#really I’m deciding between a pink or peach undertone

[verityblack]

Also for context, this room gets very little direct sunlight so I have supplied photos of the paint samples with the actual lighting conditions

[melissart]

Miracle Circus: Chapter One

Genre: fantasy/coming-of-age/LGBT+

Word Count: 8,447

Synopsis: Every summer, Peterkin G. Saemon and Ralph Blimerance spend the summer touring across the country with their respective parents, Sybil Saemon and Dorian Blimerance—the two most powerful circus magicians to ever live (in that order, Sybil would proudly boast). With their great power, Ringmasters Sybil and Dorian run the world-renowned Miracle Circus all by themselves: the tickets, the concessions, the games, the tents, but most importantly, the Big Top show that ends the night with a guarantee for the impossible, the fantastic, and the miraculous. But Peterkin is bored of perfection. He can’t find excitement in a perfect world of where everything is colored within the lines, no matter how glorious the colors may be. 

In his twelfth-and-a-halfth summer, Peterkin decides to sabotage Miracle Circus’ first show of the season, just for a brief moment. That moment is the first time Miracle Circus had ever been thwarted. Impossible, fantastic, miraculous—Sybil and Dorian realize they had been out-miracled in their own Big Top and come to the conclusion that there are still witches remaining. They stage an audition as a facade for a witch-hunt, not knowing that the witch they are hunting is none other than their own darling little Peterkin.

The fair, golden-haired boy sits in Section E, Row 5, Seat 12 and a half whenever he visits Miracle Circus. It’s specially reserved for him because he’s Dorian’s son—handsome Dorian’s son, ringmaster Dorian’s son, old money Dorian Blimerance’s son—but he doesn’t know that. Ralph Blimerance sits in the same seat because he’s used to it. He doesn’t know that the ringmaster and ringmistress of the circus perform to him, for him, and because of him every summer, when Dorian has custody of him. He doesn’t know that the sun’s warm beams follow him even when he’s strolling down the darkest of alleys because he was always meant to walk in the light. He just thinks that life is wonderful and that whoever is miserable is simply predisposed to gloom. 

It’s already five minutes past scheduled showtime and Section E, Row 5, Seat 12 and a half is empty. Another thing that Ralph doesn’t know is that the show doesn’t start without him. 

Peterkin had been alternating between apparating and running, charming every minute hand on every clock into turning one degree counterclockwise per every 360 degrees the second hand travels. He can’t find Ralph anywhere, that stupid boy! He’s not in the Tent of Sundials and Mercury or the Tent of Time and Candles or the Tent of Hourglasses and Looking Glasses or any of the other tents that are either time-themed or, for some reason, involve some kind of clock. 

Peterkin hates the circus for having so many tents. He’s wasting his time! The mature thing to do would be to tell Dorian, straight-up, that he doesn’t know where Ralph is and that tonight’s show would have to start without him. Ralph is a big boy, now, and he should be allowed to live his life as he pleases. He’s half a year older than Peterkin and he still doesn't understand why he was looking after him. 

The harsh air of Empire State’s night weather engulfs Peterkin in a shiver as soon as he exits the Tent of Isolation and Crippling Anxiety. (Actually, it’s just an empty tent. Some of those are thrown in amongst the infinite attractions as a prank. Expect anything—even nothing.) His breaths come out in hot white puffs. 

“Dorian,” Peterkin says to himself quietly. Best to practice now. “Ralph is missing.” 

He happens to look down at his hands which were, rightfully, shaking—Dorian is going to have his head. His first day officially volunteering as the third magician of the formerly two-magician wonder that is Miracle Circus and he’s already failing miserably. Tonight’s show was supposed to be dedicated to Ralph. But then again, every show is dedicated to him. It doesn’t take much but a heartfelt speech at the beginning of the show to dedicate it to someone. Dorian and Sybil could adlib any other name in their dedication and it wouldn’t make a difference. 

“It’s not my fault!” Peterkin insists. He walks and talks, all the while scanning for any sign of Ralph. “Ralph is twelve-and-a-half years old, already. He can take care of himself.” 

He pauses in his tracks. “Twelve-and-a-half years old is still a child, stupid. Of course he needs a babysitter.” It’s all because he lost him while repairing the glass menagerie in the Tent of Fragility. The crystal animals, the glass sculptures, the diamond chandeliers, the pottery and the intricate spider webs and the preserved flowers and the porcelain tea sets—all destroyed. He told Sybil to not put that tent next to the Tent of Baseball and Bats, but she never listens. It’s the most vulnerable tent, besides the Tent of Vulnerability, and he’s always the one who has to clean it up. Almost as susceptible as the Tent of Susceptibility.  “It’s all my fault. It really is all my fault!” 

