pazzi devotee

heart: as you settle, hyacinth arrives. hyacinth is one of the greenest floral notes; it has a fresh-cut stem sense with a damp earthiness underneath. it smells akin to walking through a flower shop while the buckets are still full of water. it keeps the fragrance from becoming overly "pretty." then an underscore of iris—NOT sugary violet makeup-powder iris—cool, rooty iris. the scent of iris comes from the root of the plant itself, not the flower. felt-like texture and a whisper of gentleness that leans expensive rather than synthetic.

body: an incredible sheer finish. neroli, bright white blossoms with a slight citrus kiss and just enough of a bitter snap to keep it all clean. the ozonic notes sprinkled in would again not smell like the ocean so much as open sky after a tempest: cool, crisp air, clean fabric fluttering on the sill, mist suspended above a lake.

pearl white, pale celadon, dove gray, frosted blue, soft silver. giselle ballet but the akram khan version, botanical conservatories, water gardens, handwritten notes on cotton parchment, the pictures your sister specifically took two years out from being pregnant, swiss-italian border, frosted glass in the foyer of homes, white orchids growing through stone, metalwork, marble under your bare feet, cage crinoline, echo of a voice within a cathedral, eros & psyche.

@leonsbrat ⧽ head: dark chocolate, heart: hibiscus, amber, body: fig nectar, cinnamon, night-blooming jasmine.

anna and i have known each other for so long. she's a slow melt, a warm laugh dripping all over you. i adore her, and her work and her friendship have carried me through so much. the name anna means grace or favor. as a perfume, she'd be as rich and sensual as she is in life.

head: you're a simple open, a mimicry of dark chocolate, but it isn't sugary here. imagine a zest closer to 70–80% cacao: bittersweet, earthy, almost dusty, with a faint roasted quality. you create instant depth without turning the fragrance into a dessert. you never show your full hand all at once.

heart: into the thick of it, we find hibiscus beginning to bloom. hibiscus isn't commonly extracted naturally for perfumery, so we tend to evoke the idea of the flower instead - playing slightly tart, crimson, fruity-floral. juicy red quality, amber wrapping around both notes, smoothing their edges. a modern amber that's resinous and glowing rather than smoky; golden light on dark wood.

body: you come alive here. fig nectar adds soul. i don't want to work with the green, leafy side of fig, but the fruit split open at peak ripeness: milky, honeyed, pulpy & creamy - bridging the chocolate top beautifully because both share a subterranean richness. a touch of cinnamon to introduce warmth without making you a holiday; dry, woody spice, not a cinnamon roll. night-blooming jasmine unfurls to close it all out: indolic, humid, sweltering, giving the fragrance its almost mesmeric quality.

velvet pulled over a lamp, rimmel's lasting finish matte lipstick by kate moss, oxblood, aubergine, espresso, plum, forest green, garnet, antique gold, the renaissance era, ceramic cookware, eating out late in the evening, foxtrot, the exact transition period between autumn and winter, tchaikovsky, gunslinger, westerns, watercolor-inspired video game concepts, a lighter you don't use for anything other than to stimulate the hands, returning to your homeland, the way a sunset can lend a halo to the back of one's head, a secret whispered into a sweat-wet neck, sleeping in fetal position.

@peach4pazzi ⧽ head: pink pepper, heart: wild orchid, whipped cream, body: raspberry bloom.

my playful peach. peach is a movement, a way of life; full body-laugh, a fun flirt, catching your lip between your teeth. bright bright bright georgia peach. best girl in the world.

head: oh, you're a star. bright open with pink pepper, which, despite its name, isn't particularly spicy. it sparkles in a sense, has a rosy, near citrusy effervescence that feels like opening a bottle of prosecco. it gives you energy rather than heat. then your heart appears.

heart: wild orchid, baby - more fantasy than reality in perfumery. unlike the rose or jasmines of the world, orchids don't naturally have one universally recognizable scent, so we use "orchid" to evoke an impression like we do hibiscus: silky-tropical sweetness, creamy creamy creamy - oh, dash of whipped cream to shake the mood. this isn't bakery whipped; imagine something airy: vanilla cream folded until it's almost weightless. sister to mousse than frosting; softens the orchid without burying it.

