Post by ♥ Nathan ♥ on Jun 10, 2012 16:52:27 GMT -5
Jericho said:
Las Vegas, city of sin and vice --
and Jericho is horribly bored.
He plays the tables, he stalks the casinos. Plastic people with plastic smiles stroke his ego and attempt to weasel their way into his good graces because he is a man that reeks of indulgence. From his expensive cologne, to his Dolce & Gabbana suit, to the sleek silver Rolex that sits on his wrist – they all read High Roller, and who is Jericho to disappoint. He throws his money around flippantly, with an air of arrogance attributed to bluebloods and Ivy League-bred blowhards -- and he does it all with a charming grin and a sharp wit. The Bostonian waves away the losses with feckless disregard, and though the night is yet young, he has the resident sycophants and schmoozers eating out of his hand. They are brainless pigeons pecking at his boots for scraps but there is one among them that has taken special interest in Jericho’s antics.
Their eyes meet from across the room and Jericho draws a calculating look over the man. The stranger wears a leather jacket and has a face reminiscent of a rat, but it is not the man’s appearance that catches Jericho’s curiosity. There is something in his eyes, in his posture, and there are molecules suggesting wolf floating in the air. With a sweet smile and a measured joke, Jericho excuses himself from the women gathered at his sides. He nods towards the back wall and the stranger moves to meet him there. After an exchange of cursorary stares, it becomes clear that there are wolves in Vegas.
They do not bother with small talk. The stranger has seen Jericho’s propensity towards gambling, and gambling big. He calls the Bostonian out, says with that kind of money, he should play a real game. There is enough left unsaid to whet the Bostonian’s appetite for adventure, and when the stranger hands him a slip of paper with directions scrawled onto it, he thinks the night may have finally become interesting.
The city lights burn bright and colorful against the desert night sky, but the city and all her doldrums are to be left behind. He drives with the hood of his rented convertible down and taps his fingers against the steering wheel to the raucous beat emanating from the stereo. Five miles out of the city, and in a seemingly forgotten expanse of Nevadan desert, stands a warehouse. There is enough fencing and security to have him suspicious but at a brazen twenty-five years of age, the man feels untouchable. He pulls up to the gate and the guard leans down to fix a hard glare onto Jericho. Never one to be easily dismayed, the corners of the werewolf’s mouth curl into a bright, if pretentious smirk.
”Keep on staring like that, and a guy might get the wrong idea,” he purrs out in a velvet rumble, and gives no indication that he is remotely intimidated. The guard only rolls his eyes and ushers the werewolf in with the wave of his hand. Jericho parks the car and takes a moment to wonder if this is a good idea before mentally shrugging his concerns away.
He finds that the warehouse disguises nothing more than a werewolf-exclusive club. Jericho pushes inside like he owns the place and hits the bar before venturing deeper into the complex. There is a crowd gathering, loud and energetic, near a boxing arena. The smell of sweat is heavy in the air and the Bostonian might find the whole ordeal unseemly if it was not for the way his wolf is stirring. There are beasts all around and the atmosphere is ripe for violence; they are hungry for it—he is hungry for it.
A hand on his back gives the werewolf a start and turns to face the weathered scowl of a bookie. ”You’re new here – I can tell. So, peaches,” he sniffs unattractively and Jericho shoulders away from his touch. ”You gonna place a bet, or what?” There is challenge in the man’s tone and Jericho is not one to back down. Green eyes move to rink and he looks at each contender, weighs his options, then delivers the bookie a confident smirk. ” Five grand on the pretty one,” he shoots in a nonchalant drawl, turns on the heel of his expensive shoes and takes his place among the rabble.
The bell rings, the opponents begin their practiced dance, and Jericho's eyes follow his contender with focused intent.
Nathan said:
Days are for control, and nights are for losing it.
Where his employment may require a certain flawless level of authority and command over his wolf, evenings at the club allow Nathan to unleash that animal – to channel it in a force released on the end of his fists. It is why he finds himself here so frequently, offering the beast an outlet it is otherwise so denied; and it is why he is poised, shirtless, on the outside of a crudely constructed arena, his wolf pacing hungry beneath his skin. The animal ascends to a demanding presence in his mind as he saunters into the square, casual, and its conceited feelings of arrogance and self-import bleed through to human consciousness.
