wheatbreadfuckyeah

[wheatbreadfuckyeah]

You a want a fic where viktor is that vet you often go to. Eventually, yall go on a date since u asked him out, and he takes you back to his place. You realise maybe u should go, BUT THERES A STORM. He insists you sleep there.

Edit: It's not soft. It's nasty. He's a creep. He's lowkey deranged. But yk what, he's hot, so let's give em a pass.

[wheatbreadfuckyeah]

CAN I BE SO FR WITH YALL, VIKTOR IS CONSUMING MY THOUGHTS EVERYDAY, I AM FOAMING AT THE MOUTH. SOMEONE TRANQUILISE ME BUT EVEN THEN ID BE THINKING OF VIKTOR AHHHHH

[wheatbreadfuckyeah]

Guess by charli xcx ft. Billie eilish but its Caitvi

[wheatbreadfuckyeah]

Missing you

Angsty little one shot but might have a continuation

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Life in Zaun was merciless. The air was thick with smog, pressing down on your lungs like a weight that never lifted. The world around you felt jagged and cruel, every moment a battle to find something worth holding onto. But then there was Viktor. In all that bleakness, he was the one thing that felt soft, gentle– something that made you believe there was still warmth in the world.

From the very first moment, he felt like something rare, a flicker of light in a place that seemed to swallow it whole. Viktor was an outsider, even here, his quiet resolve and sharp mind setting him apart. While others scoffed at his strange ideas and whispered about his limp, you saw brilliance. You saw him. He looked at the world not as it was, but as it could be. And when you were with him, it was impossible not to believe in that vision too.

The two of you were inseparable, bound together by the kind of friendship that felt like it could survive anything. Viktor had a way of caring that was subtle but profound. He would notice the smallest things. When you were too tired to climb the junk heaps, when your hands were scraped raw from searching for parts. Without a word, he would hand you his gloves or offer to help, his touch light and deliberate, as if he feared adding to your burden.

When you brought him scraps for his inventions, his face would light up, and he’d thank you as though you’d just handed him the key to a better world. And when you succeeded together, when a little machine sputtered to life or a contraption clicked into place, Viktor’s joy wasn’t just his own, it was yours too. He would smile at you, soft and unguarded, his golden eyes filled with a warmth that melted the edges of the harsh world around you. “I couldn’t do this without you,” he’d say, and you knew he meant it.

Even on the hardest days, Viktor made Zaun feel less suffocating. He had a way of turning silence into comfort, of making the smallest moments feel significant. You remember him waiting for you as you climbed through the ruins, his voice steady as he called out encouragement. “Careful, don’t rush,” he’d say, his accent wrapping around the words like a lullaby. And when you’d finally join him, exhausted and triumphant, he’d brush the dirt from your hands with a faint smile, his touch lingering just a moment longer than it needed to. “You’re always too reckless,” he’d murmur, but there was no scolding in his voice– only affection.

As you both grew older, Viktor became your safe haven, the one person who could make you feel seen and cared for in a world that tried to grind you down. Together, you dreamed of something better, something bigger than the narrow streets of Zaun. But then Piltover called.

Heimerdinger had seen what you already knew. That Viktor was extraordinary, someone who could change the world. When the offer came, it felt like the ground beneath you shifted. You should have been happy for him, but all you could feel was the looming loss, the cold dread of what his absence would mean.

The fight was inevitable, though neither of you wanted it. “You’re not holding me back,” he said softly at first, his voice almost pleading. “But I have to go, I can’t let this chance slip away.” His words weren’t cruel, but you heard them as a goodbye. And when he accused you of being selfish, of wanting to keep him trapped in a place that stifled him, it broke something inside you.

You lashed out, not because you didn’t want him to succeed, but because you couldn’t bear the thought of a life without him. “I thought we were in this together,” you shouted, the words cracking under the weight of your fear. Viktor’s face fell, his golden eyes dimming with a hurt that mirrored your own. “We are,” he whispered, his voice trembling, “but I can’t stay. I need to do this. For you, for everyone.”

And then he was gone.

