parallaxparilis | The ongoing adventures of Blonsky/Chris: Part 3

Surprisingly enough Chris doesn't respond beyond a half-shrug, neither defending his scavenged goods nor leaving them behind. Instead he directs his attention towards the corner Blonsky had indicated, digging through the shelves in question with an efficiency that would appear almost careless if the spoils weren't so abundantly practical. Various first aid supplies, a flashlight, a utility knife, and a handful of other goods are all tossed unceremoniously into a pocket of his duffel bag before a more meticulous once-over of the store takes place.

Eventually this leads him back to the pharmacy, leaning with his arms crossed against the opposite side of the counter while he watches the older man's search and tries to puzzle through the names and labels on each box and bottle from this distance. The pattern isn't particularly difficult to pick up on, but he asks anyway: "Looking for something specific?"

Blonsky was lost among a sea of white bottles and words both long and short he couldn't begin to understand. Put five identital guns in front of him and he could tell you their stats from a glance, including the best pick of the lot. Medicine, on the other hand, he might as well be looking at hieroglyphs.

"Protection. If I'm going to go nuclear, I want it to be my choice, and not because of emotions." A distinctive note of disdain in his voice. Radiation and blood cocktails aside, the Abomination did not control him. He was no Banner. He turns his head to the side and glanced up to his companion. "Don't suppose you can translate any of this mess, hm?"

"Let's see," Chris replies, dropping his bag on the counter and vaulting himself over to take the bottle from Blonsky's hands and look over the label himself. He turns it around once in his hand before reaching for another still on the shelves, biting his tongue in thought as he foregoes brand names in search of active ingredients; "Mephobarbital, alprazolam, pentobarbital, methaqualone..."

He tosses the first two bottles haphazardly aside, grabbing another and mumbling chemical compounds to himself before tossing that one, too. The next one he jams into the crook of his arm, collecting a few additional bottles of the same before turning with a grin. "Quaaludes-- this should do the trick." He tosses one to his companion and drops the rest into his bag, talking as he goes, "Depressant; affects blood pressure, breathing, heart rate..."

Then, abruptly, he pauses, turning back to the shelves without a word and digging through them for something else. Two bottles of diazepam get thrown into the bag as well.

That was an impressive vault. Blonsky followed it with his eyes and, while Chris went on a medicinal scavenger hunt, he simply observed. Didn't understand most of what he was saying, but the view was nice from where he was. He caught the tossed bottle reflexively and looked away from Chris's shapely behind to look it over. He shrugs, pops the lid with a flick of his thumb, and downs two pills dry.

"Good thing I got a genius by my side." He stands, places the cap on the bottle and tosses it in the bag. "What were you doing in Harlem anyway?" Offhanded question, giving no indication to how much he'd considered it the past few nights.

Chris grins in response to the word genius being thrown around so casually-- and while the smile doesn't leave his face for the question that follows, something subtle changes in his expression as a whole.

He doesn't miss a beat, though, zipping up his bag and shouldering it as he answers facetiously, "Globe trotting."

"Uh huh." Blonsky says after several seconds of watching him, expecting more than that. Of course he was disappointed, an emotion he really didn't care for. Shifting over a little, he leans against the center of the counter, with hands spread out to either side.

Quite effectively, Chris's intended exit was now blocked.

"And the fact that Harlem was falling around you, cars tossed about, buildings getting destroyed... None of that alarmed you? Must be some venture, then."

He hadn't been particularly close to the carnage as it was happening, but it was true that Chris had done the exact opposite of what most of the population had done once it started; he'd gone against the flow of panicked civilians to see what was happening, and for his trouble discovered a lone soldier hidden away in an alley at the epicenter of some truly awe-inspiring destruction. Any sensible person would have left well enough alone.

Chris, on the other hand, simply raises his eyebrows, tapping the fingers of one hand against the shoulder strap of his bag. "It is Harlem, isn't it?" As though those sorts of things happened every Tuesday.

He could not tell if that was intended as an actual answer or not. It explained nothing to his satisfaction. He could press further, but would it truly get him anywhere right now?