It’s strange, though, because usually Ralph is eager to drag Peterkin from tent to tent and narrate what elaborate techniques went into designing each and every detail, as if Peterkin were not a son of a ringmaster himself. It’s not as if he took too long un-shattering the shards in the Tent of Fragility. It takes but a flick of the wand. Somewhere, amidst the applause of nosy spectators, Ralph slipped away without a trace.  

Suddenly, Peterkin realizes he’s surrounded by fountains and bubbles. He doesn’t remember how he got there or how much time it took, but he refuses to think of it. Sometimes he uses magic without realizing it. It’s not good. Again, he doesn’t want to think about it. 

The Tent of Fountains and Bubbles has been his favorite tent ever since Sybil made the pink bubbles pink-flavored. Peterkin says it’s one of the greatest accomplishments of her entire magician career, next to founding the Little Miracles Orphanage. She really captured the color pink in a flavor: bubble gum, watermelon, strawberry, peach, and some other artificial undertones he can’t quite place. The other bubbles taste like soap. Non-toxic for curious idiots like him, but disgusting enough to discourage you from eating it. 

Oh, he loves this tent. He can’t be anything but happy when sitting at a fountain and catching bubbles in his hand. It’s all a good time. The bubbles come in all shapes and sizes and colors and opacities. Some become cute bunnies that hop along a pool of water at the bottom of a five-tiered fountain. Some never pop. Some are colorful, foamy bubbles in a bathtub that apparently passes for a fountain just because it has lily pads in them. 

The lighting changes according to Pacific Standard Time, the time zone Peterkin was born in. It’s barely glowing a sunset in the Tent of Bubbles and Fountains, though it’s already dark outside. The bubbles near the top of the tent glow auburn and amber and rose and pewter-blue, the same shade as the clouds on the beach. How is he supposed to leave this tent when the fountain water tints to the same darkness as the ocean and foamy bubbles start to look like the white crests of pacific waves? 

Peterkin sits at the cupid fountain wondering if he even had the heart to leave the tent. It’s not often that he gets to sit at the cupid fountain without being surrounded by PDA. Sybil says the fountain is made of pearls to strengthen love and protect children. Witchy elements like that are socially accepted as long as it’s for good luck.

There’s a lot to say about a cupid fountain that depicts Cupid stabbing himself through the heart with his own arrow. The water gushes out of his wounds and his crying eyes. The main legend is that Cupid was so fascinated by a mortal that he thrusted his own arrow into himself so he could properly fall in love. There’s another variation he’s heard, where the arrow is poisonous to Cupid and he only has a short time before he dies to experience true love for the mortal. 

The important part is that Sybil tells people if two lovers toss a chip behind them at the same time and the chips land on the same side, then they will stay in love forever. At the end of the day, she has Peterkin clean up the chips and store them away. Not that money is of much use, nowadays. Inflation in the country is a nightmare. 

Peterkin looks down at his reflection in the pool of water, littered with white roses. “Dorian, I’m sorry,” he says to his wavering image. He brushes some foam out of his hair. He tries a more pitiful tone. “Please forgive me, Dorian.” He sure is glad nobody is around to hear him. “Dorian, you’re the most handsome man in this universe and I want to marry you.”

“Peterkin!” 

Peterkin doesn’t dare look behind him. Dorian is as stunning as Medusa is petrifying—one thoughtless glance, and he’s done for. The enchantment is insidious, as Freudian as it is Pavlovian. “I didn’t say anything—” 

“Where’s Ralph?” 

“Um…” The blank white petals on the roses start to dye an inky black. He stands up and faces Dorian. “I’m sorry, sir.” Uncharacteristically, he meets Dorian’s gaze. Better for Dorian to look at his pitiful face than the black roses behind him. Peterkin has to pick his troubles. 

And what a devastating trouble it is to look Dorian in the eyes. Dorian is in a pure white ringmaster’s ensemble: a white button-up under a white vest with a white silk bow with a white satin tailcoat and white pants and a white tophat. All fitted perfectly and immune to even the most miniscule specks of dust. Ruffles of white lace adorn his arm cuffs. Raining down his waist are strings of pearls, like icicles hanging down from the edge of a snowy roof. He looks as if he robbed his outfit from a bridal shop. Peterkin assumes Sybil’s ringmaster costume for this show is in pure black, to juxtapose her partner. Pure black and pure white—the trademarked colors of Miracle Circus’ striped tents. Every other non-Miracle Circus-affiliated product or company or production featuring black or white has to settle for an off-colored variant. 

