Loki crouched down so that he and Natasha were almost face-to-face, picking up her handgun as he did so.
"Humans use such primitive weapons," he said, running the muzzle down her cheek. She refused to flinch. "I prefer more… sophisticated methods."
He snapped the gun in two, tossing the pieces away carelessly.
"Now," he continued, cupping her chin with a hand, "I believe some groveling is in order."
"If you think I'd ever give you that satisfaction, you're even crazier than I thought you were," Natasha snapped.
Loki quirked an elegant eyebrow. "Hmm, I see the spider still has some bite. Let me rectify that."
He grabbed her by the hair, hauling her to her feet, and slammed her up against the kitchen counter. She was pinned against the counter by his body, one of his knees between her legs so that she couldn't kick at him, and her good arm was trapped against him. She hated the pressure between her legs and the way their bodies were pressed so closely against each other. She tried to claw his eyes with her bad hand, prepared to weather the pain, but he grabbed it and wrenched it hard enough that she gasped.
"You are surprisingly tenacious," Loki told her almost admiringly as he yanked her hair back far enough that their lips were almost brushing. "I admit, it's quite… stimulating. You fill my head will all manner of exciting fantasies."
"I bet you have plenty of experience fantasizing," Natasha said scornfully, trying to distract him enough so that she could yank her good arm free. "After all, what woman on Asgard would look your way when she could go for your brother?"
Loki's smile disappeared, and the hand that had been wrapped in her curls now wrapped around her throat painfully.
"That pretty mouth of yours is going to get you in trouble someday," he hissed, lifting her off her feet. He slammed her up against the kitchen cabinet, and her legs kicked uselessly as she tried to gain some traction. "I think we'll put it to better use soon. I think there are a lot of things we'll do soon."
Natasha scratched at his fingers but it did no good. Her lungs burned from the lack of air, and her vision was starting to swim.
"Just kill me and get it over with," she managed to wheeze out. "I'm sick of your voice."
Loki laughed darkly. "Sweet Natasha, who said anything about killing you? I might kill Barton. I haven't decided yet. If I do, rest assured you'll be there to watch. But I never planned to kill you. There are so many other ways to break you, and I want you to live with those memories for a long, long time."
Natasha groped for anything to use as a weapon. Her fingers felt the cool metal of the sink and she could just brush against the handle of something she couldn't quite make out. But she couldn't reach it. She knew she didn't have much time; it was getting harder and harder to move her muscles.
"I think I'll just hold you here until you pass out," Loki continued, running his free hand up her leg and stroking her exposed abdomen. He leaned in closer, his lips against her ear. "When you're more manageable, we can take a trip to the basement and figure out the best way to finish off your lover. Maybe the last thing he'll see is me exploring that lovely body of yours. Do you think he'd appreciate that?"
Natasha stretched further, muscles screaming. But she was able to wrap her fingers around the handle. Desperately, she grabbed it, figuring out from its weight that it was a frying pan. She swung it hard and smashed it into the side of Loki's head with a tremendous crash. Loki hurled her down against the cabinet, where she bounced off onto the ground. She landed on her bad hand, and the pain that hit her was almost numbing, but at the same time she felt something underneath her. It was one of Clint's knives—she didn't know it was the one he'd tried to throw at Loki earlier.
"Witch," Loki growled, pouncing at her.
Without really thinking, Natasha grabbed the knife and thrust it up at him—plunging her knife straight through his left hand. It skewered the bone with a terrible crunch, and Loki shrieked as blood started gushing out around it. He jerked his hand away, taking the knife with it, as Natasha scrambled to her feet.
"Now we're even," she called over her shoulder as she ran for the basement. She realized she'd be weaponless and cornered if she went down the steps, but all that mattered to her was getting to Clint. So she flung open the door and launched herself down the steps.