first fic I ever wrote for Stel and the Prince of Vegas. it's mostly unrealized flirting and Stel freaking out over touching someone, as well as them trying to keep their wolf from Brutal-ing a hand hold. good times.
Ellipsus link provided; full text under the read more as well.
Word Count: 2,929
In the pit of the Nevermore, Stel and the Prince have a conversation. "Got games on your phone?"
Alone in one of the Nevermore’s booths, surrounded by blood red velvet and polished dark wood, Stel drummed their fingers against the round tabletop in front of them. Tucked in the corner of the bar’s lower level, the thick curtains and plush seats provided a comfortable vibe to the alcove, with the added benefit of muffling the noise from the dancefloor above. Unfortunately, the curtains blocked much of the rest of the bar from view, giving the understimulated werewolf little to put their attention on beyond their immediate surroundings.
Stirring their vodka soda, they watched condensation bead on the glass, dripping down to join the circle of water that had formed at the base. Examining the decor yielded concerns about how Rune cleaned all the lush fabrics and excessive amounts of drapery, given that wasted idiots would inevitably spill their booze or blood. That was assuming that Rune cleaned the furniture at all—and with that Stel decided to change their train of thought.
Pulling out their phone, Stel browsed for a game to play, only to shove it back in their pocket with a disappointed sigh when nothing looked promising. They were growing bored; worse yet, they were growing irritated.
The idea of tonight had sounded like fun: go out to Rune’s bar for one blissful evening of hanging out as if there weren’t any looming threats. The rest of the pack felt relatively safe here, and Stel didn’t want to bust their balls over enjoying life prior to the literal Apocalypse. They'd done that enough in the past weeks; honestly, they needed a break as well.
So it would be just their luck that Stel was learning they didn't like nightclubs, or at least that they didn’t like this particular club on this particular night. The loud music and flashing lights annoyed them, the alcohol tasted awful, and the humid air carrying the stench of smoke and sweat hadn't helped. Stel regretted the decision to wear their typical ensemble of hoodie and jeans, but the drunk people who stumbled into them had made the wolf all sorts of pissed off, and they didn't need their distaste for touch rearing its ugly head too.
The basement of the Nevermore had proved a godsend at first, far less going on down here than the main floor. Yet as time ticked by with nothing to do, it had begun to feel like their own personal hell.
Sinking back into the soft cushions of the spot they had commandeered, Stel once again pulled out their phone, this time with the intention of surfing the app store for a new game. Anything to quell the boredom would be a welcome distraction.
"Got games on your phone?" A silky voice cut through the ambient noise, sounding much closer than it should have been.
"Jesus fucking Christ," Stel hissed, jerking away from the intruder. Settled in the seat to their right, customary glass of blood in one pale hand and chin propped elegantly on the other, was the Prince of Vegas. They were dressed in their usual black jacket and mesh shirt combination, myriad silvery jewelry glinting in the warm, dim light. An expression of serene distaste decorated their features—though it could have just been their resting bitch face, accentuated by the shadows of the corner Stel had chosen to languish in.
"Not how I'm usually addressed," the vampire remarked.
Stel squinted incredulously at them. "Can I help you with something? Or do you just think it’s cool and smart to surprise a werewolf?"
"Perhaps I wanted to enjoy your company." The Prince’s words were kind, yet their tone was colored with disdain.
"You hate my company," Stel grumbled, shifting in their seat to maintain their distance without having to lean away. They took a moment to pocket their phone before anything rage-related happened to it.
The Prince tilted their head to the side, their curtain of black hair falling over one shoulder as they did. "Well then, perhaps I’m enjoying hating you."
It was beyond fascinating to Stel how easily the vampire set them on edge, like they were designed in a lab to hit every one of the werewolf’s nerves with pinpoint accuracy. "Well then," Stel imitated mockingly, adopting the Prince’s pose for added effect, "perhaps you should get in fucking line. Couldn't you be a hater from some other dark, moody corner?"
The Prince raised an eyebrow at that, taking a drink from their glass instead of answering. The brief respite made Stel aware of how unwavering the vampire’s attention was, causing Stel to be horribly uncomfortable and—as always—angry. When the Prince set their glass down they fixed Stel with a barbed look, leaning into the werewolf’s space and assaulting their senses with the metallic aroma of blood as they spoke. "For how smart you think you are, I would have thought you'd have realized that shutting up would make me leave the quickest." Stel opened their mouth to argue, but the Prince continued, "After all, if I didn't want to talk, I wouldn't be sitting here."
Stel did shut up after that, grinding their teeth together in annoyance. The Prince had a good point; that didn't mean they had to like it.
"Great, cool, so fucking based of you," Stel snapped at them. "Could you learn some personal space? Rune won't be happy with either of us if I crash out."
Thankfully the Prince obliged, returning to their lounging position with a self-satisfied aura. Taking a deep breath of non-blood-tinged air, Stel grappled the wolf back into submission, ignoring its demands to violently put the Prince in their place. The scent of blood lingering in the back of their mouth wasn't helping.