Dorian sighs loudly. He crosses his arms and shakes his head in disappointment. As a performer, he has a habit of exaggerating his feelings, constantly broadcasting to an invisible audience. “You had one job, Peterkin.” 

“No, you gave me one job! Sybil gave me one job, and then the same job again because she forgot, then she kept on piling more tasks on me, and then eventually she figured out that writing a list would be more efficient...” The list she gave Peterkin was a scroll longer than his height. 

Dorian gives Peterkin a sympathetic pat on Peterkin’s shoulder. His reflection is covered by pink roses. “That’s your mother’s revenge for ditching last year’s finale show.” 

Peterkin looks away. He never was good at keeping eye contact. Sybil tells him the trick is to look six feet past the person in front of him, but the only trick he wants is a vanishing act. He’d like to be the disappearing milk poured into a dry cone of yesterday’s newspaper. 

“Maybe Ralph wants to ditch tonight’s show,” Peterkin suggests. “It gets boring going by yourself all the time. Most kids visit the circus with their parents.” 

Dorian ponders the idea. “You’re right, young Peterkin.” 

“I am?” 

Peterkin can’t believe Dorian is buying his lemon of a pitch. Ralph could be in real danger, maybe kidnapped for ransom by a rival circus. He never misses a show. He spends every summer with his father, and consequently with Sybil and Peterkin, and every summer he’s thrilled to see the same three tricks his father and Peterkin’s mother perform: the impossible, the fantastic, and the miraculous. He’s Miracle Circus’ biggest fan. Even in the off-season, he watches old recordings of Miracle Circus shows and practices behind his mother’s back after he’s done studying. He collects all the merchandise and wears it to every show. He readily soaks in all the propaganda Sybil feeds him of Miracle Circus’ glory, the silver lies of Miracle Circus’ divine right to ruling the circus industry. It’s hard to believe wide-eyed Ralph is capable of a rebellious phase. 

“Of course you’re right, young Peterkin!” Dorian ruffles Peterkin’s hair affectionately. “Why don’t you take Ralph’s seat for tonight?” 

“Huh?” 

“I understand that you don’t have the most maternal of mothers. She treats you more like an equal than a son. That’s not fair to you. Why, just because you’re a child prodigy doesn’t mean you’re not still a child.” 

Peterkin glances down at his watch. “That’s kind of you, Dorian.” It’s already twelve-and-a-half minutes past scheduled showtime. They should really be double-timing it to the Big Top, but he doesn’t have the courage to rush Dorian. The more distracted Dorian is by his own tangent, the farther away from the consequences of losing Ralph Peterkin is. 

“We’ll change the plans! This show is just for you, Peterkin. Your favorite color is pink, right? And your favorite bird is the rooster and your favorite noise is the jingling of keys and your favorite flower is the daffodil?” 

“That’s... right.” Peterkin would fear Dorian had been reading his diary, but he doubts Dorian would be able to look him in the eye if he did. “You’re not going to dedicate it to me, are you? Out loud with a spotlight and all?” 

“Of course we will!” Dorian grabs Peterkin by the shoulders. “This show will be un-ditch-able. One hundred percent, money-back guarantee!” 

“But I didn’t pay—” 

Before he can finish his sentence, he appears at Section E, Row 5, Seat 12 and a half with a surprised yelp from the boy in Section E, Row 5, Seat 14. He’s the only one bothered by Peterkin’s abrupt existence. The rest of the crowd is busy orchestrating the cacophony of excited chatter.

“Geez, you scared me!” the boy in Seat 14 exclaims. He’s clutching at his chest, as if he were trying to keep his heart from leaping away. “But I’ve got to admit—that’s a wicked clean appearification. I’d poof around everywhere too, if I were that clean.”

The cogs in Peterkin’s mind are turning too fast for him to come up with a proper response to his undeserved compliment. He swears both of Dorian’s hands were grabbing him, in that split second moment before he poofed them both away. Far from the wand in his back pocket. He can still feel the warmth of those strong, soft, handsome hands on his shoulders, like a phantom’s touch—a ghost of a memory of a feeling that he was going to be dazzled against his will. He wouldn’t forget anything Dorian makes him feel. 

He just used wandless magic. Didn’t he?

Complete darkness swallows the Big Top. The white stripes of the canvas become indistinguishable from the black stripes. Light manipulation is one of Miracle Circus’ many specialties, under the broader umbrella of passive magic. There’s a difference between active light manipulation and passive light manipulation that Peterkin hasn't figured out, yet. A single pink spotlight befalls Sybil and Dorian. Peterkin looks up to try and locate its source, but the point at the top of the cone of light has no blinding shining circle of origin. The pink light seems to come from higher than the ceiling of the Big Top, as if it were sent by the heavens above. 

