#leif-writes

[leif-writes]

So what characters from Date Everything are you focused on?

Just so we know who you’re comfortable with writing?

im pretty comfortable with most characters’ writing-wise, however I know most about: Ben-Hwa, Betty, Bathsheba, River, Mac, and I know a bit about Farya & Phoenicia. Always happy to do research on characters though ^_^; (and I am okay with most if not all content aware characters.)

[ratatosk777]

i want mothiva merch

[mid-parasite-au]

YAY! I love them sm

[kayla-kloudz]

leif x nail tech girl? fluff or headcanons???

Leif x Nail Tech!Reader Headcanons

• Leif had no idea what a “nail tech” even was at first. "Nail... tech..?"

• When he sees you working on someone’s nails for the first time, he's stunned.

• “Wait... you're painting those? Like... for fun?”

• He pretends to be uninterested when you offer to do his nails, but five minutes later he’s sitting across from you like, “Okay but do something cool. Like blood. Or skulls. Or a tiny dagger!”

• He’s your most dramatic client. Wriggles too much, gasps at the curing lamp, and yells “IS THAT POSION” every time you use acetone.

• But still shows up every two weeks.

• 2 weeks becomes every week becomes twice a week until eventually he's there every day

• "Leif your nails don't have to be done daily" "I know"

• fascinated with your art like a puppy learning it has a tail

• He secretly loves having his nails done. It makes him feel both fierce and pampered. • His favorites are green chrome or black matte with glow-in-the-dark tips. He calls them his “kill nails.”

• If someone dares insult your work or disrespect you, Leif is ready to throw hands. No one talks down to his favorite nail artist.

• He’s terrifyingly protective.

• When you’re tired after work, he’ll wordlessly grab your hands and rub your wrists.

• You once made him custom nail art with tiny little runes and he didn’t stop showing them off for two weeks.

• “Look at these. My girl literally casted spells on my fingers.”

• Leif brags about you constantly, even when it's completely unrelated: “Oh, you’re a warrior? That’s cool. My girlfriend can draw a perfect skull on a pinky nail without flinching.”

• He loves when you experiment on him—holographics, jelly polish, themed sets. The more dramatic, the better. One time you did a set inspired by his eyes, and he got so flustered he couldn’t look at you straight.

• He says he doesn’t “do romance,” but shows up at your studio late at night with snacks, ready to clean your station while you vent about nightmare clients.

• He will 100% fight rude clients on your behalf.

[thewordkeep-ffxiv]

FERAL

There is a difference between the executioner and the hunter. The former is about snuffing a life--orphaning children, stealing away loved ones, ending family lines, the outside-corrupted body wasted, the forbidden items left behind useless to the Wood. The cost of keeping the Wood safe is being left with that final gaze before death--despair, regret, desperation--and seeing a soul dim from lifeless eyes. It is kill or be killed, but each take haunts my every dream.

This need for survival is also present in the hunt, but there is a mutual understanding in it. My death would mean sustenance for an ecosystem, my body a contribution to the Word. My kill would mean sustenance for me, warmth in the hide, the use of bones and claws for tools. There is no hate in the eyes of the dying creatures of the Green Word, just acceptance, resignation into the circle of life. I can revel in my victory and enjoy my spoils in full belly and warm back, contributing to balance.

To hunt is to worship the Green Word. To kill is to merely defend it.

[ratcandy]

doctor h.b. please give me a chance

[asphodelis]

instead of brain there is cousins

[triangulum-theory]

Au where the diners cat is just: verge

[mantisgodsdomain]

Every living bug has a personal scent - a blend of pheromones that generally acts as a personal "name", or "voice", in pheromonal communication. In social bugs, this tends to be stronger. As communication via pheromone is extremely species-specific, learning to manipulate them in more detail than some basic altering your expression of any given emotion tends to be something of a niche skill set, particularly among solitary bugs. It's most commonly learned for in-species communication, or by the bugs responsible for putting up pheromone signage in social-bug-heavy areas, but also has some fairly wide utility in less legal manners.

As pheromones are highly specific by bug, a bug of one species may have significant difficulty parsing the pheromones of a bug of another species. While social bugs in hives and colonies generally have something of an instinctive grasp of what various pheromones mean, and will often pick them up as part of communication among themselves, solitary bugs tend to be significantly less sensitive to them, and may struggle to distinguish between similar pheromone signals even if they know what both mean.

As a consequence of this, the vast majority of signage within a hive or colony can be wholly illegible to a solitary bug, even if it is perfectly clear to the hive's inhabitants. Bugs with reduced sensitivity to key pheromones used in social signalling can also suffer from this, particularly in places where pheromone signage can be important to operation. While these can be learned over time, unfortunately, it isn't always enough to make up for the social impacts.

