#c: saffron

[crownrots]

PHILLIPA MARWOOD (BG3) | DELANEY T’ORGH (BG3)

AERONA ZONVASSES (BG3) | SAFFRON INGELLVAR (DATV)

VICTORIA THORNE (DATV) | SERENA LAIDIR (DATV)

🏆 bonus nina bc mood

TAGGED BY @queennymeria , @lilywatt , @risingsh0t & @leviiackrman to use this picrew, thank you! xoxo

TAGGING —

@shadowglens @simonxriley @thedeadthree @arborstone @josephzeppeli

@countessrooster @lucky-107 @pavus @rhetoricalrogue @loriane-elmuerto

@roberthouse69 @erinkeenan @shellibisshe @auricfog @arthrmorgann

[ratan0706]

Which face serum is best for your skin type?

Not always an easy find is the appropriate face serum, but sometimes it’s simply the only key to healthy, glowing skin. Serums provide direct delivery of powerful ingredients into the skin for targeting very particular problems that require addressing, like dryness, dullness, fine lines, or uneven skin tone. We, at LEAFOBERRY Skincare, believe that choosing the best serum for proper hydration of the skin will change your beauty routine and help you get as much as you can from skincare.

Importance of Face Serum in Skincare Routine

Face serum is a concentrated product with very active ingredients, penetrates deeper than would have been possible by moisturizers or creams, on the contrary, a face cream would hydrate and protect the outer barrier of the skin. A face serum works on issues beneath the surface, whether it’s a serum to brighten your face, fight dullness, or hydrate your skin. The right serum will make an enormous difference for the look of your skin depending on you skin concerns. Like the Citrus Blast Face Serum With Hyaluronic Acid and Rose | Vitamin C Face Serum is the best serum to address dark spots and pigmentation.

Identify Your Skin Type

Before venturing out to pick your dream face serum, first, know your skin type. It is a fact that every kind of skin has specific needs, and it will be best you get what will target your skin concerns. LEAFOBERRY has the best skin care line suitable for your skin type and concern.

Face Serums for Dry Skin

Hydrating serums are needed for dry skin. Such skin is often pretty tight and flaky or even rough to the touch, and it’s always tending to look a little dull. Hydrated face serum that contains hyaluronic acid, glycerin, or ceramides are the best for dry skin.

Our LEAFOBERRY has the best serums for face containing hyaluronic acid to draw moisture in the facial skin that leaves it to stay plump and hydrated throughout the day. Moreover, it naturally contains oils that feed your skin and make it elastic again.

For a stronger hydration effect, pair your serum with an organic face cream. It will lock moisture into your skin and give you long-lasting smoothness. Hydrating face cream for women usually prefers matching the kind of hydration that the serum provides.

Face Serums for Oily Skin

Oily skin is annoying to put with, but the right face serum can help that out by controlling it and balancing that excess oil for your skin. Recommended are light, non-comedogenic serums, not those that may clog pores but rich in ingredients controlling your oil production that usually have active ingredients like salicylic acid, niacinamide, or zinc. A good skin serum for oily skin should combat breakouts, minimize pores, and maintain hydration balance of skin. Avoid rich or greasy products as it can easily clog pores and make skin greasy.

Face Serums for Combination Skin

Combination skin is perhaps one of the trickiest balances of areas because you have oily parts, generally the T-zone, and dry parts, like the cheeks. A good face serum should be hydrating where needed but not oily, so pores do not clog up. Consider an organic serum with hyaluronic acid for hydration and niacinamide to control oil. Serums designed to focus on balancing moisture in the skin, while also reducing pore size, can be highly effective as well.

Face Serums for Sensitive Skin

Sensitive skin easily gets irritated, flushes, and reacts to harsh ingredients. To choose the right face serum for sensitive skin, choose fragrance-free and hypoallergenic products. Soothing ingredients like aloe vera, chamomile, and licorice root are known to help ease the irritation and inflammation. Select a facial serum which calms and strengthens the barrier function of your skin, reducing with time. Try LEAFOBERRY face serums, they are the perfect options to soothe your skin and address your concerns. Now you can also buy LEAFOBERRY serum for face online.

Combine it with gentle face cream that doesn’t contain chemical compounds or fragrances for best performance for sensitive skin.

Face Serums for Aging Skin

Mature skin would need serums designed to target age-related concerns like fine lines, wrinkles, and reduced elasticity. Keep an eye out for serums that are filled to the brim with anti-aging ingredients, like retinol, peptides, and antioxidants, especially vitamin C. This should be promoted using a serum that would work on mature skin to enhance cell turnover, stimulate collagen, and also prevent environmental damage to the skin. Serum that is rich in hyaluronic acid is also important for hydrating mature skin so it remains plump and young. LEAFOBERRY’s Timeless Skincare with q10, Allantoin and Flaxseed | Anti-Aging Face Serum is a must try. Match this serum with a rich, organic face cream, which will hydrate and restore the skin’s elasticity for optimal results.

Steps to Use a Face Serum No matter whether you are dealing with dry, oily, or combination skin, proper application of the face serum is very important to maximize its use. Here are some do’s when applying your serum: Cleanse: This is done to start on clean skin so that the serum will penetrate more into your skin. You would require a gentle cleanser to get rid of dirt, oil, and makeup. Apply Serum: By dropper or pump, apply a few drops of serum to your fingertips, and massage over the skin. Pay attention to areas where there may be dry spots as well as oily patches. Apply Moisturizer: After about 15 minutes, apply your face cream to lock in all those beneficial serum ingredients. Use an organic face cream for an extra dose of nutrition. If you are purchasing a serum for face online, always check the customer review and know your product is from dependable manufacturers such as LEAFOBERRY, we are known for creating fine, organic, and natural skincare products.

Why Choose LEAFOBERRY Skincare

With LEAFOBERRY Skincare, we believe that every skin type deserves its best. Our best skin care line is drafted using natural ingredients with the aim of working harmoniously with your skin. It may be a brightening face serum or a deep hydrating serum-the choices are great from the spectrum of a perfect-looking glow to hydration. The secret of a successful skincare routine would depend on the best serum for face that is applicable for your type of skin. With LEAFOBERRY Skincare, you can be sure it’s giving your skin precisely what it needs most, the finest ingredients to bring out the best in you.Start your skincare journey with the best serums for face from LEAFOBERRY today! Browse our range online and find the perfect match for your skin type.

Elevate Your Skincare Routine with a Soothing Face Cleanser

A good cleanser is at the root of a good skincare routine. A soothing face cleanser is the first step to achieving healthy skin, it cleanses, removes dirt, excess oils, and impurities clogging pores, leading to conditions on skin. A good cleanser does not only cleanse but respects your natural moisture balance as well, so for the achievement of soft, clear, and radiant skin, it’s a must for a good skincare routine. It is a fundamental step that LEAFOBERRY Skincare understands and instills the importance of using a gentle face cleanser that suits his specific skin type and concerns. Let’s see how elevating your skincare routine can be assisted with a soothing cleanser, what kinds of cleansers are available, and how do you pick the right cleanser for your skin.

Why is a Gentle Face Cleanser necessary?

A gentle cleanser is formulated to clean pores and not strip its natural oil. Usually, the conventional cleansers have strong chemicals that may dry out or even irritate the skin, leading to worse dilemmas such as redness, breakouts, or dullness. That is why the product for sensitive skin is mild yet effective. The best advantage of the right cleanser is that it prepares your skin for better intake of the subsequent skincare products. So, the best face wash will thus leave the skin feeling clean but not even tight and dry. Opt for LEAFOBERRY’s Luscious Face Cleanser with Kashmiri Saffron and Wild Turmeric to get the relevant combination of cleansing and moisture retention.

Types of Face Cleansers

Not all cleansers are created equal. Different skin types and issues have varying types of cleansers that will suit you better. Let’s have a look at some of the most common types of face cleansers and what makes each one special.

1. Gel Face Cleansers

The gel cleanser is thick and paste-like in texture, and it would come in handy especially for oily or acne-prone skin. It not only cleans pores deeply but also manages to remove dirt and oil. Ingredients like salicylic acid or tea tree oil are usually added in gel cleansers since they may offer many benefits towards the eradicating of the acne promoting effect on any type of skin. If you happen to have oily skin, then a gel cleanser is the best cleanser to wash your face.

2. Foame Face Cleansers

Rich in foams when mixed with water, such foaming cleansers can be used for oily or combination skin types since oil and impurities are removed in the overall cleansing process. But some of the foaming face cleansers may be rather drying to the skin, so you can opt for a mild one if you feel that your skin is sensitive or prone to dehydration.

3. Cream Face Cleansers

Cream cleansers are thickly textured, very moisturizing, and best for dry or mature skin. It washes the skin lightly while hydrating so that the skin feels smooth and nourished at the end of a wash. Using this kind of face wash is perfect if you have dry patches or if you need a face wash for sensitive skin.

4. Micellar Water Face Cleanser

Micellar water is a very gentle, no-rinse cleanser that will remove dirt and oil using micelle molecules. Using this liquid can lift away makeup and other impurities without harsh scrubbing or rinsing water. Hence, it’s extremely friendly to those with sensitive skin types, needing a strong cleanser but can’t tolerate harsh rubbing and water which sometimes can cause irritation. This product of micellar water comes in handy for any skin type but is perfect for those in a hurry who need a gentle cleanser and easy cleansing solution.

5. Oil Face Cleansers

Oil base face cleansers essentially remove the makeup, sunscreen, and extra oils by dispersing and breaking them down without stripping it of all its good stuff. Oil cleansers are suitable for oily, acne-prone, and most types of skin due to the balance they provide with oil production. Lately, oil cleansing has become so popular that it is especially famous in double-cleansing routines where a water-based cleanser follows an oil-based one.

6. Clay Face Cleansers

Clay face cleansers are excellent detoxifying agents that help draw out impurities out of the skin. It is best for oily and combination skins. However, for those with dry and sensitive skins, it might be too harsh. So get an ideal formula according to your needs.

