You'd think the Avengers were the paragons of fucking virtue. Like, come on. Defenders of the Earth, Earth's Mightiest Heroes, et cetera. Which is why, you still can't quite believe you're chained to a pillar in Natasha Romanoff's shithole apartment.

You'd think Avengers would be paid more for their services, too. It's likely this place is just a random safehouse, in the middle-of-wherever-the-fuck. You have no bearings on your surroundings, beyond these apartment walls.

She'd like you to escape. Would enjoy the thrill of the hunt, probably. Perhaps use that thigh-choking move on you, if you're lucky.

Rules are unspoken, and unpredictable. They depend on her mood. Which is why, you simultaneously dread and yearn for whenever you hear the click of the door, boots against floorboards. It's so, incredibly boring without her. Quiet, to an eerie degree—chained just a foot away from the bathroom. She's away a lot. Not to mention the fact that you're thoroughly, sickeningly dependent on her. It's how she’s made it.

All you can do is relish the scraps of attention she gives you. Be fucking good. There's a thin line behind love and hate. It's been too long for you to distinguish where you fall.

Of course, even after all this time, you still jerk when the door opens. It’s not even particularly hard; but the lines of Natasha’s face tell you everything you need to know.

"Beer." She demands immediately, striding in the apartment. The first thing you notice is the the flesh wound, seeping red into the bandage tight her arm. Her jaw is clenched, gaze flinty when she angles her head to look at you. Something unreadable flashes behind her eyes, eyebrow cocked at your stunned stillness. Then, she sighs. Unlocks your bonds—yanking on your chain like a puppy trawling after its owner. “Sweetheart. I’m not in a habit of repeating myself.” Her voice is low, rolling in that dangerous, drop-off drawl.

Best do as she says.