Though it is possible to learn to suppress your personal scent, it isn't a widely distributed skill, and it's associated with criminals more than anything else - on a similar level to learning to lockpick, it's a cool trick to show off that also has a solid chance of getting your coworkers to ask you if you've stolen anything recently. Though suppression can make your scent more subtle, it can't eliminate it entirely, and most bugs who are seriously concerned about hiding their identities will wear some sort of masker to confuse their scent.

Monsieur Scarlet, due to a side effect of his personal flavor of mage, is capable of cutting off his own pheromone production entirely, or selectively shutting off specific pheromones. To other bugs, this will smell uncannily "blank". Since pheromones are still the main means through which bugs will communicate emotions, even beyond being a personal identifier, it's sort of like someone's face... slipped off, and there was just a void where it used to be.

Along with his short-range teleportation tricks, this makes him very good at slipping a tail, but also works against him in being an extremely distinctive trait that's very prone to freaking people out. Generally, you don't stop producing your personal pheromones until you die- but he's not producing a dead-ant smell, and he's very clearly up and moving, just lacking any personal scent. It's prone to tripping a sense that something is horribly, unnaturally wrong. Also, it's not very good for his body to stop making a bunch of major compounds. Generally, he'll opt more for things like cutting out stress pheromones than taking out everything.

[uchudishe]

Leif request spoliers.

Fooling around while writing a fanfic. Nothing better than accepting horrible truth about yourself by dropping gags

[hana-bobo-finch]

predictive text is hitting it out of the ballpark yet again

For those curious the predictive text follows that with either “voice” “body” or “right” why tf does it think Leif is a misogynist 😭😭

[leif-writes]

♡ Leif Writes Fic - Intro ♡

Hi, I'm a non binary lesbian who made a blog to write fanfic. You can use she/they to refer to me. Because I don't want this tied to my main blog or anywhere else, that's all I'll say about myself. please don't try to find my main or my other socials. thanks.

♡♠ Blog/Fic Info♠♡

I'm basing this blog solely off of requests. Although, because I enjoy writing when I know what I'm writing about, I'll only write fic for fandoms I'm in. I'm currently accepting fic requests for: CRK, Date Everything, The Good Place, and Brooklyn Nine-Nine. I want to mainly focus on f/f fics because those are my favorites, but that doesn't mean I won't write others. Also want to clairify: I will do x reader fics. Okay, I know i mainly wrote fanfic related stuff, but I will also do headcanons upon request :3

Boundaries

Won't do: Darkship (DNI Darkshippers), anything kinky, non-con/extreme blood & violence, or anything I'm uncomfortable with. I reserve the right to not respond to any requests that make me uncomfortable. yes, i will do nsfw, but it's a very thin line.

[natalieleif]

In case you missed it elsewhere, COVER REVEAL! TAKE ALL OF US is a queer, disabled, Appalachian YA Horror coming June 4, 2024 from Holiday House, with a beautiful cover design by Mars Lauderbaugh!

PREORDER HERE: linktr.ee/natalieleif

[mid-parasite-au]

Baby leif was pudgy bro (old art)

[kayla-kloudz]

my inner demons angst!!! if you could do leif or asch that would be great!! maybe childhood trauma that shaped them??

Hi anon! Thank you so much for your request!! I love it! Leif's backstory absolutely breaks my heart so I chose to do him! This is my first time writing pure angst so I hope you enjoy! 💜

TW: childhood abandonment, emotional flashbacks, panic, trauma response, panic attacks

Leif has spent his entire life trying not to feel anything at all. He’s never been good with emotions—especially not the kind that claw at his throat, and that squeeze his chest until it feels like he’s choking on his heartbeat. He hates it. He hates how familiar fear feels.

The silence in the apartment is deafening. Every tick of the clock is a countdown to something he doesn’t understand. The rooms are too still. Too empty. Ava said she’d be back soon. She was just running errands with Pierce and Rhys. Just a normal afternoon. She promised.

His fingers dig into the countertop, white-knuckled and trembling. His breath is too fast and shallow. It shouldn’t matter. He shouldn’t be so freaked out. He knows she’ll be back. She has to. But his brain is already unraveling, latching onto every second that ticks by. What if she’s not? What if she left? What if she’s gone and doesn’t care enough to come back? Just like the others.

He grips the edge of the counter harder, like if he lets go, he’ll fall into the past all over again. But it’s too late. The memories crash down onto him like a wave, cold and merciless. It drags him back to the place where everything first broke.