Possibly not. They were wasting daytime anyway. He shoves off from the edge and steps aside.

"It is, and you're strange." He says, effectively ending the topic on a somewhat cheerful note. "But, let's move on. Should get to the highway before too long."

Chris smiles in response, the expression all at once more subdued than his earlier grin while being twice as lopsided and ridiculous. He hoists himself back over the counter, only marginally less elegant than his original vault courtesy of the bag's weight across his shoulder, and follows obediently back out into the street.

Shortly thereafter he turns on his heel to walk backwards, watching a helicopter in the distance as it makes a pass over the direction they'd come from. "Where are we headed?" he asks as though the thought's only just occurred to him, holding up a hand to block the sun as he follows the helicopter across the horizon with his gaze. The highway isn't far, but from there he hadn't considered where they might go-- or where the military might follow.

Blonsky heard the helicopter ahead of Chris seeing it and appropriately disappears into a doorway while it passes. He joins him once its clear, pausing only briefly at the ridiculous behavior but making no mention of it.

"First priority is getting a car. Then-" He pauses, and there's a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes, a sudden stop to his words. He grimaces and snaps out, "Far away from this city, that's where. You got any better ideas?"

Not waiting around for a response, he turns and continues on. Further along the road are miracuously undamaged cars. Much as he'd love nothing more than to punch out a window, people tend to notice that sort of thing on the road, and so he resists. Several moments pass as he hurriedly tries every door until finally locating one unlocked. Perfect.

He hops in the driver's seat, unlocks the passenger's side for Chris, then taps his fingers idly on the wheel. "Hoping you know how to hotwire one of these. Been quite some time for me."

Tossing his bag behind the passenger's seat, Chris looks briefly out into middle distance as he (presumably) thinks back over his knowledge of cars and the appropriate electrical systems. He'd dis- and reassembled one entirely before, but there hadn't been any real intention of ensuring the car still worked afterwards.

"I think I can manage that," he decides abruptly, pulling the lever to send his seat springing upright and clambering in on his knees. Eager to prove himself up to a challenge, he doesn't give any warning before he's leaning half across the soldier's lap, reaching beneath the steering wheel to unclip the access cover and allowing himself to drop from his elbow onto his shoulder once it's been removed, twisting to see the wiring he's just exposed.

He tugs awkwardly at the wiring harness from this position before moving his legs to push against the passenger's side door, arranging himself more neatly across Blonsky's lap even as he leans back between his knees to pull the wiring harness out with a triumphant 'hah!' Next he's snapping two wires free, stripping the insulation away with his teeth before twisting the exposed conductors together.

Another wire comes free, and he bites the insulation off the end of this one as well. "GLS go for main engine start--" Chris touches the exposed end to the twisted wires, the tenuous connection lighting up as the ignition turns and eventually starts; "We have lift-off!"

An argument of some sort was anticipated which would've been shot down immediately, or a general request for him to move. Chris had done the unexpected instead, and there was a small movement of surprise when he suddenly found himself with a lap full. He'd forced himself to keep still in order to accomodate the flexible kid.

It hadn't been too difficult. The view was very distracting and he'd leaned back to see... wires in teeth. Chris and his devil may care attitude made it entirely into something it really shouldn't be. He wondered if Chris realized just what position he was in. How very tempting it would be to undo his belt, bring Chris closer, move the seat back a little. He'd drive that way, high speed, get the adrenaline going...

Too soon, way too soon, for any of that, but that didn't stop him imagining how it would go.

Without a word, expression unreadable, he holds out a hand to help him up from the odd bendy position he'd gotten himself in. Blonsky doesn't release his hand, there's a few seconds delay where he should have, might've even considered it. Instead, he holds on to his hand tighter, while his other grabs for a fistful of Chris's hair and pulls him in for a deep, bruising kiss.

Chris allows himself to be pulled upright, still trapped somewhat awkwardly across the soldier's lap without the use of his hand to push himself up and back over to his own seat-- and then it doesn't matter anyway, his free hand grappling at Blonsky's shoulder, fingers digging in hard as he makes a startled sound into the unexpected kiss.