body: you finish in a wave of raspberry bloom. bloom, not fruit. we're borrowing from both the raspberry and the blossom. juicy pink berries rolling alongside delicate white blossoms. you're sweeter than hibiscus but fresher than jam. we keep you close, fending off any chance of detonating a sugar bomb.

youngest of the family, impulse buys, no calls but no texts - voice memos, frosè, laughing so hard you snort, strawberries at a farmers' market, satin ballet flats tossed on the floor, the first warm saturday ever in april, spring-into-summer, the rosary tree at the loretto chapel in santa fe new mexico, twenty tabs open, living at full speed, lemon meringue pie, sleeping on a hotel balcony, sharp sharp ash-blonde bob, feminine but not juvenile not precious, open palm slap, raspberry pink, warm yellow-ivory, soft coral, black streak.

@azzified ⧽ head: tuberose, heart: lily-of-the-valley, coconut milk, body: snow, turkish red rose.

so helpful all the time, but also such a soft, centered energy. perfect balance with a wide fun streak. a secret of a woman you have to get past to find the treasure. perfect & so integral; i miss you the minute you're gone.

head: tuberose is a note with the reputation of being loud and almost narcotic, but in the right composition it's unbelievably slick. it's just gorgeous, and it smells like a garden sitting warm in the incessant beat of the august afternoon sun. you're succulent, buttery, and just a little dangerous. we don't push.

heart: unexpected. lily-of-the-valley cutting through all that richness. it's one of the freshest white florals in perfumery: green, crystalline, almost bell-like. i'm biased because it's one of my favorites. we introduce cool air into you, breaking through what could have become an overwhelmingly opulent scent. then coconut milk seeds through. we don't want toasted coconut, or that sunscreen scream. we want milk; such an important distinction. you smell smooth, almost steamed, with a subtle lactonic simmer that clings to the tuberose like a lover gone fearful. velvet push, careful of going sharp.

body: you give us snow. obviously snow doesn't have a smell, but it's often interpreted as chilled musk, transparent aldehydes, airy blonde wood, mineral notes; the sensation of cold rather than a literal scent. the snow keeps all other notes suspended in thin air. finally, turkish red rose blooms - deep, jammy, crimson rose with a kick of spice and honey crush. a single red flower growing out of an otherwise white landscape; you've learned to endure, return.

tibetan mountains, ghost stories, the blinding effect of moonlight against a blizzard or turning on your highbeams during snowfall, warm milk before bed, sleeping through a storm, contradictory, hard line, deeply romantic, greenhouse in winter, cashmere sweater, antique fireplace, lace curtains, the brand doen, victorian flatware, four-poster bed of dark wood, winter wedding, mother of pearl, old botanical illustrations, art deco, the year before the 1920s exploded into depression, stark white, circus life, dogwood pink, sage, midnight blue, baby blue, violet, lilac, scarlet, dipsomaniac, blue hour.

@wecrytogether ⧽ head: oud, heart: tiare, tonka bean, body: black rose, cashmere.

i once told niyah she is a forest fire in the best way: destructive only to what can't last, clearing space for something truer, more aligned to her. a phoenix, too, rising again and again. so clever it catches me off guard. she takes life by the throat and insists on living it, even when it resists, even when it pushes back. still true. i love you, glad i get to.

head: an oud welcome (another hard favorite), but don't think aggressively medicinal or barnyard. a smooth sweep, wood polished over time, slightly smoky, with hints of leather and resin. you're immediately grounding.

heart: a surprise, but never a second thought. tiaré: solar, buttery, usually conjures beaches and monoi oil. but she's sitting next to oud and they hold hands and she's losing her vacation feel. instead, she becomes exotic in the oldest sense of the word: lush, plush, soporific. tonka bean, vanilla's middle sibling. almond, hay, tobacco, caramel, and warm spice woven together. comfort without ever becoming commodified. softens all else, gives a skin-like warmth.