He was a kid. Just a scared, desperate little kid who thought he’d finally found a family.

The alley was wet and dark. The air stunk of metal, rot, and magic gone wrong. It was supposed to be a simple job. In and out. Something they’d done a hundred times before. But the second things went wrong, they were gone.

He remembers how the shadows moved. They danced around him, slowly moving further and further away from him. He didn’t even realize they were gone until he was standing alone, panting, blood caked on his hands that wasn't his, staring at the spot where his brothers and sisters had just been. The thought of maybe if he just held on long enough, they’d come back, crossed his mind. They always came back. But they didn’t this time. Leif was left alone in the cold and damp ally way. The creeping silence filling his ears instead of the usual cheers and laughter.

He searched for them. Everywhere. He ran until his lungs burned and his legs gave out. When he finally got back to their hideout, the fire was out. The food was gone. So were the clothes. The maps. The notes. No laughter. No teasing. Not even a trace. Just... silence. The pit in his stomach grew so deep it felt as if it would swallowed him whole.

He waited there sitting in the damp dirt. He sat there for hours. Curled up on the floor, fingers digging into the cold dirt like if he held on tight enough, someone would come back for him. Anyone. "They’ll come back," he whispered to himself. Over and over again. Voice cracking until the words were just sound.

But they never did. They never even looked back.

He stayed in that forest for three days before he realized it. He was alone. Utterly, completely alone. Because love, trust, family—those weren’t real. Not for him. He was used as just another weapon. A tool. A liability. And they had left him behind. Just like his parents did. He should’ve known better. Should’ve never let himself believe he deserved more.

The memory shatters, and suddenly he is back in the apartment. Chest heaving. Hands numb. The silence here feels the same. Empty. Mocking.

"She said she’d be back," he whispers. Barely audible. Like it hurts to speak. But she isn’t back. And his heart won’t stop screaming that she won’t be. A bedroom door creaks open and footsteps fill the quiet kitchen. Leif doesn’t turn around. He can’t. His gaze still fogged over staring into space.

Noi steps inside carefully, his voice soft. "Leif?"

No answer.

Noi swallows, his eyes flicking over the tension in Leif’s body, the way his shoulders shake, he knows what’s happening, he’s seen Leif like this before. "She’s probably just stuck in traffic," he offers gently. "She’ll be home soon. You know Ava—she always comes back."

Leif’s breath hitches at Noi’s words. "No," he says, barely more than a breath. "No,” his voice grows sharper, louder, more desperate “she’s not. She’s gone. Just like the rest of them." His voice cracks.

Noi flinches. But Leif doesn’t sound angry, he sounds broken; scared. Like a little boy who waited and waited all alone, and no one ever came.

Maybe this time is different, maybe she really is coming back. But when you’ve been left behind enough times…

you stop believing in maybes.

[thewordkeep-ffxiv]

MACHINIST

Deft fingers, stained with the daily courses of nature, sifted through the trimmed leather, tightly woven cotton, embroidered silk, and crafted steel adorning the body claimed by the Wood, this intruder now a gift to the moss, leaves, and vines of a beautiful, savage world. Outwardly, the deceased Garlean soldier had nothing in common with the forest dweller of frayed hemp wrappings around calloused hands, roughened leather encasing a lean, scarred body, and battle-beaten metal that protected head, limbs, and heart.

Nothing went to waste under the laws of nature as the Child of the Wood took the offerings of fabric to be used for cleaning, of leather to be fashioned for tools, and of armor to be re-purposed to shelter or to hold sustenance. The remaining body would be given to the Wood, to nourish it, life reclaimed by the mystery and majesty of the Green Word.

But the gun would be left behind, untouched, an abomination to nature's harmony, ceruleum devilry forever locked in its prison of metal piping, never to be used again.

The Viera yanked his arrow from the body, a well of congealing blood spilling over the wound where a heart once beat. He would use everything else, but never the gun.

~~

Those same deft fingers, stained with the daily living of lower-rung society, creased tightly woven fabric against his skin, adjusted embroidered silk around his neck, shifted the finely cured leather that protected and adorned his lean, scarred body. He stood in a world of metal now, and beyond this room was a forest of stone, of glass, of steel, and life hard won by grit and perseverance, an existence that demanded a sacrifice of the soul. He adjusted the harness strap holding his rifle, ceruleum devilry trapped in metal piping that would honor his intention. He no longer thrived in a cycle of rebirth but existed in a path of survival, vengeance soothing the ache of where his heart beat.

This Child of the Wood had become lost, but by fire or by vine he would be found again.