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.

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[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.