can’t really fathom how you got here in the first place, but you find that recounting the tale hardly matters in the grand scheme of things. Especially when you’re one second away from tumbling off the building’s roof you’re dangled upside down over, as the one who holds your fate in his hands is mocking the superhero before him. Your own insistence on ensuring you aren’t flashing them is yet another minor detail with your new victim title card, but you can’t help but force the fabric of your skirt upward anyway out of pure, instinctual habit.

“You can save her by giving me what I need, what you took from me! If you don’t…” His scuffed shoes shuffle closer to the edge of the roof, and you’re dangling farther out in the air. “One wrong move and the poor lady gets it.” He growls while shaking the leg he entraps you with for effect, and the violent swaying is nauseating enough for you to groan unpleasantly. “Would be a shame to see ‘er brains spread a—ll over the street. Mindless violence for a simple solution, eh?”

You shiver, from both the harsh chill of the wind that passes and your kidnapper’s cruel words. You can’t help it when your mind and heart race faster at the thought of your upcoming fate. You do your best to not imagine it, but it is difficult for your mind to stray from it. This guy was way too mentally unstable for you not to fall, even if his wishes were granted. At any point, before you could even comprehend it, those grubby fingers will release. The blood continuously rushing to your head doesn’t help matters.

You almost think you hear the armored suit wrong when he calls your kidnapper’s bluff, literally mocking him with a robotic scoff: “please, you really think I care what happens to her? You should be more worried about yourself,” before immediately attacking him via screeching repulsor blast, but your sudden freefall is all the confirmation you need. You could only manage a shocked gasp, choking on the heart now beating in your throat as the wind effortlessly whips through your hair and layers of clothing.

You fancy reaching out to grab the flagpole protruding from the same structure you’re falling by to stop your descent as it grows ever closer, but you easily visualize the scene in mere milliseconds: you end up inadvertently pulling your arms out of your sockets from such a fast velocity— rendering your drop more wild and gruesome— and it sufficiently scares you out of acting upon that idea.

There’s not much else to do but tuck your arms close to your body and await whatever lies below, mentally belittling yourself for even attempting to go out this morning if this was what you would encounter. Seeing how swiftly the ground is approaching, you close your eyes tightly and hope that somehow, against all odds, that the impact would hurt less this way.

Perhaps you’d black out before the pain even registers.

Something solid stops your free fall abruptly, gripping you tightly toward it. And while your mind and stomach violently spin from the disorientation, you recognize that it’s not the flat concrete that you were expecting to impact. Whatever holds you is still something unyieldingly solid though, and seems to hum with some kind of energy. You almost shriek at the sudden contact with what limited air supply you have, but you still stubbornly keep your eyes shut— too scared of what you might witness next.

Your descent then continues gently, the wind now delicately caressing your tear-stained cheeks in a mock-soothing fashion before the motion slows considerably, and stops. It is then you recognize you’ve been held under your knees and upper back. When the firm grip on you shifts, you’re positioned to where your feet touch down on what feels to be solid ground. The foreign hold on your body releases only after you fully stabilize yourself. Finally opening your eyes, you fail to see anything past the shiny armor that blinds you like a pair of high beam headlights. You hear a chuckle as you try to visually adjust, stepping away with a groan and rubbing your lids with both hands.

The next thing you observe as you refocus is something of a mocking smile painted on the face of your savior. He looks at you behind white metal gleaming under the full sunlight, somewhat expectantly. It befuddles you enough to keep staring, looking for an answer you don't receive. The intense cologne emanating from him clouds your senses further. “Got you speechless, hm? No need to thank me; your reverence is enough, sweetheart. Then again, if you want to shower me in praise, I won't stop you.”

“You let me fall off a building,” you deadpan, wrinkling your brows as a more neutral emotion morphs itself across your features. The question you had conjured up and were about to pose is immediately buried upon clocking his condescension.

“All in the past.” Tony brushes you off, waving a hand in the air akin to dismissal as stray ravenette locks flop around with the shake his head makes. “And you weren't even scratched. That's a win-win in anybody's book.”

As you wordlessly stare at him, his phrasing soaking into your brain the longer you stand there while a crowd forms around you both, you come to a startling conclusion.

This is the man who chose to shoot first, come to your aid later, and expect your undying devotion that he even showed up— equating himself to a god-like figure for the bare minimum. Not even sorry for his verbal bashing on the roof. And judging by the sea of cameras and pedestrians circling the two of you, air littered with sounds of curiosity and praise, the rest of the world had a completely different narrative of him. And they were too engrossed in the presence of the cocky man before you to even care to hear what you had just said.

Too frustrated to hide it, you brush your clothes from the grime it collected during your unsavory morning, adamant on avoiding his attentive ice-blue eyes as you huff in displeasure. “Could’ve warned me with a signal or something…”

“How ‘bout this,” he starts slowly, showcasing a charming smile you barely notice out of the corner of your eye, but succeeds in amping up the fans’ rowdiness. “The next time you find yourself in trouble, just call for your superior, and Iron Man will gladly save you.” Tony lifts his hand, flipping it over to expose the bluish glow emanating from his fingertips in some vague, placating gesture you couldn’t care to comprehend the meaning of. “Wanna smile for the cameras, sweetheart?” His tone dips low, grin slowly morphing into something feral the longer you don’t respond. Even still, he attempts to coax you into playing along with barely any concealed subtlety, wiggling those digits tauntingly like a devil proposing a deal. “Make sure they get your good side?” More clicks and shutters fill the air, and as he pivots his head to wink and salute toward them, your patience wears itself thinner.

“There won’t be a next time,” you grumble to yourself more than anything, knowing his focus on you won’t be returning. Promptly spinning on your heel, you march away, careless what direction you’re actually going in as long as it’s opposite of him. You refused to entertain someone who insinuated your kidnapping was your fault— rescuer or not— and acted like your almost-death was as inconsequential as his own actions.

“Sure there won’t,” your ears vaguely catch it, the way the drawl hints at something more underneath the layered calls of the crowd converging onto him, reminiscent of a teasing promise. It only serves to fuel the irritation boiling inside you. Those emotional flames burn hotter as you roughly shoulder past insistent reporters shoving different devices in your face, continuously exclaiming his name as they desperately hound you for a juicy comment.

After today, Iron Man was not classified as a hero in your book— someone who cared for the well-being of Californian citizens as you once were led to believe by his past deeds. Rather, he was a self-centered prick who only prioritized spinning his actions to look favorable in the public eye, despite its less glamorous context. Someone who would gladly step on the little guy with no remorse, purely for his own gain.

There was absolutely no way in hell you would ever call him for help. Nothing about that experience was heroic in the slightest.

You almost wished you had kept falling. Better yet, never even got out of bed today.