He doesn't respond so much as he goes pliant; for all that his grip is tense and his body taut as a bowstring ready to snap, his mouth is slack, yielding.

"You're welcome," he manages in the scant space between them when at last he's granted the breath to do so, close enough that his words are spoken against the other's mouth, his tongue ghosting across Blonsky's lips when he attempts to wet his own.

It lasts only a moment, just enough for a taste, a way to test reaction before he considers other things. The boy's rigid response made him wonder just how much experience he'd had before today. If he had to guess, it would be on the very low end, if any at all.

"Always appreciate a job well done," he says with a broad grin. His one hand relaxes, moves lower, strokes the back of Chris's neck. He had been waiting to kiss him, holding off for some moral reason. Now that he has him, he's not quite ready to let him go.

He closes the gap between them, this second kiss much softer and slower than the first.

While he'd had better than average luck than the vast majority of Pacific Tech where it came to girls, 'better than average' still amounted to a scant few clandestine encounters Chris could count on the fingers of a single hand-- and never anything even remotely comparable to this. The nearest approximation had been wanting, a carefully-crafted dance of ambiguity in an effort to incite action on the other's part that never did come.

He's fully expecting to get shoved back over to his own seat once the moment ends and he stupidly says the first thing that comes to mind, so it takes an extra second for the shock to wear thin when instead Blonsky kisses him a second time, a shiver running down his spine in correlation with the gentle hand at the back of his neck. The tension in his posture melts away in the space of a tremulous sigh, swallowed by the kiss, and Chris's hand moves to wrap his arm around the older man's shoulders, pulling himself the rest of the way into Blonsky's seat in the process so that he's left straddling the soldier's lap. Still, he doesn't quite kiss back, a passive participant in allowing Blonsky's will but offering little in return.

Almost directly in spite of this, his reply (spoken once again immeasurably close, as his inaction extends to moving at all away once his lips have been relinquished) is spoken with every bit of the cocky confidence he usually exudes, if some of the effect is admittedly lost in its breathlessness; "Then you should probably know ahead of time I don't do anything halfway."

That the car is wasting gas, and they're similarly wasting time, is entirely irrelevant this moment. They're close, Chris is willing by default of his inaction, and Blonsky is finding out he enjoys the sounds the stupid genius makes. Too readily he can visualize several different ways of eliciting those responses. Chris's cocky declarations do not help him at all, either.

"Is that so?" His hand still holding Chris's shifts, rough thumb now stroking tender palm. "Prove it."

He moves in again, cheek nudging Chris's chin up, and trails light kisses down to his Adam's apple. He sucks the skin, barely grazing with his teeth before continuining on. Chris's shirt is pulled out of the way, exposing the tender bit of flesh where shoulder meets neck. There he bites, intentionally sharp, though not hard enough to bleed. He licks at the marks.

He growls then, surging forward, and the loud blaring horn startles him back. The mood's effectively killed. He blinks a few times, trying to catch his breath, and the helicopter roaring overhead is enough to bring his mind back quickly to the present, their situation, why they'd hotwired the car to start with.

"Right, well." He sighs. "To be continued later." He groans with disappointment and moves again, this time to shove Chris off him and into the passenger seat. "Time to get moving."

He'd had some smart response, but it'd been lost in the hitch of his breath the instant that Blonsky's teeth had come into play; then his back had met the steering column and unceremoniously brought a halt to everything.

Instead Chris finds himself abruptly sprawled across his own seat, back against the passenger's side door where the sun-warmed window does nothing to alleviate the heat of his skin, brought into sharp focus by the sudden lack of contact. The sound of the helicopter overhead is thankfully enough that it doesn't take long for him to catch up again, hurriedly pulling his legs back over to his own side of the vehicle (discretely--and uncomfortably--pressing the heel of his palm into his lap as he does, settling shortly for folding his arms across his knees and leaving his feet up on the edge of the seat with him).