His partner in this dance is large, certainly, but relatively unknown; Nathan has been fighting at this club for months, and if he hasn’t heard of the man by now, he suspects it’s for a reason. The heavyweight brute does not prove him wrong – he fights with the uncontrolled air of a man who’s seen this on television, who is used to the reckless, swinging blows the cushion of a glove allows. It is a style Nate has come to associate with the inexperienced, one wholly inappropriate for a bare-knuckled match against a quicker opponent. The ensuing clash is swift and brutal; Nate is all practiced, quick jabs and dangerous skill, crippling body blows that keep his vulnerable hands safe – and though he staggers when a lucky swing clips the side of his head, he does not balk. When an opportunity prevents itself, the werewolf takes it, and the flat of his fist cracks home into his challenger’s jaw.
His opponent drops to the floor, writhing and twisting horribly with the rage the painful strike induces – but it is too late, and his wolf will not save him. He passes out as he succumbs to his change, and Nate steps back with a shake of his bloodied and bruised hand, winded and sweating. The roar of the crowd – a wild noise loosed from beasts hungry for blood – surges back into his ears, and in capitulation, Nathan lifts an arm into the air as he catches his breath. Stepping from the ring, the werewolf is greeted by a familiar cadre of supporters, by congratulations and laughter, and is ushered to a nearby stool – upon which he unceremoniously drops himself. Someone returns with his t-shirt and he shrugs himself back into it; a beer is pressed into his hands, and Nathan slowly relaxes, content to bask in the receding flood of adrenaline and endorphins.
It’s a short-lived reverie. Chris, a notorious bookie, pulls the werewolf aside to whisper in his ear – something regarding a certain high roller – and though Nate sneers at the prospect of running promotions, he shrugs in reluctant agreement. The club offers him certain perks for his regularity, for the money he brings in – and if that means working the crowd in exchange, he’ll bow to the request when it seldom happens. Keeping fresh blood close and maintaining the steady flow of cash is well within the interests of both the facility and the fighter – so if they want schmoozing, Nate will schmooze. Chris sends him on his way with a nod in the Bostonian’s direction, and the werewolf shoves himself lazily off his stool, beer in hand.
The man he approaches is not strictly out of place, but he certainly isn’t a regular – not if his clothing is anything to judge by. The club is not particularly known for its class, despite the blue-blooded cartel it often caters to, and a suit worth nearly the price of the bet he’d made stands out amongst the crowd. The stranger’s act of fitting in is made passable only by his body language, by the natural air with which he controls the space around him – a sense amplified by a projection of arrogant belonging and ownership. In a place where hierarchy grows muddied and confused, here dominance and arrogance stand strong, innate; and Nate is not a man to let subtlety pass him by. His wolf rises reflexively, testing, and while the animal does not strictly bristle, it lurks behind his eyes with a feral curiosity. Though it has grown used to sharing this space – it is protective, but does not view the club as territory – it will always be suspicious of novelty.
Still, the demon’s bloodlust is certainly sated, and Nate has no problem keeping the beast in hand. He locks eyes with the well dressed stranger, ignorant to – or simply heedless of – the danger, idly swirling the dark liquid within the bottle he holds. ”Heard tell I made you some money,” he begins – and though it is a smug statement, his expression is friendly and unchallenging, a bold smirk settled easily on his features. Nate’s pride, too, is honest, if bolstered by a lurking cocksure sentiment drawn from his overconfident wolf. ”You enjoy the fight?”
Jericho said:
Ten seconds into the fight, and Jericho knows he has made the right bet. His contender moves with practiced grace, with an assuredness that the werewolf both admires and finds captivating. Under the harsh florescent glow of the warehouse’s jimmy-rigged lighting, the contenders trade blows and the atmosphere in the room grows tighter, frenetic. The wolves, though hidden, are reacting and the jeers echoing off cement and steel walls are as chaotic as a baying pack of hounds. They are incensed and Jericho, refined blueblood, cannot help but be drawn into the animalistic sway. A beast lurks beneath his skin, and it makes the neck beneath his collar run hot in an anticipatory flush. He should not be surprised; it has been some time since he last fed his better (worse) half.