Selecting the right face cleanser for your skin type is critical for maintaining a balanced and healthy complexion. Here’s a breakdown of what to look for:

Oily Skin

Excessive oil produced by oily skin can cause blocked pores and acne. Some ideal cleansers for oily skin are gel and foam face cleansers, as they clean out the pores well and at the same time control excessive oiliness.

Dry Skin

If plagued with dry skin, a gentle face cleanser that hydrates while cleansing would be a must. You’ll love how cream cleansers and oil cleansers can provide moisture while giving your skin the feeling of not tightening up after washing.

Sensitive Skin

This type requires extra care, hence, the face wash used on it should not contain any harsh chemicals, artificial fragrances, or irritants. Micellar water and cream cleansers seem to be the best cleansers for sensitive skin because of their mild formulas.

Combination Skin

It can work best with gel cleansers or a mild foaming cleanser, balanced between hydration and oil control. These two will clean the oily part of your face, which includes your T-zone, while hydrating the drier part of your face.

Advantages of a Soothing Cleanser

A soothing cleanser is more than a simple cleaner. It is calming, especially if you have sensitive, irritated, or acne-prone skin. Here are some advantages of using a soothing cleanser:

Reduces redness and irritation: A soothing face cleanser is one with ingredients such as chamomile, aloe vera, and oatmeal that are known to reduce redness and soothe irritability on the skin.

Retain natural moisture: Harsh cleansers may break off the natural oils, leaving your skin dry or irritated. Soothing cleansers preserve the balance of moisture in the skin, hence making it soft and moist.

Prepare the skin for other products: Let’s be clear, cleansing is the first step of any skincare routine and with a right cleanser you will get the skin ready to take on other products like serums, moisturizers, and treatments.

Everyone needs a soothing face cleanser regardless of their skin type, from gel cleansers that you can use to remove makeup and impurities from your greasy skin to cream cleansers that can moisten and nourish dry skin-the right product could put all your skincare routines in order and bring out clear and healthy-looking skin. By using LEAFOBERRY’s gentle face cleanser, your skin texture, hydration level will be balanced. So remember, a good cleanse is the foundation of great skin, choose the best and benefit from great skincare.

[waltzshouldbewriting]

And every team needs a cook, right? And this team has Saffron.

ID start: picrew of someone from the shoulders up. They have tan skin, light brown eyes, and short brown hair. They have an eyepatch over one eye, a purple button up shirt with a gray blue jacket, and a silver earring. They are grinning, and they have a pimple on one cheek. The bottom corner has a watermark reading “fuzenia.” End ID

[bills5lut]

under the table

masterlist prompt list

synopsis: you try and survive some corporate dinner Billie drags you to, but her hand under the table has bigger plans. 

warnings: smut, public teasing, semi public touch, dom!Billie, implied consent play, exhibitionism, fluff.

w/c: 5k

The dining room is dim, all candlelit corners and matte black surfaces polished to a soft gleam. The table’s one long slab of dark wood that smells faintly like varnish and eucalyptus oil, lined with high backed chairs that make everyone sit a little too upright. Conversations drift lazily through the air, a low buzz of curated politeness, laughter that sounds practiced, stories that loop into themselves like they’ve been told a hundred times. You don’t recognize most of these people, but you know who they are. Manager. Publicist. Label rep. Two brand people from some beauty company. Industry guys, all of them.

You’re not quite sure why you’re here.

The food is fine. Pretty, even. Every plate comes out looking like a museum piece, sculpted dollops of saffron puree, charred vegetables arranged in arcs like flower petals. Billie’s thrilled about it in that distracted, amused way she gets when something is both genuinely impressive and also completely ridiculous.

You’re a little drunk. Not embarrassingly so, just enough for your skin to hum, for the candlelight to look prettier than it probably is. You swirl your wine, deep red and expensive tasting, watching it catch the light. Your thighs are pressed together under the table, your back resting against the curved support of your chair. Your elbow rests a little too close to hers. It’s the only part of your body you’re allowing to touch her right now. It’s a quiet, kind of closeness.

Billie’s hand rests lightly on your thigh, under the tablecloth. Just resting there. The weight of it is warm and familiar. The pad of her thumb makes a slow, absent minded arc on your leg, like she’s tracing something only she can see. Her fingers are cool, heavy with silver rings that drag ever so slightly against the smooth fabric of your dress when she shifts. The texture sends a tiny jolt up your spine.

You lean slightly into her space. Not enough for anyone to notice. Just enough for her to feel it.

Billie’s suit tonight is black, slouchy in that very intentional, expensive way. Shoulders a little exaggerated, the fabric puddling soft around her wrists where she’s rolled the sleeves up. She looks sharp, a little androgynous, a little fuck you cool. Her hair’s pulled back in a loose low pony, little wisps curled around her cheekbones. Her skin catches the light like satin, a little flushed from the wine, glowing just beneath the surface.

She leans over to whisper something, her lips brushing your cheek more than your ear. “This mushroom steak’s tryna be beef so bad,” she mutters, her voice low and husky from the wine and the weak.

You press your mouth against your glass to stifle a laugh. You feel her smile more than see it.

It’s been like this all evening. She drifts in and out of the group conversation, charming when she needs to be, quiet when she’s bored. Always with that glint in her eye, like she’s one sentence away from derailing the whole thing just to make you laugh. Sometimes she’ll glance at you with a tiny, private look as if to say you still good? and you’ll nod. Or give her the smallest smirk back like barely. She’ll tap your thigh in response, once, twice, then go back to sipping her wine.

It’s boring, but Billie isn’t. 

You try to focus on the conversation when it comes your way. Someone’s talking about streams and digital presence, and you nod politely even though it isn’t directed to you at all, the words already dissolving in your head. Billie chimes in with something thoughtful, articulate. You wonder how many of these dinners she’s been to. How many times she’s had to talk about brand alignment like it means anything.

You glance at her. She catches you, then leans in again, lips brushing your ear. “Guy across from me’s been talking for four minutes and hasn’t blinked once.”

You laugh, shoulders shaking. “Don’t make me look,” you whisper, biting the inside of your cheek.

“Too late. He saw you laugh,” she murmurs, triumphant.

You slap her knee softly under the table, a gentle cut it out. Her fingers tap your thigh again in mock innocence.

Her perfume catches you again when she leans back, that warm, woody scent that clings to her neck and wrists, something smoky and soft underneath it. Like sandalwood and citrus peel and something darker. You want to bury your face in her skin. You want to curl into her side and disappear into that scent, into the warmth of her, but the table is long and the conversation never ends.

You shift slightly in your seat. Her hand on your thigh shifts too, fingers curling a little. Not enough to be anything. Not yet.

She glances over, and her mouth quirks, just a little. You know that look. She’s bored. Restless. Starting to get ideas. You give her a warning look, arching an eyebrow. Her eyes narrow, playful. Innocent.

Her thumb starts to move again. You feel the pad of it press in, trace a slow line along the outer curve of your thigh. Lazy, absentminded. The tablecloth hides everything, but it feels visible. Intimate. You bite your lip and pretend to keep listening to the conversation. Something about a campaign rollout.

Her rings catch again, cold metal kissing your skin as her knuckle drags upward a little. The heat between you flares.

You cross your legs, trying to mask the way your breathing has shifted. You know she feels it. You know she’s enjoying it.

Billie leans in again, voice low. “You okay, baby?” she says, soft enough to melt. Her thumb strokes once, just a little higher now.

You nod without looking at her. Your voice is quiet. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything,” she whispers back, innocent and evil.

Your wineglass is shaking slightly when you bring it to your lips again. You hope no one notices.

You glance at her from the corner of your eye. Her mouth twitches like she’s trying not to laugh. She’s looking at you like she already knows how this night’s going to end.

And you’re still not sure if you hate her a little for it or if you’re going to let her win.

Your plate’s still half full, your wineglass nearly empty. Billie’s barely touched her food,  some deconstructed vegan thing with roasted fennel and artichoke hearts she poked at with her fork for a few minutes before giving up. She’s never eaten much when she’s distracted. Or scheming. And she’s very clearly doing both now.

Her hand shifts again under the table. It’s subtle, palm flattening first, then fingers sliding further along your thigh, slow and casual like it’s not even on purpose. You don’t move. You’re suddenly hyper aware of the heat between your legs, of the way your dress clings too close to your skin. Your heart does this tiny hiccup thing in your chest when her thumb starts tracing slow, absent circles just above your knee.

She’s still talking. Casually, effortlessly. Something about press timelines, about tour budgeting. She’s answering someone’s question about tour dates like she doesn’t have her hand halfway up your thigh. Like your skin isn’t buzzing under her touch.

You try to chew. You try to breathe. You can feel how fast your pulse is now, thudding against your collarbone, your wrists, deep between your legs where her hand is slowly, slowly migrating.

You reach for your water glass, steadying it with both hands. Sip. Breathe. She hasn’t looked at you in minutes, but you know she’s clocking every breath you take.

The pad of her thumb slides higher, just a half inch, and your legs tense involuntarily.

“Bills…” you murmur, barely audible, not even looking at her.

Still, her eyes flick to you. Just for a second. That glint again, a silent what? behind her lashes.

She leans in, face neutral, eyes on her plate. Like she’s about to say something mundane. But then her lips brush your ear and her voice dips low and warm, sliding beneath your skin.

“You look so good tonight,” Billie murmurs. “That dress, baby… fuck.”

Her breath fans over the shell of your ear. You feel it everywhere. Chest, arms, knees. Deep in your stomach.

You let out a quiet breath that’s almost a laugh, but not quite. “Stop,” you whisper, mouth twitching with a warning smile. “Seriously.”

She doesn’t stop. Her hand is a little higher now, her fingertips resting right at the edge of the hem of your dress. Just beneath the fabric. Just barely.

You glance around the table like maybe someone noticed, like maybe you’re giving something away, but no one’s looking. Someone’s mid rant about touring logistics, and half the table’s nodding along. The clink of silverware against ceramic masks the quiet stutter of your breath.