"You want to talk?" Stel asked, appealing to their own insatiable need to know things in order to distract themself.
The Prince smiled wryly. "You’d like me to stay, then?"
Stel gave them a no shit, Sherlock look. "Not like I have a lot of other entertainment right now." They highlighted their point by sweeping their hand out in a wide gesture, indicating the lack of anyone or anything else around.
"That's more or less the reason I'm here."
"You're bored?" Stel sneered. "What, engineering sinister political machinations all night not doin’ it for you anymore?"
That got an actual, albeit clipped laugh out of the Prince. "Only so much engineering can be done at once. And what about you? Why aren't you upstairs, enjoying time with your pack?"
Stel searched the Prince’s face for a reason to be suspicious. They appeared genuine enough, however it paid to stay vigilant. Everyone around them was a schemer these days.
"Not really my scene right now. There's just…" Stel paused, stirring their drink again in the hopes it would churn up the right words. The Prince waited quietly while they ruminated, an act that was as surprising as it was appreciated.
"There’s just a lot going on," Stel continued after some consideration. "I’ve never liked drinking enough to get shit-faced, which makes partying kind of hard."
"Why bother coming along?" the Prince scoffed, sending a spike of frustration through Stel that left them bristling.
"Because my pack—you know, my friends, whatever that word means to you—wanted to."
"Surely your friends don't want you brooding here, in this—how did you put it? ‘Dark, moody corner’?"
"It's my choice. Why the fuck do you care?"
The Prince adopted an exaggerated pout, placing a hand gracefully over their cold, dead heart. "I can't care about you? We have so much history together."
"Oh right, the history where you hated my pack and tried to drive us out of Vegas?" Stel offered them a sardonic smile. "That history?"
"That's old news," the Prince said, dropping their charade of being hurt. "You know I don't actually hate you, right?"
Stel took another sip of their drink, grimacing at the sharp sting of vodka. "Figures, given that you continue to haunt our lives."
"Arguably you're the ones haunting mine."
"Aight, bet. That's why you always show up at our parties and sought us out at the moot."
"I seem to remember you seeking me out at the moot."
"Yeah, well—"
"Why did you do that?"
Stel nearly growled at the interruption. "Because," they bit out, "I knew you were there to tell us something. Got a card and everything."
"Yes," the Prince said, clearly exasperated, "but why did you seek me out, Stel?"
The werewolf let out an indignant huff. lt’s not fucking rocket science to figure out. "Because I wanted to, Prince."
"Despite thinking that I hate you, you wanted to be the one to talk to me?"
"I mean, yeah. I—" like talking to you is what Stel intended to say, but the thought caught them off guard and the words died on their tongue.
Did they like talking to the Prince? They certainly delighted in bothering the Prince. Aggravating them to the point of breaking their composed exterior was fun, even rewarding in its own way, especially when they got snarky as a result. But simply talking to them was a different story. Sure, they were intelligent, sarcastic, and willing to play ball when Stel wanted a verbal cage match; this conversation was even an example of that. On the other hand, the Prince somehow always managed to get Stel riled up, causing the lines to blur between their ego wanting to get a crisp W in every conversation and the wolf wanting to flex on the piece of shit blood sucker.
And yet, in spite of all that, Stel was actively entertaining this conversation. On some level, they were even enjoying it.
"You're staring," the Prince said, breaking Stel out of their thoughts.
Stubbornly holding the Prince’s gaze, Stel shrugged with a feigned nonchalance. "I like bothering you."
"I noticed," the Prince drawled. "Every chance you get you try to needle me about something. Lyric doesn’t even try to push my buttons as much as you do and she hates me. Your commitment is almost enviable—and annoying."
Stel leveled another condescending smile at the Prince. "Someone's gotta keep you humble, otherwise you might do some braindead shit like kick all of the werewolves out of Vegas again."
The vampire glanced towards the bar, pausing to raise an eyebrow at whatever they saw. Following their line of sight, Stel noticed Rune leaning on the part of the bar closest to their corner, wearing a pleasant smile that didn't reach their eyes. Everything about them was, as always, perfectly manicured; mustache perfectly curled, black hair perfectly contained in its tie, pale chest perfectly displayed by the deep V of their shirt’s neckline.
"Are you two playing nice?" Rune lilted in their usual coy manner.
"They started it," Stel answered at the same time as the Prince’s "Yes", earning Stel a heated look they could only interpret as what the fuck is wrong with you?
For their part, Rune appeared amused. "Darlings, I’m certain you‘re both old enough to behave."
While the statement was ostensibly addressed to both occupants of the booth, the Prince was the recipient of Rune’s stare, conveying something significant Stel wasn't privy to. Whatever non-verbal discussion was happening between the two vampires had the Prince sufficiently checked, allowing Stel the opportunity to relish in smug satisfaction.
Apparently finished with all the things they weren’t saying, Rune turned their attention to Stel. "Honey, if you don't like the drink you don't have to force it. It's on Lyric’s tab anyway." They accentuated the last sentence with a conspiratorial wink.