His five grand investment takes a hit but does not so much as flinch, and Jericho smirks in smug satisfaction. It is at this point he knows the fight is won. Whiskey hits his tongue rich and gold, and he smiles against the glass as the lummox hits the ground and does not get up. The fight is done and his contender stands victorious, and while the losers whine and shout, Jericho stands still and quiet. Green eyes follow the black-haired fighter as he leaves the ring and for the second time this night, the werewolf’s curiosity is piqued. This was not about the money; it was about winning, it was about being right. Jericho’s ego is a hungry, wretched thing and at this moment it is satiated and expanding-- but the need to discover more about the nimble fighter remains.
The Bostonian peels away from the rabble and decides to bide his time by the bar. He orders a second drink and is fishing out his pack of cigarettes when it is the fighter that decides to find him. The stranger speaks and Jericho merely glances at him with disinterest. It is the card of the feckless playboy he decides to play first. Jericho lights his cigarette, takes a short drag and blows the smoke out the corner of his mouth. ”Did they send you to make nice with me – or my wallet,” he drawls and sends the fighter a knowing look. Beneath the layers of pretentiousness, there is humor; it reads dark and a little dangerous, but playful. The werewolf turns around and leans against the bar, and the look he rakes slow and curious over the stranger is far from innocent-- and that is Jericho’s intent.
A smile, clever but subtle, forms on his lips and reaches his eyes. ”Jericho Malik.” He extends a hand and should Nathan take it, he will find a business card slipped into his palm. It is a slight of hand that has the lawyer smirking self-assuredly. ”Esquire.” The air of arrogance is back and the werewolf takes a moment to regard the other with a pair of feral green eyes. The stranger’s wolf might be satisfied but Jericho’s is in a ravenous state; coming to the club may have not been the best idea considering the nature of his beast. It lurks behind his eyes, finds presence within his smirk, and is resolutely rooted in the Bostonian’s demeanor.
”You were something else up there,” he extends as an obvious compliment. Jericho sips from his glass and waits a beat. ”Got me all excited.” Subtlety has no place here but it is difficult to tell if the pass is honest or nothing more than a game. ”It’s such a shame that it ended so quickly. You’d think a big guy like that would know how to last.” He looks Nate in the eye. ”I’m sure you can, though.” Innuendo is held delicate within his drawl and is left free to interpretation, free to wonder over.
He allows the suggestions and implications to percolate between them before dropping his eyes to Nate’s cheek. ”How’s the face?” Jericho’s tone is light with false concern, but the humor is still there lurking in his stare. He is pushing and prodding, testing the waters and tugging at threads to see how things might unravel. Curiosity may have killed the cat, but the wolf pursues it with reckless fascination.
Under the establishment's poor light, the werewolf's toothy grin seems sharp and predatory.
Nathan said:
Fighting – winning – may satisfy his inner demon, but it always sets Nathan’s blood burning, coursing through his veins in a heady mixture of adrenaline and reassured dominance. This man had watched him, and not the other way around; it is the werewolf’s own skill and ability that has padded the stranger’s pockets tonight, and though the animal urges beneath his skin are safely walled away, his beast is still brimming with unwavering superiority. The emotion is enough to leave Nathan unfazed at Jericho’s relative apathy; enough to allow him to stand, bold and seemingly unamused, before the lawyer’s assessing gaze. In the wolf’s simple understanding, Nate has already proved himself tonight – what has Jericho, save meaningless trappings of paper and thread?
It is a feeling his human half embraces, and he allows it to influence him.
Eyes locked in understated defiance, Nathan takes a slow swig from his drink, and his lips pull back from his teeth as he swallows the bitter liquid down. ”Nate,” he replies, accepting the offered handshake with a snide quirk of his brow, ”security.” Fuck you, too. The word drips with unimpressed sarcasm. Titles and honorifics mean little, but presentation is everything, and Jericho is certainly doing his best to present. Easing back, Nathan’s wry expression does not acknowledge the card he finds himself palming, though he turns it over between his fingers. His is a world of both accommodation and intimidation, of subtle and well understood power games, and rolling with the punches is a natural act; he slips the item into his back pocket, and proceeds to pretend to forget it exists.