“Billie.” You say it softer this time. It’s not a plea. Not quite.

She grins, not openly, not widely. Just enough for the corner of her mouth to lift, for the smallest dimple to show. You hate that she can look this calm.

Her knuckles ghost up the inside of your thigh. Slowly. Carefully. Her fingers spread slightly, resting just under the curve of your ass where your dress is riding up from the way you’re sitting. You shift your legs, clench them slightly, not to stop her, more to feel her more. It’s automatic. Instinctive. Your body’s already begging for something your mouth won’t admit to.

And still, she’s laughing at someone’s joke across the table. Casual. Playful. Like she hasn’t just dragged the back of her ring across the soft skin near your hip bone, sending a visible shiver through you.

You press your hand to your lap, steadying yourself. Your fork trembles when you pick it up again.

“You’re the worst,” you mutter, not looking at her.

She tilts her head slightly, pretending to miss it. “Hmm?”

“You heard me.”

Billie leans in again. Another whisper, sweet and smug. “You like it.”

You do. You hate how much you do. You hate how hot your skin feels now, how even the candlelight seems warmer, stickier, like the whole world is bending inward around the pulse between your legs.

You press your thighs together again. She feels it. You feel her feel it, the slightest press of her palm in response. Her fingers flex, her thumb brushing that sensitive space at the inner seam of your underwear. Not enough pressure to be anything. Just enough to set you on fire.

You don’t move. You don’t push her away. You just sit there with your wine in one hand and the other clenched around your napkin in your lap like it might anchor you somehow.

From across the table, someone says something that makes Billie laugh, a sharp, unfiltered burst, and you flinch because her fingers twitch with it, dragging accidentally against you.

You glance at her. She glances back. For a second, neither of you speaks. It’s just breath between you.

“I swear to god,” you mutter.

She smiles sweetly, innocently. “You okay?” she asks, again like it’s nothing.

You narrow your eyes. “You’re evil.”

She lifts her wineglass with her free hand, takes a small sip. Her fingers on your thigh don’t move. “You’re the one who wore that dress.”

You glare at her, but you’re blushing now. You feel the heat crawl up your neck, across your chest. She knows exactly what she’s doing.

Her hand drifts a little higher again, one inch, two. You feel the edge of her pinky brush against your underwear now, the gentlest pressure. Just resting. Just there. Like it has every right to be.

And still, she talks. She laughs. She nods along. All while her fingers graze your inner thigh, moving in slow, teasing circles like she’s just trying to drive you insane.

You lean into her a little, keeping your voice low. “If you make me cum at this table, I’m gonna kill you.”

Her mouth presses close to your ear again. “Then die mad, baby,” she whispers.

You exhale hard through your nose. Your eyes close for half a second. Her fingers shift again. One knuckle, just barely, against the damp cotton of your underwear.

You try to steady your breathing, but it’s already shallow, barely there. Billie’s hand is still and warm between your thighs now, and you can feel the heat of it through your dress, through the thin stretch of your underwear. She’s so casual about it too, the way her fingers rest like they’ve always belonged there. Like this dinner’s just background noise, and she’s in no rush to move.

Someone’s laughing across the table, a loud bark of a laugh. The PR guy, maybe. You can’t really focus. Your pulse has moved into your ears, and it’s drumming a rhythm against your skull. You sit straighter, but it doesn’t help. If anything, it brings Billie’s hand higher, your thighs naturally drawing her fingers closer.

She leans in just enough that her breath brushes your ear. Warm. Calm. Cruel.

“These the ones I like?” she murmurs, voice low, almost lazy. “The pink ones with the little bow?”

Her index finger taps once against the center of you. Right where she means. Right where it’s already damp. You feel your face heat, full blush, instant and shameful. You nod once, quickly, and stare hard at the half full glass of wine in front of you like it might rescue you from the sharp throb building in your stomach.

Billie exhales a soft laugh against your cheek. You hear it more than feel it, her lips right there but not touching.

You lift the wine glass, too fast, it clinks against your teeth, and your hand trembles slightly. You try to play it off, take a longer sip than necessary. Swallow. You don’t dare glance at her.

And she doesn’t move her hand at first. Doesn’t press. Just lets it stay there, weighted, the heat of her skin seeping through your dress. Her fingers flex a little, shifting so she fits into the dip of your inner thigh, thumb brushing just under the hem of your underwear. Not even touching anything specific yet. Just close.

You exhale through your nose and cross your legs. Not to stop her, just to manage the ache that’s forming, the slow, molten drag of want low in your belly. Your body reacts before you’re ready to admit it. Before you even register how wet you already are, her fingers slide more deliberately now, two fingers exploring, pressing gently through the cotton.

And it’s unmistakable.

She knows.

You don’t look at her. Can’t. But her mouth is near your shoulder now, lips parted like she might say something else, and then she doesn’t. She just shifts slightly, the same effortless poise she always carries, and lets her fingers start to move.

Tiny, slow circles.

Barely pressure at all. Like she’s still thinking about it. Like she could stop at any second, and you wouldn’t even be allowed to protest.

You grip the edge of the table. The wood is cool under your fingertips. You will yourself not to react, to keep still, but the movement she’s making, it’s so light, so calculated. Each circle grazes over your clit through the cotton, making the damp fabric cling tighter, stickier.

Her rings catch slightly when she curls her hand, and the texture sends a jolt right through you.

You shift in your seat again, pretending to adjust your posture. Trying to breathe through it. You blink too slowly when you look down at your plate, half of it untouched now. A bite of roasted fennel, some polenta, a few beads of olive oil reflecting the low lighting. Everything looks too sharp. Too real.

The man across from you, one of Billie’s team you think, glances up and asks, “You okay over there?”

Your stomach flips.

You manage a smile, voice cracking just a little. “Yeah, just… warm in here, isn’t it?”

You see Billie withdraw her hand just slightly at that. Not fully. Just a respectful pause. Like she’s letting you catch your breath. Letting you answer the question, letting you exist for a second in the version of yourself that isn’t quietly being touched under the table.

You press your thighs together in the brief reprieve. Your clit pulses in time with your heartbeat. You take another sip of wine, slower this time, grateful for the burn in your throat to ground you.

Then she’s back.

Fingers sliding with more confidence now. Two of them circling in slow, tight circles again, her thumb holding just outside the crease of your thigh. You can feel her pinky curl slightly, nudging the soft edge of your underwear aside so that just a sliver of you is bare against her skin. It’s subtle. So subtle.

You glance down, your hands are white knuckled around your napkin in your lap.

Another soft whisper from her, “So fuckin’ soft down there, baby…”

You make a small, involuntary sound, low in your throat. You pray no one hears it over the clatter of cutlery and soft jazz playing from a speaker mounted behind the wine rack.

Your breathing has turned to shallow pulls now. Every inhale a little shaky. Your whole body is humming under your skin. She’s still talking every now and then to the person next to her, casually, like she’s not ruining you in slow motion. Like she’s not pressing just a little harder now, her middle finger finding the precise spot and circling it, deliberate and slow.

You think, dimly, that you’re going to break if she keeps going like this. That your underwear’s soaked and sticking. That you can’t move without showing something, somehow. So you stay still. You grip the edge of the table and take another sip of wine and try to keep your legs from twitching, your hips from lifting into her hand.

Billie shifts closer in her seat. You feel her thigh pressed against yours, firm and grounding. She leans into you a little, not enough to draw attention, but enough that you know she’s here. She’s present.

Her voice in your ear again. “Doing so good, baby. Just stay still. I got you.”

And you do.

Billie’s fingers don’t hurry. She knows exactly how to drive you mad without spilling the secret to anyone else. Every tiny shift of your body, every hitch in your breath, every almost-suppressed sigh, she catalogs like a map, learning the way you respond. It’s like she’s memorizing your body in real time, tracing your edges with her fingertips, reading you with the quiet precision of a painter perfecting her masterpiece.

You try to stay still. Your fingers clutch her thigh beneath the table, nails digging just enough to anchor yourself, to remind yourself that you’re here, in this room, at this godawful dinner, and not somewhere else entirely. The fabric of her black pants is soft but sturdy, the weave catching beneath your nails, and it grounds you, just barely. You want to be still, but your whole body hums with vibration, like a silent electric current running from your core down to your toes.

Her thumb strokes the skin near your clit with gentle, deliberate pressure.

You’re acutely aware of everything. The subtle weight of her hand, warm and confident; the soft press of your dress fabric against your bare skin, soaked in places; the quiet murmur of conversations around you, clinking silverware, low jazz filling the dimly lit room.

The scent of her perfume drifts over you again, warm, woody, and it wraps around you like a cocoon. You can feel her breath, soft and steady, brushing your hairline. It’s intimate and electric all at once.

“You gonna cum for me at this boring ass dinner?” she murmurs, voice low and smug, almost teasing but with a sharp edge that makes your chest tighten.

You don’t answer. You can’t. Instead, you clamp your jaw shut and try not to let your body betray you. Your legs tremble under the table, knees knocking lightly against hers in the small space between your chairs. Your fingers press harder into her thigh, nails grazing the fabric and skin beneath, desperate for something solid to hold onto.

Your breath catches, short, stuttering, barely a whisper, like you’re suppressing a cough, but every muscle inside you coils tighter and tighter. Your hips shift involuntarily, pressing just a fraction more against her fingers. Your clit pulses insistently, slickness soaking your underwear completely now.

Billie’s touch is steady but relentless. She moves her fingers in slow, deliberate circles, building the pressure just right, never too much, never too little.

Your vision blurs slightly. You close your eyes for a moment, biting your lip to stop the moan you’re sure you’re about to make. Your pulse hammers in your ears. Your cheeks burn red, hot and flushed.

Your body trembles, a low vibration that starts in your belly and spreads outward, radiating through your thighs, your stomach, your chest. Your hands tighten their grip on Billie’s leg, nails digging in deeper now, as if holding her could somehow hold the moment together.

And then it happens.

