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choas232 · 1 month ago

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Canine Vastaya! G/N! reader x Steb ⊹ ˖ 𓃡⊹ ˖

Summary: Progress day has you and your fellow enforcers relaxing. Slacking, even. Posted deep in the bowels of the festivities, you decide (against your will) that you might join them along with your coworker, Steb.

Reader is a canine Vastaya, and an enforcer. NO MORE SILLY READER. We are serious people now. No use of Y/N, neutral terms and they/them are used to refer to reader.

CWs: Emetophobia, just one line and not described in depth. Suggestive themes. Most of all, SLACKING ON THE JOB.

Word count: 3.3k

⊹ ˖ 𓃡⊹ ˖

Gold. So much gold. Glimmering and crowding, the city fighting itself so violently that even you, you with your dulled Vastaya vision, can see the gory speculate of the festivities laid bare for all to see. The squawks of children, vendors, golden ticking butterflies, machinery, force your ears flush to your head. The scent of cheap carnival treats masquerading as delicacies assaults your sensitive nose, and try as you might you can’t push down the fur dusting your neck, standing on end.

Overstimulating. Cruel. Beautiful. You lean back on the chair, pressing your coiled tail against the hard surface to hide how it curls close to you.

“Can I leave now?” The man sat in the medical tent behind you slurs out. You do not give him the courtesy of replying, but you turn, catching Steb tucking the equipment back into its rightful places. The man’s not on any of the horrid drugs you see slipping out of Zaun these days, and although his remaining brain cells might be worse for wear, he just needs to sleep it off.

Maddie finishes chewing out his drunkard friends for leaving him passed out, and hastily trots back to the tent, wiping the thin gleam of sweat off of her forehead and quickly adjusting her hat. It’s only a brief lapse before she’s back to Junior officer Nolan, sternly helping him to his feet and carting him out to his waiting, hooting friends.

“Having fun?” She teases, returning back to the tent and slumping down on the chair beside you. You scoff, and turn back to watching the crowds, still spotting out of the corner of your eye how Steb moves to join you.

You try not to look at him, instead focusing on the ginger beside you. This turns out the be almost as much as a mistake as allowing yourself to dwell on your affections for him, because she’s already looking at you.

You see her grey-blue eyes flick to your tail, pressed tightly down between your legs now that your audience is gone, and then back to your ears. “Or maybe, disappointed to be missing out on the fun?” she gestures to the drunkards, stumbling away and your lips pull back in a semi-amused scoff.

“I’m working. This is important.”

“I think our law-mandated breaks are pretty important too.” You give her a scrutinizing look, and she shrugs, still smiling. “You two take a break. I’ll man the station.”

Two. Alone with him? No. You can’t.

“Your hypocrisy is almost as amusing as the fact you’d think I’d even consider taking a break.” You hastily push out, grasping like a drowning cat for a footing.

“Ahhhh. There’s where you’re wrong. I don’t think. I know.” She tilts her head, pointing a freckled finger towards your face.

Dammit. Your ears, perking up of their own accord, press against the hard surface of your enforcer helmet and traitorously peeking out. You move to tuck them away, scowling as you do, and you swear you watch her swallow a snicker.

Telling her was a mistake. Why did you think telling his closest friend you held… affection for him was a good idea? That your helmet is so tight it makes your skull ache in an attempt to hide your perking ears? That you stayed up teaching yourself sign language for him, even though you knew you could never let him know? That you think of him, constantly, each 24 hours, 1440 minutes and 86400 seconds of your days?

Possibly the alcohol in your system and the choking feeling of having pressed the fondness low in your gut, hoping it would rot. It didn’t

Steb watches the exchange without interjectural, his hands clasped firmly behind his back. Calmy, he reaches a hand to brush at his scaled cheek before beginning work on unrolling the sleeves still tucked up from his medical misadventure.

You feel like a teenager, rabid and nervy as you try not to look, but also try not to look like you’re trying not to look.

“Steb? Thoughts?” Maddie, noticing your gaze, crosses her legs, looking up at him from her place on the chair and folding her arms.

His eyes widen slightly at addressal, and he shallowly nods, tilting his head towards you followed with a questioning look. Do you want to?

Misinterpreting his communication on purpose, she gleefully spins back around to meet your glare. “A yes than. Don’t worry friends. I’ll be just fine all on my lonesome.” She turns to meet the sea of wide brimmed hats, parasols (all the rage, lately,) and bold, bright colours, and you know the conversation is done. She can be frighteningly persistent when she puts her mind to a task, and you know better than to argue and further her teasing.