He watches the window as the car is brought out of park and they begin for the highway and out of the city at long last, uncharacteristically quiet as he wills himself calm. None of that had gone anything like what he might have expected when he'd first decided to tag along, but more importantly: he hasn't the foggiest idea of why. He steals an evaluative glance, as though Blonsky is an equation he can solve if he only considers the variables long enough...

But trying only reels his mind back into the sensation of rough hands against his skin, teeth grazing down the length of his throat, and Chris quickly directs his attention back to the scenery outside his window.

Blonsky focuses on keeping the car at an even speed. A few twists and turns and they're on a long stretch of road, shadowed by overhanging trees and alone in every direction. With a few miles they would be on the highway. No GPS system as a guide, which saves him from having to rip it out. If he's learned anything from tracking Banner, it's to avoid anything electrical, anything they can use to find him.

He glances over at his companion, noting the way he is sitting and it doesn't take too much to figure out why. That look from moments ago was not as inconspicuous as the younger man probably wished. Blonsky says nothing, keeps his eyes on the road. Without warning he reaches over for Chris's seat belt, drags it down, clicks it in place.

"Can't be too careful. I could survive anything, but you're not as lucky."

His hand moves from the connected pieces to the lower strand, following its natural course to the obvious cause of his discomfort.

"'ello 'ello," he drawled with amusement. "Bit of a problem, that is."

He teases him through the fabric, quick enough to torture and keep him on the very edge, though slowing down before he'd go over it.

Chris's hand immediately claps down on the older man's wrist, startled by the invasive touch, but it does little in the way of discouraging or preventing what follows. He glances over a second time to see Blonsky's eyes are on the road, ostensibly paying him no attention at all were it not for the hand in his lap, and grits his teeth before leaning forward to rest his head against his knees with a soft, involuntary sound.

His usual bravado is suddenly nowhere to be found, at the mercy of his unlikely traveling companion; try as he might to regain some semblance of control over himself, he's panting by the time Blonsky eases off from his persistent torment. With a curse uttered through a pained-sounding laugh, he tightens his grip around the soldier's wrist and tries to tilt his hips up into the friction he so desperately needs. When both the seat belt and the soldier are unobliging in this task, Chris throws his head back against his seatback with a more violent swear.

"What changed?" he asks, breath still coming in short. "You didn't even want me to come--" Oh. Words. He groans; they're difficult right now. "You didn't want me along."

The Freudian slip earns a devilish smile from Blonsky. His tongue moves slowly over one of his canines as he watches Chris. He's beautiful like this, flushed and desperate. He turns back to the road, seemingly contemplating an answer, while he works at the zipper.

"You're useful. Proved that the first night we met." Undone now, he moves his hand inside, caressing the skin there. "A genius too," he rambles on, his nearly impassive tone disconnected from his movements. "Rare sorts, you know. Nice to have one for an ally."

He moves the zipper down for easier access, assisted by Chris's frantic need.

"I'm short on those these days, you know" he pauses, turns onto another street, this one just as abandoned as the last. "Especially quick-thinking ones."

That's all the warning Chris gets before Blonsky moves, his actions a blur. Both hands are off the wheel now, and the car accelerates rapidly. He takes Chris fully into his mouth, lightly strokes the sensitive skin with his teeth before using his tongue in ways he knows will drive the younger man crazy.

Two things happen simultaneously: Chris keens, and the car lurches unbidden off to the side of the road before he can make a grab for the abandoned steering wheel, feet slipping clumsily from their perch at the edge of his seat in his haste.

His heart is pounding wildly in his chest as the speedometer mercilessly climbs, foot braced against the floor where a brake pedal would be if he were only in the driver's seat. It's impossible to tell whether it's the engine or his own blood rushing in his ears, but he clutches the wheel in sweaty palms and tries to speak over the deafening rush of sound with a shuddering breath; "Stop--"

Stop the car, he chokes on the rest of the words as Blonsky drags his teeth from root to tip, deceptively mindful of the fine line between pain and pleasure, and Chris forces himself through sheer force of will to hold steady on the road.