The memory of him lingers like a ghost, bittersweet and ever-present. You still see him in your mind, sitting on the ledge of your old hideout, his rare smile lighting up the darkness. You hear his voice, soft and steady, telling you that you were more than the world ever let you believe. Even now, you wonder if he ever truly knew what he meant to you. Because in a world that gave you nothing, Viktor was everything. And you never found the words to tell him.

[wheatbreadfuckyeah]

Drawing My Boy <3

This absolute baby. Ugh.

It was my first time drawing Viktor. I am scared to draw anything arcane tbh, in fear, I will not do justice. Every time I see baby Viktor, he makes my maternal instincts go crazy.

[wheatbreadfuckyeah]

Headcanon time: after he became the herald, it pruned up.

[wheatbreadfuckyeah]

What if you were really into fashion?

Listen. In Piltover, you’ve always been a vision– a muse draped in bold, vibrant colours, a walking masterpiece that turns heads wherever you go. Viktor admires that about you, more deeply than he ever says aloud. You never force him into anything outside his comfort zone, yet your mere presence inspires him to explore little touches of self-expression.

One evening, you’re resplendent in a striking, Barbie pink ensemble that catches the light like it was made to outshine the stars. As Viktor sits beside you quietly, that’s when you notice it. The subtle shift of his trousers reveals a flash of colour: pastel pink socks.

You pause, a slow, knowing smile spreading across your face. “Viktor,” you say softly, your voice lilting with delight, “are those… pink?”

He glances down, seemingly unbothered, though there’s a faint dusting of colour on his cheeks. “I thought it might suit the evening,” he answered.

In that moment, the world feels a little brighter.

[wheatbreadfuckyeah]

Thinking about viktor day and night fr

[wheatbreadfuckyeah]

What if you were an endless chatterbox, always brimming with things to say, a whirlwind of words that Viktor somehow learned to weather? At first, your constant yapping was an adjustment. An unrelenting stream of tangents, ideas, and utterly random musings. But over time, he found it endearing. There was a strange charm to the way you'd prattle on, filling the silence of his usually quiet world. He copes in his own way, of course. Sorting your words like data, sifting out the essential bits, and tucking them away, while the rest become a pleasant hum in the background.

You’re relentless, though. Yap, yap, yap. It doesn’t matter if you’re eating, working, or just sitting together in comfortable chaos; you’ve always got something to say. Most of the time, it’s fine. He even enjoys it. But when you’re tangled up with him— breath hitching, hair a dishevelled mess, moving up and down against him in a rhythm that’s anything but quiet, and you’re still going on about molecular stabilization? Well, that’s when you really test his patience.

With a quiet, fond chuckle, he’d press his palm to your cheek, silencing your ramble with the softest kiss. His lips curve into a sly smile as he pulls back just enough to murmur, his voice low and teasing, “You do realize there are far better uses for your mouth right now, don’t you?”

[wheatbreadfuckyeah]

DEBATE [VIKTOR X READER]

You’re seated on a stool near Viktor’s workbench, a half-eaten sandwich in hand as he adjusts a delicate mechanism in front of him. The lab is alive with its usual hum, but your conversation has been anything but routine— debating the intricacies of progress and the pitfalls of society.

“I’m simply saying,” Viktor begins, his voice steady but laced with that characteristic sharpness, “that innovation is wasted on those who refuse to adapt. Society clings to the familiar, even as it decays beneath them. Change should not ask permission; it should demand compliance.”

You raise a brow, chewing thoughtfully before replying. “That’s a rather cold way to look at it. You’re forgetting that society isn’t a monolith. People adapt at different rates, and forcing progress without consideration only breeds resistance.”

Viktor turns slightly, his smirk subtle but present. “Resistance is inevitable regardless. The fear of the unknown has held humanity back for centuries. At some point, you must abandon hand-holding and move forward. Progress waits for no one.”

You lean forward, resting your elbows on the workbench as you counter, “But progress without empathy is hollow, Viktor. What good is innovation if it leaves people behind? Isn’t the goal to elevate society as a whole, not just those who can keep up?”

His fingers pause briefly over his work, and he looks up at you, his gaze sharp but curious. “Empathy has its place, but it can not dictate the pace of advancement. Compromise too much, and you risk stagnation.”