A slow, shuddering wave crashes through you, rippling outwards. Your hips jerk subtly, legs trembling so much that your knees brush against the underside of the table. Your jaw clenches tight, teeth grinding as your breath catches and stutters, trying to suppress everything spilling out from inside.

Your toes curl inside your heels. Your body tenses in a way that feels too much and not enough all at once. The warmth floods your core, spreading to your chest and neck, your cheeks hot as fire.

Billie’s hand lingers for a heartbeat after, her touch soothing, steadying. She presses gently against your thigh, grounding you, bringing you back slowly, carefully, with her presence.

“Shhh,” she breathes softly, voice low and warm. “Got you.”

Her lips brush against your hairline again, soft, comforting, a quiet anchor in the madness of your racing body. You rest your head against her shoulder for a moment, chest rising and falling unevenly, feeling the tremors in your muscles slowly ease.

She pulls back just enough to catch your gaze, her eyes sparkling with a mix of mischief and tenderness.

“You’re glowing,” she says quietly, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

You try to smile back, cheeks still flushed, throat still tight from holding everything in.

“It’s the wine,” you whisper, voice rough but genuine.

Billie laughs softly, the sound like silk sliding across skin.

“Yeah, wine,” she agrees, but you both know it’s not the wine at all.

You lean into her a little more, finding warmth in the closeness. The dull dinner fades away, all the talking, the fake smiles, the clinking glasses, replaced by the quiet pulse of her hand resting on your thigh, and the steady rhythm of your breath slowing back down.

You shift, subtly, careful not to jostle your chair too hard. The fabric of your underwear sticks against your skin now, soaked, clinging, and every tiny movement reminds you of what just happened, what Billie just did, what you let her do.

And she’s just sitting there.

Calm as fuck, of course. Her hand has returned to your thigh, casual, fingers spread just enough to anchor you but not enough to start anything again. Her pinky taps gently, rhythmically.

Your breath is still coming in uneven pulls, so you reach for your water, trying to play it off. The glass is a little too cold in your hand. You sip slowly. Carefully. The chill helps.

Across the table, someone’s droning on about audience engagement metrics. You can’t even pretend to follow. Words just pass through you like air. You glance toward Billie without turning your head, and sure enough, she’s smirking.

Not a full smile, not something obvious, but that crooked little pull at the corner of her mouth, the kind of look she gives you when she’s proud of herself for something she shouldn’t be proud of.

You shoot her a glare. Or, at least, you try to. It doesn’t land. Not when your cheeks are still pink and your lips are curved in spite of you. You feel dazed and warm and breathless and, god, you’re smiling.

Billie leans in slightly, her shoulder brushing yours again as she shifts. Her mouth hovers near your ear.

“You’re still shaking.” she murmurs, low and smug.

You nudge her with your elbow. It’s the most you can manage. She lets out a soft snort and leans back like nothing happened. Turns to the girl across from you, the one from PR with the glossy bob and clipboard posture, and asks her a question about the upcoming campaign. Something innocuous. Just enough to draw the attention off you, to fill the space, to let you breathe.

It’s so smooth you could kiss her.

You glance down at your hands resting in your lap, one still curled loosely in the soft black fabric of Billie’s pants. You hadn’t even realized you hadn’t let go yet. Gently, you unfurl your fingers, pat her thigh once, a silent thanks, and bring your hands back to your glass.

You sip your wine next, slower now, letting it linger on your tongue. The warmth of it spreads down your throat and nestles in your chest. Your body is starting to return to you, piece by piece. But your pulse is still a little high, and your skin still buzzes with the echo of her touch.

Her knee nudges yours under the table again. Presses against it. Stays there.

You risk a glance sideways. She’s not even looking at you, not yet. Her eyes are focused on the PR girl, nodding like she’s listening, even though you know she’s not. Not fully. But then her hand slides just an inch on your thigh. Just enough for you to feel it. Just enough to say I’m here.

You exhale slowly through your nose and let your knee press back against hers. A silent I know.

The conversation continues around you, a dull buzz of industry jargon and polite laughter. You tune most of it out.

You glance at Billie again and this time she catches you. Her smirk deepens.

You shake your head, cheeks heating again.

She leans closer just slightly, drops her voice. “Still feeling it?” she asks, soft and teasing.

You bite back a smile, roll your eyes.

“Shut up.”

Billie chuckles, low and quiet. Then her expression shifts, still playful, but gentler. She glances down at your trembling hand resting near your wine glass and then back at your face.

“You okay?” she asks, and it’s not a joke this time.

You pause. The hum inside you hasn’t faded completely. But her voice brings you down, softly. You nod once, a little breathless still. Smile at her, small, real, a little sheepish.

“Yeah,” you say. “Yeah. I’m good.”

Her smile softens to match yours. Her hand squeezes your thigh once, firm and warm. Her body shifts toward you just enough that your arms brush again. You lean into her without thinking, not a big movement, just a quiet weight against her shoulder for a moment.

And she lets you stay there.

The conversation continues around you. The wine is still half full. The night isn’t even close to over.

But you don’t care. You’re here, flush with warmth and Billie’s perfume and the buzz of pleasure that still lingers low in your stomach. You close your eyes for a beat, just one, and let yourself breathe.

She squeezes your knee again. You squeeze back.

[shaunhaywood]

Shaun immediately rolled his eyes at her response, despite having expected it. "Sock it, Saff. I've paid attention, that's why I know this is bullshit. Why are we waiting until the baby's born to take him out? He's not the one with the fucking womb. All we're doing is giving him more time to form an attachment, and that's dangerous. The angrier he is, the harder he'll fight back. There's not enough of us to handle another witch hunt, especially if we give him the time to get his psycho brother involved. We need to do this now," he pointed to the floor for emphasis, although Saffron's disinterest made it clear that his argument was being ignored. "I thought you'd be the first one up for this, Little Miss Sectumsempra."

Saffron scoffed, not bothering to glance in Shaun's direction. She'd grown tired of his constant complaints. "Spoken like a true ruffian. Your impatience is wearisome, Shaun. You've clearly ignored every piece of information Uncle Tommy relayed to us. The baby isn't due for another month, and as he so clearly explained, infiltration at this stage would only risk exposure to our plans. So unclench your fists before you give yourself a cramp."

[lewisvinga]

yo voy | lewis hamilton x fem! reader

summary; lewis was used to having women throw themselves at him and try to seduce him for a night in bed. however, only one is able to have him completely wrapped around his finger.

warnings; mentions of drinking

word count; 788

taglist; @namgification @louvrepool @locelscs @thehufflepuffavenger1 @minseok-smaus @goldenmclaren @ollieshifts @lavisenri @graciewrote @xoscar03 @c-losur3 @fall-bambi

note; ella hace todo por seducirme, yo voy voy voy

masterlist !

back to old school masterlist !

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⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

Lewis wasn’t stupid. He knew he was good-looking. He knew that the moment he stepped into a room, eyes would be on him. He knew that whenever he’d go to a club, women would try to grasp his attention.

Although he was used to women trying their hardest to get with him, he usually wasn’t fazed by them. Keyword; usually.

However, the smell of woody jasmine floral perfume paired with red lips that curled into a smile was quick to gain his attention.

Lewis was sitting in a booth with a few other drivers, celebrating yet again another race. Usually, he went out with another crowd but he couldn’t turn down an invite from his future teammate.

He was minding his business and listening in to the drunk driver's conversations while drinking a cup of almave when he noticed a girl clad in gold jewelry passing by him.

Her perfume was strong. A woody floral scent with hints of Jasmine and Saffron. He immediately recognized it as Baccarat Rouge. His eyes followed her as she walked to the bar, her long dark hair swaying behind her.

Lewis keeps his eyes on her, watching as she orders a drink. The moment her hand reached out to grab her fruity cocktail, she turned around and her eyes immediately met his. She brings the straw to her red-stained lips and takes a sip as the corner of her lips curl up into a smile.

He swore he felt his heart skip a beat for a second. He was used to women trying to talk to him, trying to buy him drinks, trying to be all over him and it never worked. Somehow a smile from across the club was enough to entice him.

Her outfit interested him as well. The plain black halter top and denim mini skirt were elevated by the stack of gold bangles decorating her wrists. She was covered head to toe in gold with multiple necklaces, gold hoops, and even gold embellishments on her black heels. Even her long acrylic nails had gold charms on them. The color suited her sunkissed skin that glimmered under the club's lights.

Y/n knew she already had him wrapped around her finger. She could tell by the way his dark brown eyes seemed to darken even more. He had his lips parted as she raised her finger and motioned him over. He didn’t even excuse himself from the group. He immediately got up to go to her leaving a group of drunken confused drivers.

“So, guapo [handsome], what’s your name?” She asked, bringing up her straw to her red-painted lips once again. He was still distracted, entranced by her even. He kept his eyes on her lips before meeting her eyes.

Lewis didn’t know why he was suddenly feeling like a nervous teenage boy. He was a man who emitted confidence. Hell, he was amazing with women. He didn’t know why with her he felt so nervous and aware of everything around him.

“I-“ He gulped, wiping his hands on his baggy jeans. He cleared his throat and stood up straight. “Lewis. What about yours, darling?”

She lets out a soft chuckle at him hiding his nervousness. She flipped her long hair over her shoulder before replying, “Y/n.”

Y/n leans in closer and brings her hand up to his shoulder, her golden bracelets clicking against each other in the process. “Y’know, you’re cute. Wanna get out of here?”

Usually, Lewis was never quick to agree to leave with someone, especially not a woman he met less than 5 minutes prior. However, her smile, her perfume, everything about her was seducing him. He couldn’t turn her down.

“I do actually.” He responded, the corner of his eyes crinkling up as he smiled at her. After all, being with her wasn’t a crime so who was he to deny her. She let out a hum of satisfaction and took one last sip of her drink.

“Vamos, guapo.” [let’s go, handsome.] Y/n swung her bag over her shoulder as her other arm reached for his arm.