With a sigh and a quick prayer to the heavens, you turn to make the maker of your troubles, who politely offers you a hand. You take it, and he hauls you off of the chair.

You curse the makers of the leather gloves that adorn his hands.

Great heavens. Where did that come from? Certainly not you.

Trying to accept defeat with grace, you say, “I could use a walk, anyways,” stretching as you do, popping your back and pushing out your arms until your claws scrape the roof of the tent. Steb’s eyes follow, and then snap away as you peer at him. “Any sightseeing you want to get done?” You try to evenly ask him.

He pauses, and then, with a tilt of his head, splays a hand out to instead gesture to you. He’s doting. You’re not to used to it. You didn’t get to where you are with hands holding on to yours, anyways.

“Well. I… I could do with some food.” There’s this stall, far from the main, noisy festivities and food-poisoning littered stalls that sells the sweet fried fruits of your childhood. Crunchy, thick and rolled in flour on the outside, and slick with blue, sweet juices that burst on your tongue when you take a bite. Nice to gnaw on for your teething child’s self, blue staining your lips and splattering across the pressed shirts your parents draped you in for Progress Day.

He nods, and then concernedly taps his helmet with a flicker of his ears. For a moment you don’t understand.

Then you do.

Of course he remembers how you complained about how the enforcers uniform’s headpiece hurts your ears, not built to suit Vastaya. A throw away comment. Of course, he looks at you with those big, gleaming blue eyes, stupidly kind-hearted, and of course your traitorous tail kicks up behind you.

You clamp it between your legs, meeting his eyes defensively and ignoring how they glance down to observe it. From her place, Maddie is grinning. You don’t need to look at her to tell.

You unclasp your helmet, dropping it onto a nearby table, flickering out your strained ears out not unlike your limbs minutes prior.

“Ready to go?” You inquire, and his ears affirmative flicker, nodding goodbye to Maddie as you leave. You do too, but with a different picture painted in your features. She laughs, and then the crowd swallows you whole.

The adults parts around you, one bonus to being in uniform. The children, however, do not follow this courtesy, instead slamming past you after miniature flying ships and bright, pink bubbles that chime when they pop. You have half a mind to reach out and feel the oil and soap slick surface yourself, your glimmering reflections blinking back at you.

Steb observes each passerby, each float and display with keen interest, every now and then glancing back at you. You try to pre-emptively look away when he does. He’s perceptive, you’ve noticed. Alert. Always the first to act, always to first to spot the danger.

You just hope he doesn’t notice how without meaning to you drift closer to him, how now your ears press against your skull with a different emotion than overstimulation.

You have half a mind to mimic his attention, anyways. The arcane, and technology, has been kind to you this year. The exploits of the people of Piltover has been many. You pass a humanoid golden robot, speaking animatedly and advertising the goods of a nearby vendor, and then a functioning, beating silver heart, water pumping through its long metal cords. A man yells over at you, trying to sell you golden jewellery fit for adorning your fangs, stopping when he sees the uniforms.

All the metal, the fabrics, and the ridiculous uniform, the heat cages you in. You push down the urge to stick out your tongue, pant, instead reaching up to massage sweat out of your nape and furred ears.

With a tap on your shoulder that makes you startle, he cuts through the crowd towards a nearby vendor, gesturing for you to wait. You do, and moments later he returns with water.

He makes it so hard not to love him.

Gratefully, you take it, unbottling the cap and taking a great gulp, water dribbling down the sides of your mouth. His sip of his own bottle, cool and elegant, makes you feel slightly ashamed, but he doesn’t seem to care. After refusing to let you pay him back, you continue on your way.

Finally, after what feels like simultaneously too long and too short of a trip, you duck under a banner-stricken archway, and step into the courtyard. Less adorned than the other sections of the festival, but in your humble opinion, kinder on the eyes. Copper, oxidized and gleaming blue, is crafted into flowers. They paste themselves over every inch of the courtyard, forming archways up to a great canopy, light filtering through to softly illuminate your path, along with a cool breeze.

Small tents, strung with buzzing lights dot the area. Families sit beneath them, enjoying modified ice-cream that never melts, young couples tenderly brush their hands together on benches, and vendors chat.

You approach the stall, the store vendor barely looking up. The little embroidered rhinestones on their face flash as they lazily push a hand towards a sign, reading out the golden font. “30% discount for couples,” before turning back to the puzzle, some kind of contraption with a prize inside, no doubt.