Any half-smart magician would be immediately impressed by that pink spotlight alone. Peterkin notices that the boy beside him has his chin turned up, wondering about the source of the light instead of cheering for the ringmasters under it. Ralph would be doing the same, if he were here. Peterkin tries to look around for Ralph’s specific hue of blond, but every mop of hair he finds are all the wrong shades. 

Sybil and Dorian’s ringmaster costumes have been dyed pink. Sybil’s bodice has strings of pink pearls cascading in loops, drooping down just until the poof of layered pink lace on her skirt, which flares out just below her sheer pink tights-clad knees. Her tailcoat is pink satin, the same as Dorian’s, with the same ruffled lace at her cuffs and the same pink silk bow at her neck. Her tophat is adorned with pink lace and pink daffodils and a pink bow. If there’s any consolation to Peterkin for being stuck watching another tedious show, it’s knowing that Sybil will be in a bad mood later from having to wear her least favorite color. 

Contrasting Sybil’s pink ensemble is her infamous waterfall of dark, silky-straight hair that spills over her shoulders and down to her lower back. It’s not her natural hair texture. Peterkin thinks she must have wavy locks like his own, but he has no proof besides his genetics. More eye-catching, though, is the length of her hair. She doesn’t respect the hair protocol in the Magician’s Code, which states that all female magicians must have their hair worn up and out of the way during performances. Her excuse is that she’s not a “female magician”, but a “real magician”. 

“Ladies and gentlemen! Both and neither!” Ringmaster Sybil calls out. 

Her voice projects around the stadium surrounding her as if she were only a couple feet away from every audience member. She doesn’t need the assistance of a microphone. Passive sound manipulation is another specialty of Miracle Circus.

“Welcome to Miracle Circus! Home of the impossible, the fantastic, and of course—the miraculous! You’ll never find magic as pure, nor as powerful, nor as potent as ours! But there is another thing that’s just as pure and just as powerful and just as deathly potent… Dorian, do you know what that is?” 

Peterkin knows he’s about to be publicly humiliated. He reaches for the wand in his inner coat pocket, but it’s missing. He frantically checks every other pocket to no avail. Dorian took his wand. 

“Of course I know, dear Sybil! That would be…” 

A new beam of pink light illuminates the poor idiot sitting in Section E, Row 5, Seat 12 and a half. The boy beside Peterkin yelps in surprise again. The spotlight is hot and heavy, but unfortunately not hot enough to burn Peterkin to a crisp and release him from his eternal suffering. 

“... our love for little Peterkin-pumpkin!” the two ringmasters declare in unison. 

The crowd erupts in an adoring coo and proud applause. Everyone likes a family business. It gives them the illusion of a moral high ground for supporting a mom-and-pop operation while still enjoying the luxury of a multi-million corporation. Sometimes Peterkin wonders if he was only born to be a marketing strategy, but he couldn’t deny that Sybil and Dorian’s grandiose gestures come from their idea of love. He could only cry in the restroom later from sheer embarrassment. 

But if they dare call him up as a volunteer, Peterkin will not hesitate to cry right then and there. 

“This show is dedicated to my darling Peterkin! My son! My pride and joy! You might have seen him earlier, helping Mommy maintain some of our more difficult tents, and you can bet a pretty chip that it only takes him a flick of the wand!” 

Peterkin tries not to focus on the audience members below him, craning their necks to gawk at Ringmistress Sybil’s son. The energy is better spent trying to convince his nervous system to not shut down. 

“That’s right,” Dorian says. “Young Peterkin is an heir of talent! A prince of purity! A claimant of genius!” 

Peterkin slumps into his seat. He doesn’t like being Ralph’s replacement much. Only Ralph has the ego to soak up overinflated praise with a smile. This certainly is his punishment for losing Ralph. 

“So, without further ado, let us begin our program, ‘Peterkin’s Show’!” 

Peterkin is floored by the creativity of the title. Truly an inspiration. With that kind of eloquence, Sybil could be a wordsmith. 

Though, what she can’t achieve with her words she compensates with her magic prowess. She flips her wand high up into the air, where it twirls and sparkles gold out of the white tips on either end. Underneath the wand, she does an aerial and lands in time to catch her wand, which triggers a burst of thick pink smoke and iridescent glitter that expands out into the audience. A light tinkling of metal keys ring out like sleigh bells. Underneath the high tones of the tinkling metal is the sound of many stringed instruments bending their pitch up. 