"Cool. Thank you." Stel mumbled, averting their eyes and gingerly pushing the drink away. Rune made them nervous, their intentions never clear enough for Stel to be able to relax under their direct supervision.
"Any time, sweetie." With that, Rune waltzed away to help a different patron at the other end of the bar.
The ensuing silence lasted barely a minute.
"They’ve got you whipped, huh?" Stel asked cheerily.
"Some of us understand that it's a good idea not to piss off everyone around them all the time," the Prince said, picking up their glass and scowling at it. "It's also much easier to tell someone to not upset a werewolf than it is to tell a werewolf not to get upset. A tragic skill issue on your part."
Needing a physical outlet for the energy coursing through them, Stel flexed their hands as they formulated a response. The movement drew the vampire’s notice, their grimace melting into a thoughtful expression as they peered at Stel’s right hand.
"What is that?" the Prince asked before Stel could think of a good quip, motioning with their glass at the subject of their interest.
"My hand," Stel deadpanned.
If looks could kill, the one the Prince gave them would be a klaive on fire. "On the back of your hand, Stel." They emphasized the name like it was an insult.
"Rude," Stel muttered, turning the indicated hand to see what the hell the Prince was talking about. The glyph the Theurge had burned into their skin caught the light, giving it the illusion of shining.
"Understanding," they said, holding it up to give the Prince a better look. The Prince’s brows furrowed in confusion, and when they mouthed something that definitely wasn’t the word "understanding", Stel realized their error. First Tongue came naturally to them; vampires were not so lucky.
"It’s a glyph for the concept of understanding," they explained, in English this time.
The Prince set their glass down and held out a hand. "May I?"
A casual request for most, but Stel wasn't most people. As they fully registered what the Prince was asking for, they couldn’t help the instinct to pull their hand to their chest, using their other one to cover it protectively.
"Uh, I…" Stel stuttered, kicking themself internally. It wasn’t like the Prince had grabbed them or even showed any intention to do so. They were just asking.
The Prince’s demeanor softened. "You don’t have to," they said delicately.
Looking between their outstretched hand and their face, Stel frantically tried to parse what they should do, their desire to not show weakness warring with their antipathy for touch.
"I promise I won’t hurt you," the Prince added, sincerity evident in their tone. It was as if they were attempting to placate a cornered dog—which was fair, considering that Stel felt like one. Panic began to bleed rage-red around the edges; they had to make a decision now, or else the wolf would do it for them.
"Hardly what I’m worried about." Stel had aimed for sarcasm, but it came out strangled by the lump in their throat. Failing miserably at stopping the quivering in their hand, they placed it against the other’s, doing their best to not wince against the resulting discomfort. If the Prince noticed, they didn’t comment, and Stel felt a rush of gratitude.
Holding their hand gently, the Prince tilted it slowly in different directions, examining the glyph with a focused intent. The vampire’s hand was colder than theirs; the pallor of their lithe fingers and multitudes of gleaming rings stood stark against Stel’s tan, freckled skin. Stel flinched when the Prince brushed a thumb over the marking, reflexively curling their fingers only to rapidly backpedal when that increased the amount of contact. The Prince rested their thumb against Stel’s wrist, the light pressure like a brand against the werewolf’s flesh.
Dear Luna, this is so fucking cringe. Who tweaks over holding hands?
"It’s magic?" the Prince’s voice pulled them back to reality. Tearing their focus away from their joined hands, Stel took in the Prince’s countenance; genuine curiosity painted their visage, void of any previous animosity. Stel’s heart did something funny at the sight.
Still dazed, Stel could only choke out a simple "Yeah."
"What does it do?"
Normally, they would be elated to explain their sick magic powers to absolutely anyone, but this situation was far from normal. Between the Prince’s intense interest, the rapid beating of their own heart, and the fact that they were still holding hands, Stel’s wolf aggressively demanded a return to a more familiar place of simmering anger–or else.
Yanking their hand out of the Prince’s grasp, Stel tugged their sleeve over it in a desperate attempt to stabilize themself. Sensation lingered despite the concealment, ghosts of pressure and temperature haunting their nerves.
Fucking yikes. What the fuck is wrong with you?
"Maybe if you’re really nice to me, I’ll tell you some day," Stel said, endeavoring to save some amount of dignity.
They wished the Prince would say or do literally anything to diffuse the strange tension humming in the air around them. Naturally, this meant that the Prince remained silent and still, contemplating Stel with the regard of a surgeon over their patient on the operating table.
Stel’s saving grace came instead in the form of their phone vibrating in their pocket. Hastily retrieving the device, the screen flashed a text notification from Oz proclaiming that he wanted a ride back to the gas station.
They had never been so excited at the prospect of driving, already halfway out of the booth before they even finished their affirmative reply. Sparing the Prince one last glance, Stel paused, trying to conjure an appropriate farewell. When nothing came to mind, they simply flipped the vampire off and beat a hasty retreat. Hardly the win they wanted to end on, yet not a loss either. They could live with that.
