Multiverse One Shot Collection - Reader Insert

Arcane - Vi (Smut)

A/N - This chapter is smut. There's very little in terms of plot—just two emotionally constipated idiots making love like the outside world doesn't exist. This does take place in the Sixer story, at some point before leaving Zaun for Ionia.

I feel like I need a shower after writing this. So, enjoy.

You Dirty Devils.

The world is quiet in the way only dawn allows—half-dreamt, half-real.

A sliver of gold peeks through the slatted shutters, casting long bars of light across the tangle of limbs and linen. The sheets smell faintly of metal, lavender soap, and her. Vi sleeps with one arm slung heavy across your chest, like she's guarding a treasure, and her breath stirs the hollow just beneath your collarbone with every slow exhale.

You don't move. Not yet.

Because this—this—is the rarest thing of all: stillness without loneliness. Warmth that doesn't demand anything in return.

Her fingers twitch against your ribs, probably dreaming of punches or pastries. You can't help the smile that ghosts across your lips. Vi fights in her sleep, just like she fights awake—messy, beautiful, fierce. And gods, somehow she found her way to you.

Your hand drifts up to her back, tracing lazy circles over the scars there, the ones she stopped hiding around you. You map each one without thought, without pity—just reverence. They're hers, like the rest of her. She shifts a little closer, nose bumping your neck, murmuring something too soft to catch.

You kiss the crown of her head. Not because you're trying to wake her. Just because you can.

It's enough to make her stir. A soft groan rumbles in her throat as she stretches against you, like a cat stretching into sunlight. "Mmm. You're still here."

"Didn't feel like disappearing this morning," you murmur, voice rough with sleep.

Her eyes flutter open, heavy-lidded and pink at the corners. She grins—that grin, the one that starts lazy and ends dangerous. "That's a shame. I was gonna ravage the place with grief."

You chuckle, low in your chest, and she kisses it. Lips warm. Soft. Unhurried. "You're welcome to ravage me instead."

She snorts, propping her chin on your chest, looking up at you with a look that could melt steel. "You're such a sap in the mornings."

"Only for you."

And gods, it's true. You've bled for this city, burned for this cause—but it's her you'd lie still for. It's her you'd let break you apart, gentle and slow, just to be rebuilt in the shape of something softer.

She leans in again. This time, the kiss lingers.

Her lips are soft against yours—sleep-warm and unhurried, like she's memorizing the way you taste before the world wakes up and demands her attention again. Her hand rises, fingers brushing the side of your face, then slipping into your hair like it's the most natural thing in the world.

You kiss her back just as slowly. Not because you're trying to keep her here—but because you know she already is.

The bed shifts slightly as she moves, rolling half on top of you, leg sliding over your hip like she's claiming her spot—not possessive, not performative. Just hers. Yours. Whatever this is, it fits.