Instinctively, Peterkin flinches at the smoke and glitter, but there’s no tangible residue to creep into his corneas. On the tip of his tongue, he tastes sweetness. A light aroma of peaches and cream wafts about. He already knows what’s to come: when the smoke clears, the stage will proclaim some dazzling display of roosters and daffodils and some random surreal element you wouldn’t usually associate with roosters and daffodils, like the twinkling of a galaxy or silvery clouds that project images of winged angels frolicking in lush fields or dancing bronze sculpture-people. It’s the classic Miracle Circus opener that the crowd swoons for every time. Sybil always likes to open with strong symbolism to give the audience members something to grasp onto before ripping away the familiarity and sending them spiralling down a rabbithole of spectacles. 

When the smoke clears, the stage is revealed to be teeming with absolute emptiness. Nothing has changed. Sybil and Dorian are standing in the very middle of it, the same spot they were in before, gesturing to the invisible grandeur around them. Peterkin had to admit, his expectations are defied. He’s amazed. Not impressed, but thoroughly on the edge of his seat wondering what’s to come. It’s a risky move building up to a reveal and then disappointing hundreds of eager, money-paying spectators right off the bat. Anticlimacticism is hard to pull off. But he likes it. It’s a bold statement that asserts dominance, as if Sybil were saying outright, You know who I am, I don’t need to impress you. 

Sybil is the first to break character. That’s when Peterkin realizes this isn’t some avant-garde act of defiance against consumer culture. She whips her head around, a quick motion emphasized by the twirling of her long, dark locks all around her, looking for someone hiding in the shadowy backstage. The show is being sabotaged. Peterkin picks his posture up and shifts his weight to the edge of his seat. No one has ever dared to sabotage a Miracle Circus Big Top show, before. 

Dorian takes over and summons the growth of pink daffodils, peeking out of the crevices in between the floorboards. Green spathes unfurl yellow petals, cradling dew-kissed coronas spewing out puffs of glowing pollen, like millions of tiny fireflies. The distinct smell of burning canvas, a reminder of a lesson in creating fireworks gone wrong, distracts Peterkin from the light floral scent. Someone has set fire to the tent. In response, Sybil waves her wand and sprinkles water upon the audience. The sparks of fire at the bottom of the canvas sizzles out. She sends out an eclectic blue jolt of lightning into the air, which branches in all directions and hisses at every drop of water it meets. 

When a deafening boom of thunder reverberates, Peterkin looks down and finds that Sybil has been replaced by a clucking rooster. The sprinkling of water has stopped. Dorian is similarly alarmed by his partner’s disappearance. In a panic, he resorts to distracting the audience with bright bursts of colored smoke streaming into the air and exploding in chrysanthemum bursts. Shades of cobalt, tangerine, violet, magenta, and dandelion swirl about. Behind the rainbow of cloudy smoke, a bright white orb of light shines. The shrill scream of a lime green stream of smoke popping into the air covers up yelling below.

All at once, the multicolored smoke gets absorbed into the orb of light, which collapses in on itself. Peterkin tries to blink away the spots in his vision. When he looks down at the stage again, he sees Sybil and Dorian gliding around on an ice rink on ice skates. In one corner, Dorian lifts up into a quadruple toe loop. The audience claps at his perfect landing. He meets Sybil at the center of the rink and lifts her up onto his shoulders. She uses the momentum for a backflip.

Before she lands, Dorian casts a large dome of opaque ice around them just before a gunshot. The bullet shatters the dome, revealing a flock of roosters underneath. There are screams from Section J, stage right. A pink spotlight flashes there for a moment, highlighting Sybil dragging a gunman out of his seat. The spotlight darkens and is replaced by a different spotlight back on stage, where Dorian juggles bowling pins. The ice rink has been replaced by a white marble floor. Dorian narrowly avoids the sudden addition of a bowling ball to his juggling act, but before the bowling pins and bowling ball come crashing down, the attention is once again replaced when yet another spotlight redirects the audience back to Sybil, who is crossing a tightrope up high that wasn’t there before, balancing the bowling pins and bowling ball from Dorian’s act on her outstretched arms in two precarious towers. 

There’s a final moment of relief as the spotlight follows her, in silence, across the tightrope. It is more of a quiet exercise in introspection than it is a gravity-defying act. As she is suspended in the air by only a rope and her balance, the audience, too, has their disbelief suspended with the knowledge that Sybil isn’t known to play games she can’t win. She will meet the end of the tightrope as easily as she met the beginning of the tightrope. But it is doubt that makes the journey through the middle of the tightrope tantalizing, the .01% of uncertainty that removes absolute perfection as easily as 10% would. It isn’t hers. The doubt could only belong to the envious onlookers, whose everyday lives are so infinitesimal with doubt, made so microscopic with every fluctuation between black and white and even more minute whenever wrong crosses paths with right, that the grains spill out and manifest as bias. If Ringmistress Sybil of Miracle Circus could only teeter to the left a bit, not even fall, but just give her onlookers the sharp inflation of a gasp into their pudgy stomachs and thus succumb to their doubt shamelessly, then absolutism could be abolished and absurdism may abscond. 