”Nathan Hart,” the man clarifies, allowing the brief, abrasive moment to fall away. ”But you’re welcome.” The seat beside Jericho vacates; Nate slides into it, facing the other man with one elbow on the bar, his posture relaxed and casual. ”For the money, and the excitement.” He raises his bottle in toast to the mocking implication, shooting the Bostonian a knowing look – that if this is a game, he would be happy to conceitedly assume all responsibly for the stranger’s good fortune, and play Jericho off as thankful. Indebted. ”—And I’m always good for another round.” The ensuing smug smirk is a brazen, shameless thing, and Nathan breaks eye contact to let the returned innuendo sit – to tilt his head away and draw the moment out in upturning his beer. He discards the empty bottle on the bar behind them, and when that blue gaze returns to settle on the sharp lines of the lawyer’s face, his smile is laced with a wary curiosity.
”Seems to have caught your interest,” comes the taunting reply, and Nate swipes the pad of his thumb along the purple bruise that has blossomed beneath his eye. ”So I figure it must be fine.” Despite the playfully bandied words, he suspects he is being toyed with – that he is certainly in no shape to be the subject of an arrogant aristocrat’s advances – and so the flirtatious statement is edged with indifference. An eye for an eye, then; an equal exchange for Jericho’s prior ambiguity, and Nathan’s commitment to the charade remains similarly unverified. The implication on the air is enough to keep him lingering, hungry, but the werewolf refuses to be caught up in some purposeful misunderstanding. Not in the first steps of this dance.
Because those eyes – that carnivore smile – they take the notion that he has misconstrued and render it absurd, and that alone has his hackles up and his wolf awake. Nathan leans forward, body filling and controlling a portion of the space between them, and pins Jericho with a narrow stare. ”Yours, though—“ and he eases away, softens the moment with yielding body language and an inviting smile. ”Well, I’d hate to see a face like that ruined in a fight. You ever taken a punch, Malik?” The werewolf certainly has his own ideas, and though the question is loaded, goading – an assertion of his own masculinity while casting doubt on Jericho’s own – he manages to sound honestly curious. Good-natured.
...And complimentary, though the flattery is nearly lost in the dangerous sending of mixed signals. Because while Nate is determined to avoid appearing the victim in Jericho’s game, and though his wolf is a dominant, proud thing, the other man’s inherent confidence and overwhelmingly feral demeanor leave him feeling remarkably like prey.
Jericho said:
Where Jericho pushes, Nate pushes back. Little ground is given and little ground is lost in their esoteric game of words and posturing. The blue-eyed werewolf sets himself apart from the mundane flock of flatterers and bruisers by having bite. There is tantalizing authority in the other man’s posture, in the set of his jaw and the broad line of his shoulders. Jericho does not miss the way Nate commands the area around them and he responds by shifting closer into the man’s space. It is one delicate play after the other and though Jericho does not yet know the goal, he is an able participant.
Assessing eyes move over the fighter’s features and Jericho allows an accommodating smile. ”You wear your ego well,” is his measured observation. Fingers tap his cigarette into the ashtray and Jericho takes a light drag. He turns to Nate and leans in like a professional about to impart a trade secret. They are close now and sharing enough space to be misconstrued as intimate. ”But I wear mine better.” The statement serves as its own evidence and what follows is a bold smirk and a graceful, if challenging, arch of his brow. He snuffs the cigarette into the mass grave of discarded buds and takes to nursing his drink.