You smirk, sensing an opening. “Ah, but compromise is what makes progress sustainable. A society forced to change too quickly risks collapse. You don’t build a bridge by leaping across a chasm– you lay down the planks one by one. It’s slower, yes, but far less likely to send everyone tumbling into the void.”

He leans back slightly, his expression thoughtful but unreadable. “An interesting analogy,” he admits, though his tone is tinged with reluctant acknowledgement. “Perhaps you have a point. But the void is inevitable for some, regardless.”

“True,” you say, standing up brushing the crumbs off your hands and grabbing the wrapping parchment off the desk. “But maybe fewer people fall if you take the time to build that bridge properly.”

You sling your bag over your shoulder, smirking at him as you make your way to the door. “Good talk, Viktor. I’ll let you chew on that while I go back to class.”

He doesn't watch as you leave, yet his lips quirk into the faintest shadow of a smile.

[wheatbreadfuckyeah]

Flirting with death [Viktor x Reader]

Summary: In a chaotic lab, Viktor’s sharp words and irritation mask a reluctant respect for your brilliance. Amid playful tension and unspoken bonds, Viktor values your presence even when you had just point a loaded gun to his face.

Sigh sighh sighhhhh— hope u like it!

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The lab was dimly lit, its usual atmosphere of sterile precision clouded by a curling haze of smoke that seemed to blur the lines between order and chaos. The rhythmic hum of machines filled the air, punctuated by the crackle of open flames and the volatile hiss of chemicals bubbling in makeshift glass contraptions. Tonight wasn’t about calculated progress or meticulous breakthroughs. It was one of those nights where discipline surrendered to the thrill of reckless, unbridled creation.

You slouched in your chair, exuding an air of devil-may-care rebellion, the faint glow of your cigarette casting flickering shadows across your face. Smoke curled from your lips like ghostly ribbons, dissipating into the stale air. Scattered before you lay your tools of choice: experimental compounds, volatile tinctures, and haphazard notes scrawled in a frenzy. “For society,” you murmured between puffs, your voice dripping with mockery, barely concealing the grin tugging at your lips. A wheezy laugh escaped you, your shoulders shaking as you revel in the memory of your latest antic.

“And then... oh, you should’ve seen her face!” You doubled over, the chair creaking beneath you as your laughter echoed off the metallic walls.

Across the room, Viktor’s golden gaze flicked toward you, his work momentarily forgotten. He sat stiffly at his workstation, tools in hand, precision etched into every line of his posture. But your laughter, grating, relentless, and manic, broke through his focus like a hammer shattering glass. His jaw tightened, and for a moment, he seemed to weigh the merits of ignoring you versus addressing you. With a heavy sigh, he set down his tools with almost exaggerated care, the quiet clink of metal punctuating the tension. He straightened slowly, leaning heavily on his cane as he turned to face you, his expression carved from stone.

“Do you find something amusing,” he began, his voice low and measured, though his words carried a serrated edge, “or have you simply decided to abandon what’s left of your sanity?”

“Oh, Viktor,” you wheezed, wiping a tear from your eye, “if you’d been there, you’d have died! I said—”

“I think,” he interrupted, his tone cutting through your words like a scalpel, “you’re doing enough of that on your own.” His cane tapped softly against the floor as he stepped toward you, each movement deliberate, his irritation barely contained. “Whatever concoction you’ve ingested this time is clearly interfering with—”

Without warning, you spun your chair around, the wheels screeching against the floor. The motion was theatrical, almost comical in its abruptness. Then, with a flourish, you produced a pistol, the barrel levelling at Viktor’s face in one smooth motion. The laughter died instantly, the air between you crackling with tension. Viktor stopped mid-stride, his eyes narrowing as his gaze locked on the weapon. There was no fear, no hesitation. Only a sharp, unyielding intensity that could have sliced through steel.

“You’re testing my patience,” he said quietly, his voice as cold and steady as ice. His eyes flicked to the gun, then back to you.

"You won’t shoot."

“Oh, am I?” you teased, your grin widening into something equal parts dangerous and playful. “Come closer and find out, sweetheart.”