body: a conceptual black rose; dark dried petals, faintly fruity, faintly spicy, essence of wine. cashmere isn't really a smell, but a texture. here we often mean it as tepid musk, summer woods, and an enveloping suede finish.

billie holiday, nina simone, dark cherry wood cabinets, the artist-muse relationship of liv ullmann and ingmar bergman, persona (1966), authentic persian rugs, brass lamps, thick knitwear, cotton sheets, boutique hotels, paris in early-middle october/late november, fingerprints smeared over aureate heirlooms, california traffic, "i'll call you back", nothing feels too precious to use, iberian lynx, wolves' eyes like silver dollars in the dark, border between nightmare and dream, the crackle of a record player, tattoo on the inner wrists, "it didn't really hurt all that much" (liar), espresso brown, deep deep mahogany, amethyst, slate blue, yale blue, raven black.

@azzibueckers5 ⧽ head: raspberry, licorice, heart: vanilla, labdanum, body: violet, blackberry.

my ella, sweet ella. "other" (germanic), "goddess" (hebrew), and "torch" (english/greek). you're so enigmatic; always in and out in the best way. no pressure, but self-assured. something ephemeral, but the touch lasts, the memory of you never fades. brilliant.

head: raspberry, but darker. crushed raspberries staining fingertips, rather than fresh berries in a market basket. tart at first taste, then rich, intoxicating. beside it is licorice, a change in personality. licorice in fragrance has anise facets: cool, herbal, sweet, faintly medicinal, and a little mysterious. it makes people tilt their heads because they can't quite place you. together, they're addictive. dulcet, obscure. you're addictive, a lempicka painting.

heart: vanilla pulls you out, takes your hand. you're no cupcake vanilla, but clotted, glossy vanilla. we want to indulge, want to eat you right up. sanding the licorice bite without erasing it. labdanum follows; masterstroke. labdanum cousin to amber, sun-baked, leather lip under the jaw, dried fruit, and honey. a "shadow", incredible depth.

body: you're a violet close. shy of powdery/waxy lipstick, shy of candied; after rain. a little green, a little melancholic. tender exhale into something mellow, quiet. blackberry burst before the fade.

the dark of the theater as the curtain has yet to rise - light behind it, fresh ink, stained glass, the inside of a jewelry box, twilight, vanilla and apple tea in a mug with a chip on the handle, purple bruise blooming on the skin (love bite), smoke of a candle after the blowout, dry humor, books stacked on the floor, marginalia, ribbon bookmark, silver rings, black cherry (color), smoke plum, lavender, ash grey, azure, aqua, indigo, kiss on the forehead, never let you go.

Nestled between a corner bookstore with glowing windows and a boutique, a woman stands at a bus stop, squinting at a transit map like she’s trying to memorize every route in case there’s a test later. Her gaze darts between the map and the passing crowds, frantic and unfocused in a way that’s kind of endearing.

She’s completely lost and clueless. And completely ignored.

Azzi should keep walking. She knows that. There’s a hot shower waiting at home, calling her name, promising to thaw her frozen limbs after a brutal double session. Her body aches in that all too familiar way that means she’s pushed it maybe a little farther than the trainers would approve of.

Still, she can’t tear her eyes away.

The woman steps toward a passing man, frustration tightening her sharp jawline as the wind tangles the loose golden waves escaping from beneath her beanie. She says something, her voice barely audible over the traffic, but he doesn’t even slow. Just brushes past her without a word.

More pedestrians hurry by, wrapped in wool coats and thick scarves, eyes fixed forward, too focused on getting home or making dinner reservations to spare her a glance. Every few moments, a gust of wind sweeps through the street, rattling outdoor café chairs and making the blonde tuck her chin deeper into her jacket.

Azzi knows that look.

She’s worn it herself. Not that long ago, either. Lost. Overwhelmed. Struggling with the language, the customs, the bus routes everyone else seems to understand instinctively. She’s still lost in some ways, but that’s a separate issue she doesn’t have the energy to delve into right now.

She exhales, the breath visible in the cold, tightens her scarf, and crosses the busy street.

"Kann ich Ihnen helfen?"