You’re halfway through an awkward, no, that’s not, we’re not— when the scent of the fruits plasters to your nostrils. Delicious, dripping in memories of childhood, of stained fabric and high-pitched giggles.

Dammit.

Steb glances at your wagging tail, crushing any hope of retaining your dignity. He doesn’t look away quickly this time, trailing up slowly to meet your eyes, lips slightly parted. Your body betrays you, as it always does. You just hope he assumes the fruits are the cause.

“We’ll have six, please.” You defeatedly ask, abruptly looking away. Three for you, three for him.

Do you look like a couple? With your matching posture, neat uniforms, completely and utterly in step… you need to be, to do the work you do, and you talk without talking, but it’s largely because he’s mute. So why did they…

He reaches down into his pockets to tug out his wallet. You beat him to it, slamming yours down with a dull thump against the counter. He would scoff, you think, had he been more animation in his features, but the narrow of his eyes makes you well aware of his displeasure. You smile back at him, enjoying the childish feud. Your fangs flash.

Your damned tail is still wagging.

The vendor passes you the long, wooden sticks, three of the delicious treats impaled on them. You take yours and repress the urge to devour it immediately.

“Where to sit…” You mumble, only to spot the tents, shaded from the light and cooled by the breeze. Steb follows you as you fall with a thump into the tangle of blankets. He carefully sits as not to drop the treat, removing his hat and carefully placing it in the mouth of the tent.

You dig in. It’s exactly as what was remembered, filling, the thick fried flour coating contrasting with the blue juices inside. At first, you try to eat neatly, like you see your fellow Enforcer doing, but that falls to pieces the moments you get your fangs on the fruits. You wolf it down, (a pun, from you? More likely than one would think.) with a gusto that scares you, and place the wooden stick down on the mat below you.

You watch as he tilts his head, holding one hand under his mouth to catch stray crumbs and the other holding the stick at an angle so he can sink his pearly whites into the treats. It’s a careful process, one that doesn’t leave any of the mess splattered across his face, nor his shirt.

Conversation isn’t your strong suit. You aren’t literate in waxing poetic, nor charming the teeth off your fellows. The silence you keep with him is comfortable. It houses you in it’s embrace not unlike the breeze gently nipping at your skin.

You hate to say it, but Maddie was right. You’re enjoying this. Perhaps too much. You can hear your disobedient tail gently thumping against the fabric.

God, you’re parched after devouring the treat. Already having finished your own bottle, you eye Steb’s. Would it be weird to ask him to take a sip? Would you wrap your lips around the rim? No, no, but pouring it into your mouth without contact might look childish and ridiculous… perhaps you shouldn’t…

He notices you looking and slides you the bottle. Without thinking, your mind still screaming, you unclasp the top and take a swig. Saliva— his saliva is on the lips of the bottle… lips?

God, are you fifteen? You need to get a hold on yourself.

“You’ve been quiet.” You mutter, without really thinking. His eyes narrow, his head cocking coyly to the left. “I— you know what I mean… you haven’t been saying as much… showing as much?” He humours your attempts at communication with his full attention, turning to meet you as he places the blue-stained wooden stick away.

“…are you nervous?”

He shakes his head.

“Tired?”

Again. A quick shake.

“I’m out of guesses.”

He leans back, a quiet hum coming deep from his throat as he does. “Calm?” you don’t know why you sound as disbelieving as you do. A shallow nod, with a wave of his hand this time, towards your loose posture, relaxed, perked up ears and gently wagging tail. You’re calm too, you suppose.

Then, with a pause, he reaches up to brush his fingers to his cheek. “Hmm?” You mirror him, pressing yours to your own face. Your fingers come off blue.

He dips his fingers into his breast pocket, pulling out that neat, unstained handkerchief. Does he buy them in bulk? Does he clean them? A mystery you don’t want to uncover. He hands it to you, and you thank him quietly. He watches you as you dab the corners of your face, for a moment, before he repoints, gesturing for you to move to the left. You miss it again, before he reaches out, not bothering to take the handkerchief from you.

With the rest of his hand braced across your jaw, he stretches out a thumb to push, hard, down, wiping the fleck off juice off.

When he pulls away, you see blue on his finger.

Nonchalantly, he pops his thumb in his mouth, gently tugging the juice off with more teeth than tongue, before his hand moves to rest beside him once again.

You gape. You gape some more. Does he know what he does to you? Reduces you, you, studious and hardworking, you, into a mess. A stuttering, tail-wagging, blushing mess. You want to strangle him. You want to kiss him. He glances back at you, and you try to casually resume what you were doing before— what was that again?— your senses kicking into overdrive.