Peterkin’s hope for his mother to make a mistake shines the brightest of them all. He doesn’t live in a reality of crooked lines or scraped knees or spilled half-empty cups of milk. There is no vicarious escapism for him at Miracle Circus. As he was telling Dorian earlier, he didn’t pay to get in, just as he didn’t ask to be the son of a ringmistress, and thus a refund wouldn’t be possible. And if he’s not the consumer and he’s not the producer, process of elimination would have it that he’s the product. Peterkin hopes to gain some form of pleasure from the show dedicated to him, to prove that he can be a consumer, but he can only indulge in schadenfreude when it comes to the pure black matriarchal shadow he lives in. 

Peterkin can only be disappointed, but at the same time, impressed by the true ending. Not amazed, but impressed. Ringmistress Sybil places every high-heeled step in front of the other with the same ease and poise and deadset intent that brought Miracle Circus to its current prestige. That’s what Sybil tells Peterkin magic is derived from: ease and poise and deadset intent, especially intent. She tells him that one doesn’t try to pull a rabbit from a hat—one does pull a rabbit from a hat and both the rabbit and the hat are made from magic. All magic is intentional, she says, and she also says that nobody’s intent is stronger than hers. She crosses the tightrope from start to end without a wand because she’s so good at magic she doesn’t even need it. She is impervious to the sabotages of her worst enemies and the ill intents of her closest loved ones. 

The breath everyone else had been holding is released, but not Peterkin’s. When Sybil is at the end of her rope and the bowling pins and bowling ball balanced on her arms vanish into nothingness, Peterkin is still suffocating within the vortex of an airless tornado because his doubts continue to bloom as plentifully as a meadow of pink daffodils. Sybil’s path, both across the tightrope and to success, was a straight line. She was so good that she became the best; that much is dumbfoundingly simple. Outside of that strict straight line, Peterkin thinks he sees an extraneous dot: a careless residue of a careless pencil stroke. He only thinks he sees it, but it doesn’t appear in isolation. Like stars in the night sky, the harder he looks, the more of them he sees. 

Peterkin remembers himself suddenly surrounded by fountains and bubbles. 

And he recalls the warm weight of Dorian’s hand on his shoulders. 

And he also wonders why someone trying to sabotage the show wouldn’t have taken that perfect opportunity to shoot Ringmaster Sybil down during that unguarded lapse of time between the beginning and the end of the rope, because even Sybil has admitted to Peterkin that it’s faster to shoot a gun than to pull a wand out. 

But Sybil isn’t an Impressionist, she’s a perfectionist. She wouldn’t dapple her pure white canvas with ugly little dots, yet Peterkin is seeing the work of another artist, and that artist can only communicate in dots, like Braille constellations warning Peterkin of the wool over his eyes. 

The roar of applause dims down before Peterkin gains the capacity to register it. Sybil’s voice announces, “And there you have it, folks! The conclusion of the first act of Peterkin’s Show: ‘Peterkin’s Show’s First Act’! We’ll be back shortly after intermission!” 

Light fills the Big Top. The usual chatter and stretching of limbs and hurrying to get to the snack bar before the intermission is delayed. No one can deny that an intermission felt deserved after such an odd, eventful first act, but it is only after the first act and it hasn’t been specified how long the intermission will be. Miracle Circus has defied yet another expectation. Ringmistress Sybil can declare intermissions whenever she wants and for however long she wants. 

The boy in Seat 14 isn’t shy of expressing his surprise, again. “What!” he exclaims. 

Peterkin isn’t sure who the boy is trying to address, anymore, because he and the boy are total strangers and the boy didn’t seem to expect any kind of response. As the only willing witness to the boy’s outburst, he felt obliged to take his exclamation as a conversation-starter. “What?” Peterkin asks, and a part of him hopes that the boy is frustrated for the same reason he is. Peterkin wanted to believe that the non-sequitur dots he saw in Sybil’s tightrope act weren’t invisible to the sane. 

“I was trying to—she just—why couldn’t I—” 

The boy trails off into a strangled scream. In the light, Peterkin can now see the boy’s features clearly: round almond eyes, a stout nose, and a nervous, frowning expression that looked to be his default. He’s thin, and it would seem to anyone else that his figure is simply good genetics, but as someone who’s known him for more than five minutes, Peterkin can already guess that weight is hard to stick on a boy who’s always burning calories with his tenseness. Every line on his body seems to be tapering inwards, like he’s constantly collapsing in on himself. More prominent to Peterkin is the crimson red pocket square in his suit jacket and a wand clenched in his left fist. 

