The ongoing adventures of Blonsky/Chris: Part 3

[moralimperative]

continued from...

"...but then it turned out it was actually a cop car," Chris really hasn't stopped speaking since they'd set off that morning through the ruins of Harlem towards the interstate, for all that he seems to get distracted every few feet or so by this or that; a lost hubcap, somebody's discarded cell phone, the blown-out storefront of a pharmacy-- he's been scavenging since sunrise, showing no apparent discretion towards what gets stowed away into the gym bag he'd found in the closet of the house they'd holed up in for the night and what gets left behind, "one of those unmarked ones? Anyway, the radio comes on with the ignition." He shrugs, as though that thought explains itself. "But he was a real nice guy, I even got to ride in the front."

Somehow he's conveniently left out the part where "borrowing" a cop car was an integral part of transporting 76 toilet seats and a lamp.

Comments

[likeamonster]

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."

[moralimperative]

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.

[likeamonster]

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.

[moralimperative]

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."

[likeamonster]

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.

[moralimperative]

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.

[likeamonster]

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.

[moralimperative]

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.

[likeamonster]

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.

[moralimperative]

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.