Viktor’s expression didn’t waver. He took another step forward, unflinching as the muzzle pressed lightly against his forehead. The room seemed to hold its breath. Then, with an infuriating calm, Viktor raised a hand and pushed the barrel aside, the cold scrape of metal against his temple doing little to faze him.

“Are you quite finished?” His tone was flat, his exasperation simmering just beneath the surface.

You exhaled, the gun lowering as a smirk curled across your lips. Leaning back lazily in your chair, you took another drag of your cigarette, blowing the smoke directly into his face. Viktor’s nostrils flared, and for a brief moment, his eyes closed, as if summoning every ounce of restraint to keep himself from throttling you.

“Relax,” you purred, rising unsteadily to your feet. You swayed slightly, but the swagger in your step was undeniable as you sauntered closer to him. “You should try living a little, Viktor. Who knows? You might even enjoy it.”

“I live just fine,” he shot back, his voice cool and clipped, “which is precisely why I’d prefer you didn’t endanger mine every other day.”

You laughed, ignoring his protest as you reached out, your fingers curling beneath his chin. Tilting his face toward yours, you studied him, your gaze sharp and deliberate. “You know,” you murmured, voice low and teasing, “you’re even prettier when you’re annoyed.”

A flicker of something passed through his eyes; exasperation, perhaps, or the faintest trace of reluctant amusement. But then, with a sharp motion, he brushed your hand away, his expression caught between irritation and resignation. “And I,” he replied dryly, “apparently enjoy flirting with death to tolerate you.”

Your grin widened as you leaned closer, your breath warm against his cheek. “Truth be told,” you whispered, the words a velvet challenge. “You’d miss me if I wasn’t here.”

He scoffed, turning away from you. “Miss the noise? The smoke? The endless catastrophes?” His sarcasm was as sharp as ever. “Yes. Terribly.”

Your laughter erupted again, full-bodied and rich as Viktor returned to his workbench, muttering under his breath. “It’s a miracle,” he said to no one in particular, “that I’ve survived working with you this long.”

“Oh, come on,” you teased, stumbling forward to lean against the edge of his desk. “You love this. You love me. Admit it.”

Viktor didn’t look up, his hands deftly manoeuvring the delicate tools before him. “If you’re done waving guns around and inhaling poison,” he said evenly, “sit down. Or better yet, go to bed. I’ll clean up your mess—”

Before he could finish, you shifted, accidentally knocking a delicate glass tube off the desk. It shattered on the floor, the sound slicing through the air. Viktor froze, his head turning slowly to fix you with a withering glare.

You shrugged with a sheepish grin. “Oops.”

“Again,” he finished bitterly, the word dripping with resigned disdain.

As you backed away, triumphant, you caught the faintest flicker of a smile tugging at the corners of Viktor’s mouth, a fleeting, almost imperceptible sign of something softer beneath his usual layers of irritation and sharp retorts. It wasn’t care, not in the traditional sense, but respect. A grudging acknowledgement of your brilliance and a grudging tolerance that spoke volumes. Viktor would never admit it, but he respected you. And maybe, just maybe, he cared enough not to let you go.

[wheatbreadfuckyeah]

Viktor is a power bottom, and Jayce is a soft dom.

Fight me.

[wheatbreadfuckyeah]

It's you in the reflection, not him. [Viktor x Reader]

Dont let the title fool you because it's just a vent story, lamdhownwbsbxj. Remember- it's okay to be self-indulgent once in a while

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I sit on Viktor's desk, my legs casually propped up on my usual chair, absentmindedly gazing into the small mirror he keeps tucked among his tools. My reflection stares back, and I let out a frustrated sigh. "Ugh! I look like my dad."

The sound of my voice breaks through the soft hum of his work. Viktor’s head lifts slightly, his golden eyes flicking toward me with quiet curiosity. “An odd lament,” he remarks, setting down a small tool. “Why does this trouble you?”

I hesitate, biting my lip before responding. “Because… I don’t like him.” My voice wavers, frustration and something deeper seeping through. “He was barely in my life, and when people say I look like him, it’s never a compliment. Everyone says he’s ugly, and then they just… casually mention how much I resemble him.”