The pocket square inexplicably catches Peterkin’s eye more than the wand does, although there should be no reason for a magician in the audience to have his wand out during another magician’s performance. Peterkin recognizes that shade of crimson red as Phantasm Red, and so he begins to connect some dots. The wand should have been a deader giveaway, but the conclusion is still the same. The boy in Seat 14 was trying to sabotage Sybil during her tightrope act and couldn’t, even though she was wandless. 

Experimentally, he taps a bouquet of roses into his hand, then taps it away. 

“You’re the son of Ringmistress Sybil,” he says to Peterkin, but also more to himself. “Tell me, can magic go defective?” 

“Um… Uh… I don’t know?” The real answer is no, magic is always intentional and always in control of the magician, but Peterkin isn’t good with being put on the spot. He tries to muster a more coherent response. “I think it has to be your intent.” 

“What about my intent?” the boy demands. 

“It’s—I don’t know, but it comes from your intent. I’m sorry.” 

“What are you saying sorry for?” 

“I don’t know.” 

Peterkin turns to leave, but he’s met face-to-face with the elusive blond he had been trying to track down all night. Peterkin grabs him roughly by the shoulders and shakes him. 

“Ralph!” Peterkin yells. “Where have you been?” 

“Cheater, cheater, Peterkin-eater,” Ralph sings to him. He brushes Peterkin’s hands off of him. “Nice show, isn’t it? All for you and all. Some odd parts, but I’d say that’s fitting for a show with your name in it. And you’ve got the best seat in the house.” 

Peterkin lets Ralph avoid the question. He knows he can’t enforce any consequences. All the responsibility, but none of the authority. “Just take your seat back, already.” 

“Who’s to say it’s my seat? It looks like it’s yours. Your show, your seat. All for you.” 

“You can take my seat if you’d like,” the boy with the Phantasm Red pocket square offers. “I’m done trying to sabotage the show.” He picks up Peterkin’s hand, pries open Peterkin’s fingers, and places his wand in Peterkin’s palm. “You can have my wand, even. I’m certainly not putting it to good use. I don’t have the right intent, or something.” 

Peterkin watches the boy excuse himself as he crosses the row, disappearing into the crowd going upstream for kettle corn refills. At his hands is a shiny black steel wand with Phantasm Red tips. Engraved in gold, is a declaration of ownership: Property of Phantasm Circus™. It’s weighted heavily on the end with the engravement.  

“You just let the kid next to you try to sabotage the show?” Ralph asks. 

“I didn’t notice!” Peterkin says. 

Ralph laughs at that and holds onto Peterkin for support while mirth wets his eyes. “Of course you didn’t! Who can ruin a Miracle Circus show? Only a Miracle Circus magician, right?” 

“Right…” 

“Right!”

All is right with Ralph returned. Ralph can disappear but not be lost, can have his seat taken and then have another one offered, and break the rules without getting into trouble. In that way, Peterkin thinks Ralph to be more of a Miracle Circus magician than himself: impervious. He sees, in Ralph, the same easy balance that brought Ringmistress Sybil across the tightrope. There is no doubt that the rest of the show will continue smoothly, with Ralph now sitting in Section E, Row 5, Seat 14. And if there is, the doubt can only belong to Peterkin. 

Slowly, the lights flicker on and off to signal that intermission is ending. The bleachers refill steadily. Peterkin slumps into Seat 12 and a half and laments, in his head, that the second act won’t be nearly as interesting as the first. No risk, no stakes, no bad guys to root for. Peterkin thinks a tone shift into the usual perfection would be too discontinuous. And isn’t the show “Peterkin’s Show”, not “A Show For Peterkin”? Meaning, the show belongs to him. With a Phantasm wand, he might be able to turn his doubt into certainty. 

The Phantasm wand has a nice weight in Peterkin’s hand. It’s heavier and much more solid than a Miracle Circus wand, with a tip that follows the flow of its path smoothly, like dragging a finger across a lake’s surface. It feels more like a weapon than an instrument and Peterkin intends to take advantage of that. 

The lights dim, then go pitch black. A rooster cries out, then a pink spotlight illuminates Sybil and Dorian, hanging off of either side of a swinging trapeze. At his lap, Peterkin slices his new wand horizontally. The trapeze’s strings are cut. Sybil screams—she actually screams out of undeniable fear and everyone hears it. Her illusion of invincibility has shattered and everyone sees it in how fast gravity works on her. Even the best circus magician to ever exist is subservient to the laws of physics. 