He is caught mid-sip, frozen with cautious suspicion when the other werewolf moves closer. Jericho lowers the glass onto the bar top and meets that sharp blue stare and holds it. There is no hesitance, no indication that the esquire might be intimidated. The nearly-tense moment dispels when Nate backs away and delivers his question, and it is a query that elicits a smooth chuckle from Jericho. ”No, but plenty of men have tried.” His attitude and the nature of his occupation have earned the Bostonian his fair share of enemies, but where Nate has his practiced moves to save him from harm, Jericho has his words and his father’s influence. ”But I’m off limits –“ He makes the first real breach of personal space by drawing his fingers over Nathan’s knee. ”—to most.” The touch lingers delicate and then is gone quick enough to be ignored and written off as an accident.
His animal has been a grating presence at the back of his mind since touching down in Vegas. This city of lights and indulgence is a sensory overload to an extreme. The stench of vice clings to every building, to every street, and it has his beast rankled, ready for a hunt. The wolf, like his human counterpart, has a taste for decadence and Jericho has not so much as thrown it a scrap. He can feel the feral presence lurking beneath his skin; an itch he cannot scratch compounded and made worse by the dominance Nathan projects. A thread of possibility falls into his palm and Jericho is too curious, his wolf too present, for him to ignore it. Fingers grip the edges of his glass and tap it thoughtfully. He watches the remnants of ice slosh in the shallow layer of alcohol, and within seconds, Jericho makes a decision.
Green eyes seek out blue and Jericho pulls at the collar of his shirt. ”It’s a bit hot in here—and loud.” The classic start to a line of thought Jericho is sure the other werewolf will be able to catch onto immediately. His knowing smirk fills a moment of pause and he affects a nonchalant posture. He is a gambling man, one that thinks he has a good handle on worthwhile bets. ”This place wouldn’t happen to have somewhere a bit more…secluded, would it?”
The suggestion hangs out there as an invitation free to take or free to ignore. Jericho is no stranger to brief trysts but this man commands a certain fascination, one that has the esquire wondering just how hard that bite is, and if it would be enough to satiate the damnable howling of his wolf.
Nathan said:
Nathan is used to crafting a façade of confidence and cool control; it is required of him by his job, by the nature of his beast. Here, he allows the inborn arrogance of the wolf to ride unusually hot and high in reprisal to the challenge Jericho offers, but it is a defensive response, one he must carefully cultivate in the face of the lawyer’s easy command. Both the wolf and his pride dictate that he dig his heels in stubbornly before giving any ground, and so he doggedly maintains the impression that he will not bow before a simple display of clever words and flaunted wealth, no matter how alluring their source. In the end, it is Jericho’s poise and presence that are the far more beguiling factors; where Nathan’s ego is a reactionary, even retaliatory counter, the stranger’s is as much a part of him as those piercing green eyes, worn as comfortably and effortlessly – and as well – as his tailored suit.
And Nathan’s wolf knows it. It is not a submissive creature, but it is attracted to that obvious expression of natural power, one of the few motivations it understands – and respects. Jericho may have to fight for every inch the werewolf gives but the recognition is there, a clash of untamed personalities rooted more in intrigue than overt confrontation. When the first touch of graceful fingers ghosts over his knee, Nathan shifts his weight back and surrenders the space between them to Jericho’s advances; to the slow words the man drawls. His sudden tension at the implication is disguised in a flippant roll of his wrist and a shrug of his shoulders – but Nathan does not doubt the intent behind the contact. Very little about Jericho seems unplanned. He suspects the man is nothing if not deliberate.
”Pity,” then, is the retort he finds to shoot back – because the thread of the conversation is turning damnably distracting, and he uses the moments Jericho spends peering at his drink to regain something resembling composure. Drunken hookups or nightclub rendezvous are not outside his general mode of operations – far from it – but such encounters usually prove less demanding, if less engaging. Nathan meets that green gaze in an unwavering, analytical stare, and when Jericho poses his question – when he blurs the line between flirtation and reality, suggestion and proposition – he pauses only briefly before making that commitment.