Lewis glances back at the table he was sitting at and receives a thumbs-up from a drunk Charles. Her hand squeezing his muscular arms brought him back to reality as they made their way out of the crowded heated bar.

“Let’s go to my hotel, yeah?” He suggested, focusing on how her heels clicked with each step and how her nails clicked as she adjusted her jewelry.

Y/n noticed a braid had fallen over his face, escaping itself from being tied in a bun. She reached over and gently pushed it aside. “Sounds perfect to me, señor.”

[emmanation]

vpn is not working so i am bothering you in your asks . what should one hypothetically script to have a 60s food critic dr like yours . or should one just hypothetically wing it and have their script be “food critic dr like emma’s” and shift🙂‍↕️

hiiiiiiiiiiiii berrielicious . how to script a 1960s food critic dr just like mine (or just like. how to shift into one that doesn't suck)

aka your passport to: cigarettes with espresso, hotel matchbooks, newspaper reviews that could RUIN restaurants, butter fat ratios, and coming home to a man who says what did they do to the bearnaise? instead of how was your day? !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

let's get into it

so the year in mine were the late 50s, but you can float between 1958 to 1969 depending on how ye-ye or gaullist you want your background noise. but you'll get the same overall vibe

typewriters. rotary phones. radio & record players. zero smartphones, but you're still plugged in

mine was in paris, city centre, 2 level apartment with a tiny little iron terrace and a big shared courtyard but you could do new york (upper west side / greenwhich village), london (chelsea girls), OR rome (VERY food forward, add some fellini references)

hold on let me expand

paris (intellectual and bakery obsessed), new york (restaurant scene BOOMING, critics actually wield power), london (more edgy, more class-centric, mix of posh and pub food), rome (lush, theatrical)

script that you live near markets. real markets, markets with cobblestones, vendors, fresh flowers, screaming women. you want to be able to buy leeks and butter

(marche maubert, marche d’aligre if in paris). if in new york, go union square or hell's kitchen pre-theatre haul

so. im unsure if you want to be a food critic of the baking or restaurant scene...........or both? so. pastry chef. consultant. maybe former chef. dessert critic. cultural editor. attended le cordon bleu or equivalent (script that), or maybe you were a protegee of a legendary like. food genius . now you carry their torch

maybe you wrote some scathing letter to the editor of a newspaper when you were 19 and got offered a column. so.

restaurant critic (writes reviews, feared and/or famous, goes incognito), dessert/pastry critic (more rare but deeply respected), consultant (called in to fix restaurants discreetly), culinary essayist (writes longform food columns, eg in le monde, new yorker, etc etc), cultural editor with a food focus (you work at a big magazine but food is your beat), or a ghost fixer (restaurants call you in secretly when they're failing. cash only).

maybe you: started in baking, moved to editorial, are known for your palate/precision, have a few enemies but many readers, or once got banned from a restaurant after a scathing review, which is what got you in the upper echelon

script that you have a weekly column, it has a NAME. maybe it's just your last name. maybe it's "the fork." maybe it's "notes from the table." maybe it's in le monde, maybe it's in the village voice. SCRIPT THIS COLUMN, because then you don't just review but educate the palate of the public, meaning that people listen to you, meaning that your reviews are printed and folded and underlined by chefs

script that your job includes: being anonymously invited to restaurant openings, walking out of restaurants without paying (standard critic comp), getting threatening letters from restaurateurs who say you destroyed them, being sent wine and gifts and duck terrines to bribe you before a write-up, getting whispered about in kitchens as if you're the culinary grim reaper

are you unionised? (!!!!! matters in 60s new york especially)

script that your palate is distinct. as in, sensitive to saffron, bored by vanilla unless it's the good madagascar kind. that you can tell when the roux was rushed, and you know the temperature butter breaks at

maybe that you've judged for: culinary schools, baking competitions, private underground tasting societies, national food boards

script that you are closely linked to the restaurant scene itself, maybe you consult secretly, maybe you get calls at 10pm from a desperate chef asking if you have time to come taste something. maybe you helped write someone's menu, maybe you co-own a place under someone else's name.

script your training. seriously. do not just script i can cook. script: you trained under ____. at ____. for ___ years. that you know classical techniques, modern styles, and global cuisines, that you can bake, but you critique with knife-in-hand restaurant precision.

script your publications. like what paper, what journal, what city. script whether you're freelance or salaried. script whether you have a ghost name (pen name) or write under your actual surname. you need to know if you're feared, respected, dismissed, or fought over. this determines whether chefs kiss your cheek or tell their staff to burn your face into memory so you never get seated again

script your actual WORKFLOW. like no cutesy fake ephemera like i always carry a notebook. great. who cares. HOW do you write. do you go to the restaurant and stay til midnight? do you bring a companion to taste with you? do you make notes on napkins and finish them at home? do you write in one sitting, fueled by black coffee, or do you dictate your thoughts and have someone transcribe? do you handwrite? do you revise obsessively? how long is each piece? do you write every week? every month? do you pitch or are you assigned?

SCRIPT THE LEGACY. like are you trying to revolutionise the scene? defend a tradition? bring global techniques into your city's cuisine? dismantle the idea of haute cuisine and uplift street food? are you known for your politics, or do you stay out of that? did you once get called a nationalist because you hated americanisation of food? did you publicly fight with someone over foie gras? stop this is getting too personal..................anyway

script your daily life. like actually. do you eat out 5 times a week? do you write at night? do you go to tastings? do you host your own parties? do you get fan mail? hate mail? do you still love food?

script that you have a flat of butter in your fridge, copper pans, fish knives, embroidered linens, handwritten shopping lists.

let me get to the income part. cause baby you might be raking it in. between a column, consultation gigs, occasional speaking appearances (culinary schools, food boards, radio bits), maybe a side ghostwriting project or cookbook collab, you are not going to be broke so dont even worry about that. you might be making 25k–50k year minimum (which is like 250k–500k in today's money depending on city), especially if you are established. script that your rent is cheap (because it is, postwar era, rent control. etcetc) and that you spend most of your money on ingredients, clothes, paper, and cigarettes. no i scrape by for passion bullshit unless you want to. but most critics were not broke, especially not in the paper/magazine scene.

food = memory = mood = meaning

anyway. so now you shifted, great, now what. well it's a bit much. your phone is ringing because someone wants you to taste their soufflé before they open next week. you're not mysterious and passive. you are called. requested. summoned. people KNOW you

anyway.................script what you believe matters in food. and in writing. and in taste. and in legacy. and then go shift into it and LIVE it.

the end

[kafkasapartment]

Autumn Crocus, 18th-19th C. (not a true crocus), also known as Meadow Saffron (Colchicum autumnale). All parts of the Autumn Crocus are highly poisonous due to the presence of colchicine.

[harvardfineartslib]

Happy Holi to those who are celebrating this holiday.

Holi is celebrated to mark the arrival of spring and a time for new beginnings.

The traditional color for Holi was made from the leaves of the ‘tesu’ tree (Butea monosperma), which is known as the ‘flame of the forest’ and produces bright red flowers. They are dried and grounded to give a saffron color when mixed with water. The yellow power was probably turmeric, and the red dye may be red sandalwood powder. (summarized from V&A website)

Today, the range of colors used for Holi include reds and yellows, and also blues and greens. It’s the Festival of Colors!

Radha celebrating Holi (V&A IS.9-1949). (1775). Opaque watercolor on paper 15.5 cm x 25.8 cm Indian c. 1788 Repository: Victoria and Albert Museum, London, Greater London, England, United Kingdom HOLLIS number: 8001073116

This image is part of FAL’s Digital Images and Slides Collection (DISC), a collection of images digitized from secondary sources for use in teaching and learning. FAL does not own the original artworks represented in this collection, but you can find more information at HOLLIS Images

[whencyclopedia]

Beauty in the Bronze Age - Minoan & Mycenaean Fashion

Dress and appearance in Bronze Age Greece (c. 3100 BCE - c. 1100 BCE) played a part in defining gender roles and emphasising idealized beauty that planted the seed for modern-day standards. The Minoans turned the island of Crete into a Mediterranean powerhouse and dominated Aegean culture until around 1450 BCE when the Mycenaean civilization from the Greek mainland peaked and wrested control. Frescoes and figurines uncovered from this era reveal a fabulously colourful society that expressed itself through fashion, hair, and accessories. Both Minoan and Mycenaean women sought a pinched waist to achieve the epitome of a feminine aesthetic. The fashion of Mycenaean men, however, expressed their warlike temperament, in contrast to their Minoan counterparts, who embodied display and splendour.

Minoan Women

Women are heavily represented amongst the archaeological finds from Knossos, Akrotiri, and other Minoan hubs. One of the most beautiful examples is the Snake Goddess Figurine which depicts the archetype of Minoan dress. This woman wears a flounced, layered skirt that falls to the ground. Her bodice has short sleeves and a scalloped neckline which reveals and accentuates her breasts. This is mirrored in the colourful frescoes which emphasise bright, eye-catching fabrics dyed a myriad of colours. Bold primary colours – reds, yellows, and blues − dominate the pattern scheme. To get these shades, the Minoans took advantage of the available natural resources. Saffron – now the world’s most expensive spice – was used to acquire yellow and murex sea snails created a rich purple.

One of the most interesting aspects of female dress was the use of corsets or tight thick belts to create an hour-glass figure. Artworks suggest that the wasp-waist was highly idealised in Minoan culture and body modification may have been implemented to achieve this. Corsets have, of course, gone in and out of fashion in the thousands of years since their early Cretan use. Minoan women also wore jewellery to frame their features. Hoop earrings, necklaces, and bangles were all popular forms of expression and decoration − gold and glass beads were used to give outfits that glamourous touch.

In the frescoes, women have black hair braided into long tendrils or locks. Their skin, in contrast, is typically a pale white, implying that the ideal women would have spent significant time indoors and that the archetype of feminine beauty could be obtained by focusing on domestic duties.

Continue reading...