“Did you enjoy the uhm, snack?”

He nods, relaxedly. You feel, and retain, the horrible feeling you are being teased.

“…Yeah. Me too.” You swallow, and than talk, maybe to fill the once comfortable silence, wrangle it into submission. “I used to come here with my parents. When I was younger. They used to dress me up— in shirts they knew would be ruined by the grime I would acquire playing carnival games. I…” You don’t know where you’re going with this. Ceasing your rambling, you knead fabric in your hands. “Any happy memories of Progress Day?”

He nods. For a lapse too long to be natural, he pauses, almost in thought, and then with his thumb and pinkie fingers extended and his three middle fingers curled into his hands, he hurriedly brings his arms down. ‘Now.’ ‘Today.’

Sign language.

“I’m glad.” You quickly mutter, before your running mind can outpace your voice. Your face is treacherously flushing.

You realize too late he doesn’t know you’ve been teaching yourself sign language.

That him using it makes little sense— and frozen in the headlights, you watch as his face changes. He peers at you. He peers at you some more, and then his hands are moving, quickly. You catch pieces, something— M-A— something—I-E —Tell — something—

Oh. Oh no.

“Maddie? Maddie told you what, exactly?”

This is the situation of your nightmares. Telling her was a mistake. A drunk mistake you’ll regret for the rest of your life, your pitiful life. Scared to watch his face but fearful looking away will make you look guilty— can you deny this? Laugh it off?— you hover somewhere between letting your racing thoughts overwhelm you and trying to breathe, dammit.

Slowly now, he pats his fingers to his outspread palm, before tapping his forehead.

‘Learn.’

He points to his moving hands

Learn… sign language….

Oh. Thank the lords.

She told him you learnt sign language for him.

Like that’s any less of a confession of love.

He’s still looking at you. Waiting for an explanation, maybe. God, you hate feeling like this— completely at his mercy.

“I. Ah.” Is it just you, or is he moving closer? It’s messing with your head, anyways, how close he suddenly feels to be. Your heart rattles around your ribcage. “I wanted to. For you.”

For you? You’re an idiot—

He kisses you.

You taste sweetness, sugary and blue on his lips. They’re softer than you thought they would be. He kisses as earnestly as expected, though. Just once, very chaste, pulling back to gingerly watch your expression.

That doesn’t last long before you go in for seconds. Or maybe he kisses you again. The details are lost in the hand you thread into his hair— his hair gel slick hair.

His hands blindly clutch for the curtains of the tent, yanking them shut with force. Your tail thumps so loudly against the ground you barely hear the little noises you make, barely feel his hands, steadying themselves on your sides. You kiss him again. And again. You gorge yourself on it— like the hungry wolf you are. He is so soft, and you are starving.

Piltover’s finest. Piltover’s finest. You’re Piltover’s finest. Handpicked, educated and dressed in taxpayer funded uniforms. You’re golden, machine-made butterflies, you’re store vendors, you can’t think, you’re ripe and plump for the picking, and you’re hating these stupid uniforms, these wretched uniforms, so tough to unbutton as they are.

It’s just when he threads his tongue over your pointed teeth, only when you move your fingers to his shoulders, and then down, when somebody staggers over drunkenly, throwing up loudly in a nearby bush.

With a sigh, he detaches (you do not miss the string of blue-stained saliva that connects you for a brief moment), rising to his feet and feeling for his helmet.

No rest for the wicked, you suppose.

He gives you a long look as he tugs the tent door open, tapping his finger against his palm and then twisting his hand down.

‘Later?’

Your tail thumps louder than you thought it could.

⊹ ˖ 𓃡⊹ ˖

Notes: Thank you to @spac3-shark for suggesting this sihiwnsowd. If i ever revisit this idea, I might try feline reader. Cat x fish? You get what I’m putting down? We’ve done yapping, silly reader, and stoic reader…. What next. If you have any ideas, please message me, drop an ask, anything!!! :)

As a side note, You curse the makers of the leather gloves that adorn his hands.

Great heavens. Where did that come from? Certainly not you.

Reader: he should take off his gloves…

Reader: WHO SAID THAT.

SIDE SIDE NOTE: I swear there will be more kissing and less yearning next time!! you have my word.

#steb arcane #arcane #arcane season 2 #steb #steb x reader #uhm #sorry if there's any grammatical issues!!!#gahhh it's always nerve racking posting these kind of things

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