The bitterness in my tone hangs in the air as I glance back at my reflection, my chest tightening. I whine softly, as if the words themselves could alleviate the weight pressing on me.

Viktor watches me in silence, his gaze steady but unreadable. When I finally meet his eyes, I catch something in his expression—thoughtfulness, perhaps, or a flicker of understanding.

“You frown at your reflection,” he says, his voice calm but deliberate, “not because of what you see, but because of what it reminds you of. A face, no matter how similar, does not define you.”

I furrow my brows, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks. “Easy for you to say. You’re…” I gesture vaguely at him, my words tumbling out before I can stop them. “You’re you. Plus—you’re attractive.”

That catches him off guard. Viktor blinks, the faintest hint of color rising to his cheeks, though he quickly schools his expression. “Attractive, you say?” His tone is mild, teasing, but there’s a softness in his eyes that wasn’t there before.

I groan, covering my face with my hands. “Don’t make it weird. You know what I mean.”

His lips twitch in an almost-smile, but he doesn’t press the matter. “You overestimate the comfort I take in my own appearance,” he says quietly. “It is not without its flaws.” He taps the edge of his desk lightly, his voice growing more thoughtful. “Yet I find myself less concerned with the surface. Your likeness to him—whether striking or faint—is incidental. You are not him, nor his mistakes.”

I look away, swallowing hard. His words are kind, yet they stir something uneasy in me. “It’s not just about him,” I murmur. “It’s what people think when they look at me. Like I’m… carrying a piece of him everywhere I go, even when I don’t want to.”

He leans forward slightly, resting his elbow on the desk as he studies me. “And yet, you are more than their opinions. More than their comparisons. Do you believe your reflection encapsulates all you are?”

“I…” I trail off, unsure how to respond.

Viktor offers a rare softness in his expression, a flicker of empathy that feels grounding amidst the storm of my thoughts. “Perhaps it is not your father’s image you fear, but the thought that his absence defined you. That it shaped the way you see yourself. You are not beholden to that.”

I blink, his words sinking in slowly, uncomfortably, but not unwelcome. “You make it sound so simple.”

“Simple? No,” he replies, leaning back and picking up his tools again. “But necessary. Complexity often lies in accepting what cannot be changed.”

I glance at the mirror one last time, my reflection no less familiar, but his words linger like a small, steady light in the back of my mind.

[wheatbreadfuckyeah]

My best friend when I showed her my fanfiction 😍

Sorry I traumatised u so much, girlie 🤘😔

[wheatbreadfuckyeah]

Oh, To Capture You In pages

[Viktor X Reader]

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Okay so like im obesessed w him help.

Tell me if I capture him well, oki bye

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"I draw you a lot," I admit, my voice barely audible as I snap my notebook shut. The thought of showing him feels like exposing some deep secret I hadn’t meant to share.

Viktor raises an eyebrow, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Do you now?" he asks, his tone laced with mild amusement, though there’s a flicker of curiosity in his amber eyes. "I cannot imagine what about me you find so... compelling."

There’s an edge of self-deprecation to his words, but it doesn’t quite hide the spark of genuine interest. He pauses, tilting his head slightly. "Would you indulge me? Let me see?" His voice is calm, but the intent behind it is unmistakable—he’s intrigued, perhaps more than he wants to let on.

I hesitate, fingers tightening around the notebook. For a moment, I consider refusing, but his gaze holds me fast. With a quiet sigh, I open it and hand it over, bracing myself for whatever he might say.

Viktor takes it carefully, his long fingers brushing against mine as he flips open the cover. At first, his expression remains impassive, the analytical focus he always wears when working settling over his features. But as he turns each page, that mask begins to crack. His smirk fades into something quieter, more thoughtful, and his brow furrows slightly, as though he’s examining more than just the drawings.

"You’ve been busy," he says finally, his tone dry but tinged with something softer. His fingers linger on a sketch of him hunched over his workbench, his posture weary but determined. "You’ve captured my good side," he adds, the faintest glimmer of humor returning to his voice.

I shrug, my heart hammering in my chest. "You're... interesting to draw," I mutter, struggling to meet his gaze.

