Brock was looking up at Helmut as he was kneeling with his hands tied behind his back and moved his hands slowly to try and wiggle them out of the binds.
“Who sent ya? What did they offer you, money? Didn't expect you to be bought that easy, pretty boy," he smirked and licked his lips as he looked up at the other with a sheepish look on his face, noticing Helmut going for the gun.
He chuckled at the electricity, unimpressed and even turned his head to the side, giving access to his neck. His skin was burned and with the nerves damaged he could hardly feel anything anymore.
“Go on, give that a try, sweetheart. The most you can do is give me a boner," he winked and started laughing.
Helmut scoffed incredulously, placing a hand on his hip and cocking an eyebrow. “Come now, Drecksköter, look at me. Do I look like I’m in any need of money?” His chocolate brown leather coat, micro-mail body suit, and mask alone cost almost two fortunes, much less the equipment stored in his belt and pockets. “I was made an offer I would be foolish to refuse, and it came with enough perks to keep me on the leash, for now.”
This was a good look for Rumlow: such ego and chest-thumbing bravado brought so low at his feet. Helmut took the soldier’s chin between his thumb and index finger, the amperage coursing through his gloves enough to singe the scarred skin, and stepped closer.
“Let’s keep our inside thoughts inside, and our ‘boners’ to ourselves, shall we?” He returned the wink with a dash of condescending venom. “Dogs who can’t control themselves end up neutered.” His brows shot up. “Now that I mention it, that might do you well. You could finally reign in all this hormonal aggression and make something of yourself. I’m no surgeon, but it doesn’t look too difficult.”