[crownrots]

serena laidir (datv) | saffron ingellvar (datv)

victoria thorne (datv) | hectar de riva (datv)

ingrid einarsdóttir (tlk) | wynflæd of dorobrevis (tlk)

TAGGED by @lilywatt & @shadowglens to use this picrew (a million and one years ago 😪), thank you!

TAGGING —

@queennymeria , @risingsh0t , @thedeadthree , @pavus , @loriane-elmuerto ,

@shellibisshe , @florbelles , @simonxriley , @leviiackrman , @rhetoricalrogue ,

@arborstone , @arthrmorgann , @faerune , @frankwoods , @josephzeppeli ,

@roberthouse69 , @lucky-107 , @countessrooster, @auricfog + anyone else who wants to do it!

[vulpixisananimal]

[A: 5 C: 92] - Come by the Favor Tree

(Siffrin) {Mal Du Pays} <Null> |Asterion| =Socks= +Rosmarinus+

[[Loop]] [(Saffron)] [<Kyros>] [{Horizon}]

“Ramos?”

(Ramos is here, probably pondering the Favor Tree. They shuffle to attention and look at you.)

“O-oh! Uh, hey Siffy!”

“Hey Ramos!” (You wave and smile.) "I need to do the Fa. . . U-uh. . ."

(Stars.)

(You sink down in your cloak. Stupid. How did you do that? HOW did you do that?!? This is Ramos, not Isabeau! How did you mess up this bad!?!? Just, just walk away now before you ruin the moment any more!)

“You didn’t ruin anything, Siffy.” (You feel a hand on your shoulder, the touch makes you jump.) “Okay?”

(You glance up at them, and they’re beaming down at you with a smile big and wide. Just that smile and touch made you relax so, so much. . . You nod.) 

“Yay! Hug?” (You beam up at him excitedly. They wrap you in their arms and hold you close and tight.) 

(R-really tight!!! You make a noise.)

“. . . . Sif?” (They release you.) “Did, you just squeak? Like a mouse?”

“. . . . N-no-” (You tug your cloak up to hide your face.)

“You DID!!!” (They beam and squeeze you in a hug again.) “That’s SO CUTE!!!”

“H-help--” (You wheeze, and are released again.) “S-stars, I’m delicate Rams.”

“Heheh, sorry, couldn’t resist.” (They ruffle your hair.)

[[Stars, you’re a mess.]]

(H-heyLoop-)

[[Come ON, just a hug? HA! You’re soooo easy~ Or is it only big hunky defenders that get your attention- oh trying to hide in your cloak! Come on Stardust, that doesn’t work on me~]]

(Justignorethem Ramos is looking back at the Favor Tree. You stand side by side with them, and take a second to regain your composure.)

“. . . S-so. . .” (What do you ask?)

[[You know what to ask, Siffrin.]]

(I- you shake your head, right, no you’re right, you do. You take a second to breathe, then ask.) “. . . What, what did you wish for?”

“H-hUH?!?--”

“I-I MEAN IN THE DAYS BEFORE THE KING FROZE EVERYTHING!!!” (You wave your hands and quickly clarify.) “E-everyone was, was making wishes, s-so I thought. . .”

“. . . . Oh, right.” (They turned back to the tree, thinking.) “. . . I uh. . . I wished that uh, that I could be there to fight the King alongside you guys.”

“Oh!” (Huh!) “That’s, w-well. . . I guess, you kinda got your wish?”

[[Hmm. . . I wonder. . . Stardust, ask them a question for me would you?]]

(Huh? Yeah?)

[[HOW did they make their wish.]]

(O-oh! Good idea!) “Do you remember how you wished for it?

“Huh? I mean I did the thing everyone does, clap your hands and. . .” (Ramos pauses, blinks a few times, then shakes their head.) “N-nevermind? Apparently that’s, not how you do it? I’m being told?”

“By Alex, right?”

“Y-yeahbyAlex.” (Hehe, cute, they’re looking away all embarrassed.) “But I guess, uh. . . M-maybe it’s a good thing I didn’t. . .”

“Yeah. . .”

[[. . . . . . Stardust]]

(Huh?)

[[You shake your head, and blink a few times. Sorry, you just. . . Nevermind. Stars. They’ll understand later. You straighten yourself, pat down your cloak, and start walking to the tree.]]

[[Your heart throbs with each step, the world blacking out of your mind as you approach. You take every step in stride, even through your blood yearns to be anywhere else. You persist, anyways, and eventually take your seat on your root on your side of the tree. You leaned back and took a deep breath.]]

[[You felt the soft sounds of shoes on the ground as Ramos approached. Once they got close, you gestured to the other root. There's some more shuffling, and then silence.]]

[[. . . . You open your eye, and Ramos is sitting on their side perfectly. You smile.]] “. . . This is where we met, you know~”

“H-huh?” [[They blink.]] “You, you and Siffrin?”

“Correct!” [[You giggle, hand to your mouth.]] “‘My, struck speechless at the sight of me, aren't you?’ Our romantic first words to each other~!”

“Pfft-” [[They shake their head.]] “Why that of all things?”

“Well because- oh just take a look.” [[You hold out the back of your hand for him as you think back to the moment you two met. You feel Ramos touch, the connection they made as you were focused on your first meeting.]]

[[The sudden panic, the calmness, the constructed personality and the conflict. The feeling of seeing them stare at you, and the euphoria of catching them off guard by acting so flirty. And you topped it off with a bit of Stardust's own perspective, too. It didn’t take long until Ramos took their hand back.]]

“. . . O-okay, makes sense now.” [[They rub their shoulder.]] “I think anyways. . . . Uh. . .”

“. . . So! Any guesses to who I am?” [[You kick your feet and lean back.]] “No cheating~”

“I won’t cheat.” [[They cross their legs and think.]] “. . . One guess for each headmate?”

“Sure, why not! It’s only fair~”

“Alright.” [[They tap their foot, and you occasionally see them furrow their brow in contemplation.]] “. . . Jas thinks. . . That you’re the Favor tree?”

“. . . As in, the tree itself?” [[You cock your head.]] “No, I just like the shade~ Good guess though!”

“Alright, well. . . Altiare thinks you’re a part of the Universe itself.”

“Well I AM a star after all!” [[Teehee.]] “But then again everyone is a part of the Universe~”

“R-right.” [[They drum their fingers.]] “. . . Nihil thinks you’re a ghost.”

“Hmm. . . In a way.” [[You nod.]] “You could say the Favor Tree is my grave.”

“But not exactly, huh?” [[Shake of the head.]] “I have no idea what you could be, but Alex has a guess.”

“Oh? Well, please! I’m all ears~”

“Well.” [[They lean back and sigh.]] “They think you’re Siffrin.”

[[. . . Ha.]]

“Hah! HAHAH!!!” [[You start laughing uncontrollably! Ha! HAHA!!!! OF COURSE!!! Of COURSE The little student would figure it out!!! HAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!! You’re in STITCHES!!!! AAAAHAHAHHAHAHAHHA!!!!]]

[[Your laughter eventually turns to crying, as you fall forward on your knees. HA. Ha. Hahahah. . . Ha. . . Ha. . . . You place your head on the ground. Hhhaha. . .]]

“. . . Loop?” [(You flinch feeling Ramos’ hand on your shoulder. They take it back.)] “S-sorry I didn’t mean-”

“Don’t.” [(You grab their hand and hold it with a death grip.)] “. . . Just, don’t.”

“. . . Okay.” [(You hear them shuffle to the ground, sitting next to you.)] “I’m, I’m here for you Loop. And I’m not going away.”

“. . . Thanks. . .”

[(. . . You feel like you’re about to throw up. Hhha, ha. . . You’re shaking, and can’t breathe properly. You don’t want to be here anymore, y-you, just. . .)]

[[Breathe, Saffron, with me.]]

[[In. . . . . And Out. . . .]]

[[. . . You move so you’re sitting crossed legged next to Ramos. Y-you, you. . .]]

[{Do it, there’s nothing to loose..}]

[<They’ll read our mind and find out eventually.>]

[(They’re, the only one we could trust with it, for now.)]

[[. . .]] “Ramos.”

“Y-yeah?”

“Do you. . . Remember that, secret, I wanted to talk to you about before?”

“Uh, yeah!” [[They rub their neck.]] “With the whole, uh, Horizon stuff?”

“. . . Y-yes, that one.” [[You swallow, trying to keep yourself calm.]] “. . . If, if you ever tell anyone, b-berfore, we’re ready. . .”

“I wont, buddy.” [[They squeeze your hand.]] “Promise.”

“. . . O-okay. . .” [[You close your eye.]] “. . . I’ll. . . I, I’m, I-I’m-”

[[The words are stuck in your throat. No matter what you do you can’t spit them out! You grit your teeth and sink your head, and end up face down in your cloak.]]

“. . . U-uh. . .” [[They touch the back of your head with their other hand.]] “. . . If, i-if it’s, easier to say er. . . I, could. . .”

“I-I’ll show you.” [[You blurt out.]] “I’ll, I-I’ll show you the memory. Yes, that’s, t-that’s, what I’ll do.”

“Okay.” [[You feel a tingle.]] “Just, tell me when you’re ready.”

“O-okay. Ready.”

>>>

(Ramos) [Alex] <Altiare> |Jasmine| {Nihil}

(“Siffrin!”)

(The memory hits you like a hammer and you feel the air leave you. You try and gasp for air, but your mouth doesn’t move, can’t move! It’s just stuck in a permanent smile. Everything feels, numb, and, wrong! And--)

(“Everything okay? You looked really lost in thought! I don’t think we’re very far from the top! We can--” As always, you don’t get a chance to catch your breath. You at least have your smile in place.)

(The Housemaiden’s standing in front of you. You can see that at least, s-stars, you tighten your grip. This memory, it feels like a storm, more vivid than, than any memory you’ve ever felt! Breathe, in, and out.)

(Where are you, again? Ah, that’s right. The last day. The castle. The last floor.)

(The King.)

(?!?!? T-the, is, this when Siffrin fought the-)

(Get back to the stage.)