"Interesting," he repeats, his smirk deepening. "That’s a diplomatic way of saying I look peculiar, no?" He glances up at me, his amber eyes gleaming with amusement, but the warmth there catches me off guard. "Though I must admit, you've done something remarkable here." His tone shifts, becoming quieter, more introspective. "You’ve seen something in me. More than I would expect anyone to notice."

I fidget under his gaze, unsure how to respond. Viktor, ever perceptive, notices. "You don’t have to be nervous," he says, his voice softer now, though his smirk hasn’t entirely faded. "It is... flattering, in its own way." He hesitates, looking back at the sketches, his expression unreadable. "Perhaps I should start paying more attention to how I appear. Though I doubt I’ll ever see myself as clearly as you do."

For a moment, I see the mask drop entirely—a glimpse of vulnerability beneath his sharp wit and unshakable resolve. It’s fleeting, gone as quickly as it appeared, but it lingers in the way he handles the notebook with unexpected care, as though the sketches are more than mere drawings to him.

[wheatbreadfuckyeah]

Viktor x Reader [Graphite powder]

I've become a viktor fan yall. I kenot.

Anyways here a quick fanfiction

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You place the small invention in Viktor’s hand, feeling the weight of the moment. "It’s not going to change the world or anything, but..." you begin, your voice faltering slightly under his intense gaze. "You mentioned once how miserable it was sharpening your pencils all the time, so… I thought I could help."

You quickly add the small tube of graphite sticks, showing him how to refill the pencil. "Just click the top, and the graphite comes out. No more sharpening. And if it runs out, just swap the graphite sticks."

You hold your breath, watching him, trying to gauge his reaction. He stares at the pencil for a moment, turning it over in his hand, inspecting it carefully. His expression is neutral, as always, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes—maybe curiosity, maybe something else.

He doesn’t immediately say anything, and you start to feel your nerves kick in. Did he not like it?

“Hmm.” Viktor finally speaks, his voice calm, but there’s an awkward pause before he continues. “It’s… functional.” He clears his throat, seemingly uncomfortable with the praise. “I suppose I’ve been using those old, worn-down pencils for too long. This is... more practical.” His gaze flickers up to meet yours, and though his voice doesn’t waver, there’s a hint of something softer behind his words. “Thank you.”

It’s not an overflowing outburst of gratitude, but you can tell there’s genuine appreciation buried in his awkward tone. He’s not great with this kind of affection, but it’s there, in the way his fingers linger on the pencil, almost as if he’s trying to understand why you’d go out of your way for something so simple.

You smile, a little relieved, though you can tell he’s already lost in his thoughts again, the gears in his mind turning—just as they always do.

After a few days, the lab has become a place where you find yourself more often than not, drawn to Viktor’s workspace. Each time you pass by, you notice the familiar rhythm of his hand, the soft click of the mechanical pencil you made him as he writes or sketches his ideas. It’s a small thing, but it’s impossible to ignore the way his eyes occasionally flicker to the pencil, a brief glance of recognition before he quickly returns to his work, avoiding your gaze. It’s a strange, quiet acknowledgment, one that makes a smile tug at your lips every time. Even if Viktor isn’t the type to outwardly show gratitude, the fact that he’s using it—day after day—speaks volumes.

One day, as you walk through the hallway, you catch a fleeting glimpse of Viktor as he walks past you, his voice low and casual, offering nothing more than a simple "Hello." You return the greeting, your eyes drawn to the small object nestled in the pocket of his vest.

There, tucked carefully in place, is the mechanical pencil you gave him.

A warmth spreads in your chest at the sight. It’s a small gesture, but it’s meaningful. It’s Viktor’s way of saying thank you, without ever saying the words. You can’t help but watch him for a moment longer, his back turned to you as he continues on his way, but that simple, quiet gesture of carrying the pencil with him is enough.

[wheatbreadfuckyeah]

Help. Does anyone remember or know that one ASMR video of a guy "playing" with a toy egg??? I remember it so vividly yet youtube has no traces of it at all aND I NEED IT FOR STRICTLY RESEARCH PURPOSES ONLY.