The blonde’s head snaps up, blue eyes wide with panic. She shakes her head quickly and turns back to the map, shoulders curling inward like she’s bracing for another failed interaction.

Okay. Different approach.

“Can I help you?” Azzi asks again, switching to English as she places a light hand on the woman’s shoulder to get her attention.

Blue eyes, bright despite the fatigue, flick over Azzi’s face. The panic softens into mild relief. Still, exhaustion lingers in the hollows beneath her eyes, suggesting she’s been fighting this city all day. The purplish tint to her exposed fingers as they trace the colorful lines on the map confirms the suspicion.

“Thank God. Someone who speaks English,” she breathes.

The sincerity of it makes Azzi smile. She takes a moment to actually look at her now that she’s closer. Between the American accent, the oversized duffle bag slung over her shoulder, and the useless leather jacket, she’s clearly not a local. A jacket like that won’t do a damn thing against a German winter, no matter how good it looks. Neither will the flimsy beanie perched on her head. 

And no gloves? 

Rookie mistake.

“How can I help?” Azzi asks, keeping her voice easy.

The blonde’s grin is bright despite the exhaustion settling into her bones. She seems more at ease already as she extends her hand.

“I’m Paige.”

Something warm zips up Azzi’s spine when their hands meet. She isn’t sure why that surprises her, but it does. She pulls her striped scarf tighter around her neck, unsure if she’s blocking out the cold or the feeling, and quickly releases Paige’s hand, flexing her fingers to shake it off.

Needing something to do with her hands she tucks a stray curl behind her ear.

“Azzi,” she supplies in return after finally finding the ability to speak. 

Paige clears her throat and glances back at the map like she’s trying to refocus, though it’s obvious she has no idea what she’s looking at. Azzi can’t blame her. Four years in Germany and she’s mostly fluent now, but she still remembers those early months. 

So when Paige looks back up at her, pleading and desperate, Azzi doesn’t hesitate.

“Where do you need to go?”

Paige exhales in relief and pulls a crumpled piece of paper from her pocket. She studies it, then blushes. Azzi knows it’s not from the cold this time, and takes it gently from her numb fingers.

“Oh, I know where this is,” she says, nodding vaguely behind her. “It’s a couple of miles uptown, near my favorite bar.”

Paige smiles, grateful, but the apprehension doesn’t fully fade.

“Can you point to where I should go to grab the next bus? I need to get out of the cold.”

Azzi lets out a soft laugh before she can stop herself, catching it just in time.

“What’s so funny?” Paige asks, smiling despite her current situation.

Azzi guides her gaze back toward the map mounted on the metal pole beneath the swinging stoplight, placing a hand lightly on her lower back.

“We’re here,” she says, pointing, “and you need to go all the way over here.”

Her finger drags across the map as she speaks, ignoring the bite of cold metal through her thin glove, and the warmth of Paige leaning in just a little too close. Azzi shifts, pretending it’s for visibility, not because her nervous system has suddenly become unhelpfully aware of the blonde.

“The walk to the other bus stop is as long as the walk to your place.”

Paige groans, dropping her face into her hands.

“Either the taxi driver didn’t understand me, or he saw an easy target and robbed me of a bunch of euros.”

Azzi squeezes her arm gently. “I parked my car around the corner, and I live just a few blocks from where you’re going. Why don’t you let me give you a ride?”

It’s a lie. A complete lie. She lives across town, the opposite direction entirely.

Still, something about Paige tugs at her. The homesickness she rarely acknowledges stirs at the sound of an American voice. And yes,fine, the fact that Paige is attractive doesn’t hurt.

Azzi smiles, a little shy. “We could grab some coffee on the way to warm up. There’s a cute little place right around the corner.”

Paige stiffens instantly. “I’m married.”

She lifts her left hand, platinum band catching the dull light. Azzi laughs without thinking.

“Okay,” she laughs, hands thrown in the air in surrender. “I was just offering a ride and a friendly cup of coffee. I don’t make a habit of picking up helpless Americans off the streets and seducing them over lattes.”

Although she absolutely should.

Paige relaxes, relief washing over her features.