(“. . . Sif? Are you worried? About fighting the King?” “Sif, worried? Ha! I’ve never seen him worried about anything!”)

(This is wrong, off, something’s wrong. Castle? Not the House of Change? A-and, and something feels wrong about the Fighter and the Housemaiden-- w-what?!? Why are you, y-you calling them that?!?)

(“No point in worrying” you say. “Hm, you’re right! No point in worrying now, let’s just move forward!”)

(WHAT IS GOING ON?!?!?!?)

(You watch in a stunned disbelief as your body, Siffrins body, walks through unfamiliar motions, with people you know who are acting just a bit off. The steps are off, strange, weird. Bonnie doesn’t even fight, there’s no jackpot technique, it all just feels, so. . .)

(You go through the motions.)

(The story is zooming by in a blink of an eye, and, at a snail's pace. You can’t focus on any one detail, they ALL stand out to you. Every second it was more and more confusing, and just, wrong.)

(It’s too, QUIET!!! You, you can’t think! There’s so much quiet it’s, w-wrong!!!)

(And then, the King.)

(He killed you in one blow.)

(You were nearly thrown out of the memory then and there. Your gut was twisting and turning, feeling the salt and iron of tears and blood. You were shaking, and gasping, and begging for air. But. You were back. And. You couldn’t--)

(Get back to the stage.)

(And. You do it. Again.)

(Again. And again. And again.)

(And again and again  and again  and again  and again  and again  and again  and again  and again  and again  and again  and again  and again  and again  and again  and again  and again  and again  and again  and again  and again  and again  and again  and again  and again until it starts driving you crazy! Up the wall! Mad! It! JUST! DOESN’T! STOP!!!!!)

(AND IT’S! SO! QUIET!!!)

(You almost missed when it changed.)

(Gentle touches, hands, snacks, talks, trust, friends, family. Being ready to fight the King.)

(And, winning.)

(“We. . . Won?”)

(You, won-)

[. . . Ha. . .]

[HA! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!!!]

[YOU. CAN’T. WIN!!!! HAH!!!! HAHHAHHA!!!!! HOW STUPID YOU ARE, THINKING YOU COULD JUST LEAVE LIKE THAT!!! JUST BEAT THE KING AND YOU’LL BE FREE! BUT! NO!!!]

[THAT’S IT! YOU’RE STUCK HERE!!! YOU’LL NEVER ESCAPE!!! YOU’LL NEVER, EVER ESCAPE!!!]

[You can’t do this.]

[YOU CAN’T DO THIS! YOU CAN’T DO THIS ALONE, YOU CAN’T!!! YOU’VE TRIED, AND TRIED AND TRIED! BUT! NOTHING!!! Why, WHY!!!!]

[YOU CAN’T DO THIS ALONE!]

[CAN’T YOU HEAR ME, UNIVERSE! YOU GIVE UP! YOU CAN’T DO THIS ALONE!!! PLEASE! PLEASE!!!! PLEASE JUST PLEASE!!!!]

[SOMEONE! ANYONE! PLEASE!!! YOU WANT IT TO BE OVER! YOU WANT OUT! YOU JUST WANT SOME HELP!]

[PLEASE!!!! SOMEONE, ANYONE, HELP ME!!!]

[And the Universe responded. The Universe, handed you a gift. . . A fallen star, handed down to you from the constellations far above. It feels warm in your hands, welcoming.]

[You open your mouth, and--]

(You stumble back from Loop and trip, falling into the Favor Tree. You’re seeing double, and feel, dizzy, sick, a-and, and, and--)

[The image Loop shared with you, of first meeting Siffrin. There was a feeling, a longing, a feeling of nostalgia, of saudade, of-]

(O-of, o-of. . .)

“O-oh, v-void.” (You stare at them, wide eyed and shaking. It, it makes so much sense.) “Y-you. . .”

(They refuse to look at you, instead, they’re tucked into themself, holding their legs close. They hide in the cloak, but, you can still see the tears. They take a second to catch their breath.) “. . . I, I am. . .”

“. . .” (You stare at them in silence for a moment, and then slowly move forward and put an arm around them.)

(. . . They turn, bury their face in your vest, and silently sob.)

[Stars above and void below. . .]

(Y-you, you don’t know what to do?!?)

|You hold them real real close and don’t let go. That felt bad, bad bad real really bad and, a-and they went through all that so many times!!! Your voice was shaking and weird and, a-and---|

<It’s alright, it’s alright, it’s over, Jasmine. You pat the worried little gardener on the shoulder.>

(Getting crowded in here!)

|S-sorry-|

[It’s fair, I’ll leave. There’s. . . Much to think about, with, this.]

(R-right.)

|I wanna stay though!|

(T-that’s okay, Altiare, could you-)

<I’ll be nearby.>

(Okay. You take a deep breath.) “. . . Wanna talk about it?”

(There’s a pause, then a nod.)

“. . . Do you, want to be called, uh. . .” (You feel their breath catch, and a mix of emotions akin to panic, or uncertainty.) “N-nevermind, we can figure it out later, okay?”

“. . . Okay.” (They hug a bit tighter.) “Thank you.”

“It’s okay, Loop.” (You pull away a bit so you can look them in the eye with your big, dumb smile.) “I’m here to help.”

[yandereonepieceimagines]

I’m feeling silly 🤪 I can’t elaborate other than in bullet points 😅 yandere Sanji vs Reader (Female) where reader is a. Latina so she expects the queen treatment and in return you treats him as such b. Is still that humble, please, yes, thank you know Latin/southern manners type of shit and c. Can handle herself! 👏 💁‍♀️ he would be so frustrated and all over her lol. Sanji: what do you mean get out of your kitchen?! I am doing the cooking! Reader: shh 🤫 just sit down and let me take care of you here have a drink.

------------

Unique ask, to say the least! Quite specific, even!

I intentionally wrote her character so that her exact cultural background is very open to interpretation for readers. However, her personality and traits are definitely something I could draw on here!

------------

Vinsmoke Sanji

The scent of garlic and saffron filled the air, but it wasn’t Sanji behind the stove.

“No, no, no! What do you mean get out of your kitchen?!” Sanji’s voice cracked, his eye wide with unfiltered horror and disbelief. “I do the cooking around here, my love! Always!”

You slid past him with the grace of someone born to be obeyed, soon placing a warm drink in his trembling hands. “Shh. Just sit down and let me take care of you,” you murmured, tone calm, royal and final. “You’ve been on your feet all day, haven’t you? Relax, Sanji.”

He nearly collapsed. “I… Yes, thank you, but, my heart, what are you doing to me?”

You hummed as you stirred the sauce. Confident and steady. One hand on your hip, the other wielding a ladle almost like a weapon. You’d fought your way through worse than pirates and violent storms only the Grand Line could give. Cooking was second nature. Power radiated off you in waves, and he basked in it.

He was the Straw Hats’ cook. Their cook. But you? You cooked for him. You treated him like a prince, even as your very presence wordlessly demanded you to be treated like a queen.

And he was completely into it.

You didn’t even have a bounty. But that made it worse. You didn’t need one. The World Economy News covered you with wary fascination. Headlines read: "The woman the World Government watches closely", "Too powerful to ignore". A single misstep on your part, a lean toward the wrong side, and a bounty would be given and would shoot past the stars.

Yet here you were. Humble, kind, yet very confident in everything that you do. Stronger than any of them. Especially him.

“HEY!” Luffy’s voice shot from the deck. “Can you make that beef stew again?! The one with the spicy stuff that made my nose cry?! I WANT THAT!”

You chuckled, calling back without missing a beat. “Of course. Coming right up, Captain.”

Sanji stared, appalled. The queen… Serving him? Serving them- the other men on the crew? How dare they ask for your attention like it was theirs to take? You weren’t theirs. You were his. His goddess. His perfect, untouchable vision of strength and softness.

Every day with you was paradise... And purgatory.

He watched you laugh while trying to teach Luffy to chop herbs (horribly, Sanji noted, though he wasn’t at all surprised). That sound- your laugh, made his heart thud so hard it rattled his ribcage. His cigarette slipped from his lips. He barely noticed.

It got worse when you served Zoro and Usopp.

You ladled stew into their bowls with a smile, lightly brushing off Zoro’s lazy grunt of thanks and Usopp’s overly dramatic praise about how you were surely trained in a royal palace. They laughed with you, shared warm jokes like old friends.

Sanji stood frozen at the edge of the Going Merry, his jaw clenched so hard it ached.

Zoro… ZORO was sitting there, getting your cooking, like he deserved it. And Usopp? He was practically swooning. You even patted his head. His.

Sanji’s fists tightened around the rag in his hands, trembling.

“They don’t deserve this,” he muttered to no one. “They don’t deserve her.”

Every bite they took felt like a personal betrayal. Every smile you gave them twisted like a knife in his chest.

And yet, he couldn’t look away.

The closer they got to the next island, the more unhinged he felt. Every moment with you became too sweet, too fleeting. He began to memorize the sound of your voice, the rhythm of your footsteps, even the way you tucked stray strands of hair behind your ear.

That night, when the crew finally slept, he found you on the upper deck, silhouetted by moonlight as you stared out at the stars. The breeze tugged gently at your cloak, and for a moment, he let himself believe he could stop time.

“You’re not staying,” he said, voice tight. It wasn’t a question. It was grief wrapped in the shape of a sentence.

You turned, soft-eyed. No denial. No hesitation either. You smiled like you’d already made peace with the goodbyes.

“The sea calls for me. But don’t worry.” You stepped closer, reaching up to brush his golden hair from his face, fingertips lingering. “I’ll always be your queen, as you like to say.”

And then you turned.

Sanji stood frozen, the cold wind nothing compared to the emptiness suddenly blooming in his chest. He clutched that promise like a man drowning, desperate for air. Desperate for you. Disbelieving. Unwilling.

His fingers twitched at his side, aching to grab your wrist and pull you back to him. To fall to his knees, to beg; just one more day. No. A week. No. Forever.