Blonsky doesn't stop. Not even close. He eases up, just a little, on the pedal. But they're still pushing 65-75, if he had to guess, or was even thinking about the speedometer right now.

He's neither gentle or teasing now, taking Chris in deep, swallowing, backing off slowly, repeating the motion. A small sound as the tip hits the back of his throat but he doesn't let up; what's oxygen to a guy that can't die? That thought gets to him, a jolt right to the dick, and he moans. It's why he's going so far, taking such risks. Not holding back on pain. He wants to push the limits well beyond the breaking point now. Are there even any left with his blood raging, full of gamma, and fuck knows what else?

And he's found the perfect boy to experiment with.

His own need throbbing now, no longer subdued since this death defying endeavor began. Wet strands of loose hair fall against his cheek but he doesn't brush them away, doesn't care. His hand goes for his own pants, unzips, works himself in time with his movements on Chris.

He slams the accelerator to the floor before finally easing off completely.

Edited 2012-12-11 10:04 (UTC)

When Chris comes undone it's an experience unlike any other, his pleasure so tangled up in fear and desperation that where one ends and the other begins is impossible to define. He shudders with a noise not unlike a broken sob as relief (from Blonsky's unrelenting assault on his senses, that the car is coasting back down to a manageable speed) washes over him, barely enough wits about him to ensure that the car hasn't drifted too far off to the side of the road during the moments he was otherwise indisposed.

It isn't until then, as he's trying in vain to catch his breath while his pulse continues to race, that an entirely separate danger occurs to him. Dazed, he can't help but wonder if Blonsky is or was aware enough of his own physiological state to command such complete control over it-- or if he simply hadn't cared.

Every instinct tells him that if ever there was a time to cut and run, this is it. Instead he laughs, a touch hysteric, as the car coasts to a stop. Chris lets his hands drop limply from the wheel; "You'll be short one more before long, at that rate." But his eyes are wide and glossy from endorphins and adrenaline crash, and he turns them on the soldier with a look that wants in equal parts to the fear still bleeding out of him.

Blonsky swallows quickly all that Chris gave him before finally dragging his mouth away. His eyes flutter open briefly, showing a bright green glow as he moved back to his own side of the car. He was in a between state of himself and the beastly form, all primal now. There was a loud tearing sound as he ripped off his right sleeve, then his focus returns to finishing himself off. He climaxes with a snarl through gritted teeth then a final gasp. The wadded up cloth was tossed out of his window a moment later.

He slumps back against his seat catching his breath, adrenaline and heart beat racing. He can feel the change, so close, just within reach. If he pushed for it, he knew it'd happen, and part of him wants it. That part always does. He forces himself to calm down, deep breaths, feeling a dazed kind of euphoria, and the urge to destroy something--or someone--eventually subsides. After a few blinks his eyes return to their normal shade.

The gaze is no less intent for that, his focus entirely on Chris now. The one who still remains when he had every chance to run. His grin is less than sane when he finally responds to him. It's decisive, allowing no room for arguments. "No, I won't." He pauses, licks his lips, the next a seductive threat, full of dangerous promise. "You're not going anywhere."

After adjusting himself back to decent, he considers his opposite sleeve before tearing that off too, and tossing it casually to the side. Within moments they're back on the road, at a normal speed.

Chris shivers in response, the part of him that had urged run mollified for now. He hums in acknowledgement as he tucks himself back into his pants, hands clumsy in his current blissed-out state, but says nothing more on the subject one way or the other.

Instead, ignoring the fact that he could now sit properly in his seat without trouble, he draws his feet back up onto his seat in order to sit cross-legged. He watches the scenery for a moment, Blonsky for a moment more, and then, at last, he speaks again: "Best guess says 500 miles before we have to either fill up or ditch the car," suddenly on-task as though that lapse in judgement hadn't occurred at all, giving away the fact that he'd been back to doing mental math in that short stretch of silence, "Barring extenuating circumstance."

He shrugs, offering the soldier a look that says 'you'd know better than I would' in that respect.

The ongoing adventures of Blonsky/Chris: Part 3

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