#kingcrossbones

Loki had briefly started to sit up, but the harshly growled whisper to stay down kept him in his place. He was all for keeping himself alive and safe and if this man's tone was anything to go off of, it would serve him well to listen. His green eyes were focused intensely on the man next to him, "Who is 'they' and why are you helping me?" He asked, voice barely above a whisper to avoid arousing the attention of the other people in the room.

Steve had fought hard to win that battle in the elevator. That had been the start when he lost the name Steve and became the second asset. The commander had just been in the brain blender in the morning.

He was breathing heavily when he came to the his leader Brock Rumlow. He brought his head to rest on the leaders shoulder and shook violently.

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@kingcrossbones thank you for the tag, lovely! this was fun!

Desperate times demanded bold actions. With a frustrated grunt, he tossed aside the newspaper, revealing Brock Rumlow’s masked face, a sight etched deep in his memory. Rumlow had transformed from a survivor of the collapse into a menacing figure of terror; perhaps even baiting Miss America and his team. ( The thought sent a wave of irritation through him; the Avengers would undoubtedly rush to intervene. ) Lucien had little patience for heroic ideals—life was far more complicated. He had long abandoned childish dreams; a hero was not what he needed to save Valentin.

Instead, he required someone steeped in HYDRA’s dark philosophies. After a failed attempt to breach the derelict base, which nearly resulted in disaster, he needed a new strategy. The solution lay within the ink of that newspaper: Brock fucking Rumlow.

From the shadows now, he observed Rumlow’s movements, watching for the right moment to strike. It was almost entertaining to see Rumlow confront Miss America, but it was the glint of his intentions that captured Lucien's focus. ( In an instant decision, he leaped from the rooftop, somersaulting through the air. ) A protective shield enveloped Rumlow as the explosion erupted, a surge of energy threatening to consume them both. With a determined grunt, he strained against the searing heat, his grace forming a barrier,  knocking Maximoff aside.

‘Not a fucking chance, Princess. He is mine.’

@kingcrossbones

Ross' eyes glowed as he followed Brock to the driver's side. With a finger, he slammed the door hard enough to rattle the glass. If he used two fingers, he'd crush the door.

" Brock Rumlow. Member of HYDRA. Codenamed Crossbones. And that's just the first sentence of SHIELD's dossier on you.

Now, if you fucking looked at me you'd know exactly who the fuck I am. And you're really fucking pissing me off right now."

He started digging one finger into the metal, the steel turning red as it began to liquify around the small area.

Ross' eyes glowed red as his voice began to turn husky, more dangerous.

“P-please just…” Q didn’t know what to ask for; he didn’t really want to be left alone nor did he want Brock to shut up, he just didn’t want him to say stuff like that when he was overwhelmed. People were moving around them, far too close for Q's liking, along with so much noise he just wanted to crawl under a rock.

‘C-Commander.’ 

A sudden, high-pitched squeak escaped him in response to the teasing voice, his gaze immediately falling to the polished boots that made his knees feel like jelly. ( His eyes traced every inch of the gleaming leather, a sheen of desire in his gaze as he struggled against the overwhelming urge to leap towards them. ) He stood there, rigid and still, fully aware that any movement without permission would be out of line. His place was clear, his role defined, and so he remained as submissive as ever, his tongue darting out to moisten his dry lips. He had braced himself for ridicule when Brock discovered his secret fetish, but to his surprise, Brock had shown nothing but kindness, his demeanor unexpectedly considerate. 

‘M-May I?’

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.