“You don’t have to go,” he whispered into the wind. “You could stay... you should stay. With me.”

His voice vanished into the night. You were already gone. And he already knew he couldn't stop you from going.

When you disappeared down the gangplank at sunrise, the Going Merry never smelled the same again. Every breath he took in the ship’s modest kitchen tasted like absence, like grief simmered low and slow.

He still set an empty plate out for you every night. A fork. A cup. Napkin folded perfectly.

Not just in case.

But in mad, undying hope.

That you’d walk through that door again.

That you’d remember where you belonged-

With him.

Only with him.

He should start planning how to actually make it happen.

[melbatron5000]

Two Crowleys

A while ago, the wonderful mind of @noneorother posted this meta about the puppets in the magic shop.

The observation that there appear to be two Crowleys in the shot of the puppet arrangement had me absolutely scratching my head and thinking they must be mistaken somehow.

(pic from @noneorother)

But then I got my hands on some of the Amazon X-ray extras, and discovered these little gems from the album covers in Maggie's record shop:

Now, going back to our color-coding for a moment, we may not know what all the colors in Good Omens mean, and we may not have all the colors down. But we do know a few, and we know that color-coding in Good Omens does exist, and that it matters.

Auburn and vavoom yellow are Crowley's colors. They are the colors of his hair and eyes. Black and scarlet red are the colors he wears. So those four colors are Crowley-coded colors. Okay.

Thus, these two record albums from Maggie's shop are Crowley-colored. Now, notice something important? Well, two things. The first -- Raga Koboj has TWO little sharp-clawed critters peering out at us from behind blinds. I daresay they are meant to be little cartoon demons, yes? And CT Bazz: Dank Balaclava features a face in a red ski mask. People usually wear ski masks if A. it's cold as tits outside, or B. if they're trying to hide their identity. So both albums feature Crowley colors AND images of hiding -- plus one features an image of twinsies.

The other important thing takes us back to color-coding. What other color do we see here besides our well-known Crowley colors? On Raga Koboj, the auburn and vavoom yellow blend into each other -- creating orange between them. And Dank Balaclava features a cigarette being lit -- with a little flair of orange fire.

(Edit to add: The name of that first album is Raga Koboj, which is a style of Indian music. A very famous tale in India is of the Warrior Goddess Kahli fighting demons who kept replicating themselves. Every time a drop of blood would hit the ground, a new demon would spring up. She went on a rampage trying to destroy them all, and her husband had to throw himself in her path to stop her. Hmm . . .)

This leads me to believe two things: Yes, TWO Crowleys. One Crowley in hiding, the other a twin. And that orange is Crowley's secret color.

Where else do we see orange?

Yep, the pillars in Aziraphale's shop. Which we also know is painted Crowley Auburn on the outside and Vavoom Yellow on the inside. With accents of this nice saffron orange on the pillars.

Want more proof? Okay.

Several people have noted that Aziraphale and Crowley keep to each other's right and left, respectively. Aziraphale on the right, Crowley on the left. In season 1, whenever they are on the opposite sides of each other, something's up. Not wrong, necessarily, but not in proper order. As in the image-swap/body-swap. Several people have also noted that Crowley is on Aziraphale's right far more frequently in season 2. And look here:

Aziraphale looks instinctively to his left when Crowley approaches -- only this Crowley, the twin, is not approaching on Aziraphale's left. This happens in more than one scene.

And when Aziraphale introduces Crowley to Nina in the coffee shop in episode one, he says, "This is, um, Crowley." As if he's quickly deciding how to name this individual who looks like his demon but approached on his right. Aziraphale "ums" and hesitates a lot this season, but he's also lying a lot. Hesitation and "um" is one of his tells.

I believe Aziraphale knows this isn't Crowley 1.0. But he acts and talks to this Crowley as if it's Crowley 1.0, so I don't think it's an imposter or someone pretending to be Crowley who isn't. I think Crowley's split himself in two. Am I sure about that? No. But it's where I'm leaning at this moment.

But Crowley 1.0 isn't missing entirely. Look here:

Aziraphale is looking over his left shoulder for his demon, and Crowley's right there, where he should be.

So yeah, TWO Crowleys.

Now where the heck is Crowley while his twin is out walking around on Aziraphale's right side? I really don't know what he might be up to, but I think he's in contact. Reachable, at least.

Let's look at this one again. Who's this?

No, not the guy in the foreground. The guy in the back. No, not the dude wearing tartan, the other guy. The guy in front of the ORANGE pillar, the guy on Crowley-twin's LEFT shoulder.

Is that Crowley 1.0? Or at least, a way for Crowley to be in touch while he's off doing whatever the heck he's doing? I think it is.

Would you like some more proof?

Okay. How about another record album from Maggie's shop?

Back to color-coding again. That baby-blue/red combo seems to indicate Crowley and Aziraphale's relationship together. The baby-blue is the color of Aziraphale's shirt, while the red is one that Crowley wears, mostly around his neck, although it also appears elsewhere in his costuming.

Au Revoir, Fingers! Crowley's just a head now. But a head has ears and eyes, so Aziraphale can communicate with it. As I suspect he tries to here, before Jim interrupts:

But wait. Back to Au Revoir Fingers for a moment. Red Eye Smile?

And red eyes? Fuck me.

A very few people have pointed out that there are lots of dual red taillights in multiple shots, frequently framed rather carefully. I had dismissed it, as I usually do when something turns out to be freaking important.

Someone's watching. I think it might be Crowley 1.0.

Then there's that bit where he's driving back to Whickber street, after coming back from Hell, and he first zooms around a bus with red taillights and says, "There's only room for one of us in this lane and it's not you," then he changes a pair of red stop lights to green and says "Don't you even think about it. There, that's better." Is he arguing with himself?? Telling the Other Crowley that it's his turn right now, not his? Of course I can't find a GIF or picture of that right now, but you know what I mean, right? Neil had to cut a bunch of material out of the finished show to fit Amazon's time limit requirements. That scene would seem to be an easy cut to make -- unless the scene matters to the overall plot too much to cut.

I also suspect that Crowley might be talking to himself in the book shop at the end of season 2. You know, when he turns Aziraphale's chair around to face the right way, but when Maggie and Nina come in it's facing the center of the room again? I suspect Crowley 1.0 and 2.0 had a chat. I do not know about what. Just sharing information?

I also wonder if Crowley 2.0 might have his own POV scenes -- thus confusing the already complicated POV situation even more. The white head statue sure gets several shots where it's in center frame, as if it is the POV character in that scene.

That's what I got, my fellow brain rotters. There's my evidence.

In conclusion: Two Crowleys. Yeah, I think so. Now, for the big question:

WHY???

What is Crowley doing that there needs to be two of him? And is it just twinsies, or is that someone else pretending to be Crowley and I'm wrong? Aziraphale definitely seems to know that's NOT his original Crowley, but tells the demon important information without hesitation, so I'm still suspecting Crowley twinned himself. But what if I'm wrong? Who is it then? And why are they pretending to be Crowley? And why does Aziraphale seem to know it's not Crowley, but still talk to him like it is?

I have no answers.

Thanks for crackpotting and going nuts with me, yet again. I hope this keeps you up at night like it's done me.

[tulipsimss]

Cressida had to head in for an emergency C-section and while waiting, Chris got a call saying saffron passed away😭

[moonagekiss]

Essa é uma cnn page para ambos os meus chars em um único post, porque não são muitas ideias e elas são bem específicas, mas são dinâmicas que eu considero legais de desenvolver e em sua maioria possuem lacunas legais da gente pensar juntos, quase como subplots! Qualquer interesse, pode comentar o número por aqui mesmo, dar like nesse post ou mandar pelo chat <3

STARDEW VALLEY (001) – Muse A, HARU e Muse C são pessoas interessantes demais para Saffron e, por gostar muito de todos, é comum que leve presentes aleatórios quando vai para a cidade – Saffron mora perto, mas não é na cidade em si, e sim na superfície da floresta mais próxima, em uma casa bonitinha com uma horta ao redor. Pode ser algo que ela cozinhou, uma receita de algo, algum ingrediente, alguma pedra preciosa que ela achou, uma roupa que ela costurou... Por não ser boa com palavras, ela gosta de demonstrar seu apreço por essas pessoas dessa maneira.

LITTLE MISFORTUNE (002) – Muse D não consegue ficar perto de Oden sem entrar em conflito. Não não, não tem nada a ver com qualquer implicação romântica (pelo menos não é esse o ponto aqui?), é que, por saber que o semideus sabe onde é mais seguro e onde é mais perigoso e, em teoria, consegue adivinhar onde alguém pode morrer, a presença da prole de Osíris acaba criando paranoias em sua cabeça, por mais que o próprio já tenha dito que não é exatamente assim que funciona, e que, caso seja uma preferência, ele apenas não irá dizer nada.

PALWORLD (003) – Muse E não consegue se dar bem com animais por algum motivo e, por isso, pede ajuda à Saffron para que ela investigue o motivo por trás do desgosto generalizado. Seja lá qual for a razão (podemos pensar sobre), Saffron decide ajudar a tornar Muse E gostável, começando por Calla, sua tigresa muito grande, muito forte e que rosna alto sempre que vê Muse E, mas Saffron garante (mais ou menos) que ela não vai fazer nada.

FATAL FRAME (004) –  HAZ deseja muito um objeto específico, mas não sabe por onde começar a procurá-lo, por isso, pediu ajuda à Oden. Conforme pesquisam mais a respeito da relíquia, Oden e Haz percebem que há um motivo para ele ser tão difícil de ser encontrado: a morte já o tocou mais vezes do que pode ser contabilizado, de forma que, até para Oden, seria perigoso tentar prever ou alcançar sua localização de maneira segura. Ainda assim, tentam bolar estratégias para que o caçador de relíquias consiga, finalmente, trazê-lo para Haz. Bônus: isso faz com que ambos se tornem amigos próximos. Detalhes sobre o objeto podem ser debatidos.