”Yeah.” It is both an answer and an agreement. ”Yeah – I think I can manage that,” and the werewolf’s tone is sly, marking a return of his steady self-assurance that does not belie the sudden thrill of anticipation that has made a home of his gut. ”Come on.” Nathan rises and, with one quick glance to make sure Jericho actually intends to follow, leads them away from the bar. Privacy is not exactly a concept the club allows – not unless Jericho is fond of bathroom stalls or unlocked storage rooms – but it has its share of unoccupied spaces, of dark corners. The lounge Nate guides them to is not strictly isolated, but it is cordoned off from the open floor of the establishment by enough distance and half-walls that it can serve their purpose. More importantly, it is empty, and like to stay that way. Nate may not have addressed the complaint dealing with heat or noise – the club’s thundering and pervasive baseline is even louder without the din of conversation – but he thinks he’s got an idea of which request was more important.
”Good as you’re gonna get,” he rumbles, pausing – though hesitation is a thought that has long since passed. Nathan turns towards Jericho with an unspoken word on his lips, a hungry curiosity in his eyes, and whatever lurks unsaid between them dies in an instant. The werewolf’s hand darts upwards with that swift, lethal grace, closing the distance between them – and fists in the fabric of Jericho’s collar, his grip tight, unyielding. A calculated show of strength tugs the other man towards him, quick and jerking in its intensity, and he captures the lawyer’s lips with his own in a demonstration of teeth and feral appetite.
Beneath the front of indomitable authority, something close to honest enjoyment slips through with Nathan’s first heated exhalation – that if Jericho is the lucky reality of his evening, he’s certainly hit the jackpot.
Jericho said:
”Fantastic.” He delivers with an amiable smirk, but the coy glint in his eyes tells a different story. There is heat lurking within the feral green of his gaze and it is directed wholly onto Nathan; the rest of the club-goers have since fallen away into the background. Jericho possesses a one track mind, and it is a characteristic amplified by the presence of his wolf. A thrill akin to the hunt is hanging in the air and the werewolf is compelled by the energy of it, by its gravity. He leaves a large bill on the bar before slipping off the stool and falling into step behind Nathan.
They peel away from the mass gathered on the main floor with Jericho’s stare planted firmly at Nathan’s back. Humans are acceptable playthings but there is nothing more satisfying than dancing with another wolf. Instincts run hidden beneath their handsome guises but Jericho can feel them quaking towards the surface. His stem from a taste for control and a terrible ego. Back in Boston, he is still the arrogant blueblood but he is known. There is importance to his name and it manufactures respect catered specifically towards him. That lofty seat of assumed power has birthed a megalomaniac of a wolf, and it is one disguised by charming smiles and incredible charisma.
That Nathan should pose an inkling of defiance and an aura of dominance only whets the werewolf’s appetite all the more. What better way to feed his wolf’s need for control than to put an able athlete in his place. He expects retaliation, he expects a humanized version of a dominance-born scuffle, and he is hungry for it.
”Suppose I should be glad it’s not a bathroom stall –“ he drawls. Any following words are cut off in a grunt. Nate’s mouth settles over his and Jericho does something so churlish as growl. Teeth graze against lips, tongues clash in a heated and salacious battle, but it is a short-lived moment. He pulls away with force and when those green eyes lock onto Nathan’s, the esquire’s wolf shows in flecks of abnormal yellow. ”Such a gentleman,” he purrs heatedly and, without warning, pushes Nathan against the wall. His body is solid with impossible strength against the other man’s and Jericho’s expression turns smug.
There is more to the Bostonian than his expensive suit and gilded words. The air of arrogance around him, the suggestion of dominance, were never a ruse and it is a point made clear by the power running the atmosphere between them taut. ”Nate--- was it?” Because names are far too unimportant for a man like Jericho to commit to memory. He draws his fingers down the other werewolf’s chest and abdomen, over his belt and below. The smirk that curls at his mouth is the definition of vainglorious. ”You’re about to join a very exclusive club,” he breathes hotly into the shell of Nate’s ear and, in an instant, Jericho is gone and moving towards the couch.
He slips his suit jacket off and sits down with his arms spread over top the cushions. His posture reads of authority and he outstretches a hand, and beckons Nate over with the flick of his fingers. ”Come here.” The command is delivered in velvet and honey, but Jericho’s feral stare locks onto Nathan’s in an animalistic show of aggression. There is a duality here; Jericho presents honeyed words but his countenance is that of his wolf’s -- and it reads of wild, reckless danger.