In those few seconds where all of Sybil’s weight is working against her and plummeting her helplessly towards the ground, Peterkin finds certainty. It’s the same certainty he recognizes from when he lost Ralph—the certainty that he is a very bad person and everything is his fault. He didn’t have to do that. He really shouldn’t have. 

But she recovers quickly, with a frilly pink parasol with enough air resistance to float her gently to the bottom. That makes Peterkin feel even worse. He discovers how shallow his regret was when Sybil arrives safely on the ground, but the only cure for his chagrin is to try again at matricide. And what if he fails again? Or what if he succeeds? Peterkin doesn’t see a happy ending in witnessing the rest of Peterkin’s Show, which is really just A Show For Peterkin and not A Show Belonging To Peterkin. 

Peterkin makes like a banana peel and slips away. 

--- 

For everyone’s safety, Dorian takes care to rush all the circus-goers out of the gates as soon as the Big Top show is over. The premiere was a disaster, by Miracle Circus standards. Dorian knows how bothered Sybil must be. First impressions are everything. And to make their first impression for the season a sabotaged show dedicated to young Peterkin—if Dorian were superstitious, he would fear a similar corruption to occur in or involving Peterkin, during his 12 and a halfth summer… 

But Dorian isn’t superstitious, because according to the Magician’s Code, superstition is for witches. The ringmasters of Miracle Circus do not fear a bad premiere out of some contrived, non-sequitur correlation to the events for the rest of their season. They fear a bad premiere only due to their miraculously high standards. 

Dorian leads Miracle Circus’ lovely fans off the premises like a pied paper, schedules an exclusive interview with the Cirque du Chronicles reporters addressing the future of their season in their current economic climate, and prepares a sweet cup of mint tea before knocking on Sybil’s dressing room door. With magic, it all only takes him five minutes total. Three of those minutes were spent preparing the tea. Even the best magical skill a Miracle Circus magician possesses cannot replace the care spent in preparing anything drinkable or edible. A magician’s magic is simply not capable of conjuring anything drinkable or edible. Thus, all snacks and beverages at Miracle Circus have zero calories, for they are but well-crafted illusions no other circus is capable of: from the crunch of a caramel apple to the tangy splash of pink lemonade. True food magic is impossible. 

When Dorian knocks thrice on the grand cherry wood door, the door reveals its true nature and shatters into paper-thin shards of glass that have been deceptively painted with the facsimile of a grand cherry wood door. Beyond the remaining shards of the door is Sybil, sitting at a vanity mirror lit with red bulbs. The lights dye all it reaches the color of candy apples and ladybug wings, of lipstick and rubies, of blood and a dozen passionate red roses yearning to be cradled with the affectionate touch of someone enamored by true love. Phantasm has their own bright bastardization of red copyrighted, but this shade, as deep as the ocean and as rich as the Blimerance fortune and as true as an infant’s unfiltered babble, has been owned by Sybil as soon as it touched her. It isn’t a frivolous claim for the sake of competitive branding. The fact is inherent in her dark gaze at her reflection, which sees past the mere self-image in front of her and into a truth Dorian may never know. 

Then, the color changes to cyan. 

Then, the color changes to banana yellow. 

“Remember when we thought it would be a good idea to have a light-based show? And then your ex-wife had to save us from the lawsuits?” Sybil asks. “We were so close to folding.” 

Begrudgingly, Dorian recalls that show: “In Full Technicolor”. Show concepts were much simpler back then. They played improv with crystal prisms and refracting light beams and gave every spectator a complimentary pair of sunglasses. But having to pay for a hundred hospital bills wasn’t nearly as humiliating as having to explain to a much younger Ralph that, no, Daddy wasn’t visiting Mommy because they loved each other again. Daddy was begging Mommy for help because Daddy and Auntie Sybil induced seizures at their circus show. Somehow, Miracle Circus survived, on the basis that epilepsy fell under the umbrella of the impossible, the fantastic, and the miraculous. 

Being on the forefront of innovation means taking risks. It was the first circus show to rely primarily on light manipulation. Miracle Circus used to show off the magical prowess of their ringmasters by demonstrating their mastery in every magic skill ever thought of: light manipulation, sound manipulation, space manipulation, animal summoning, botanokinesis, pyrokinesis, hydrokinesis, aerokinesis… Everything that magic was capable of, they mastered it and focused a show on it. There were enough magic skills to last them an entire season of shows. In Full Technicolor taught them that too much raw power was dangerous, though. That was when Sybil and Dorian discovered the true advantage of illusions, and that was sensory manipulation. No more seizures if your body doesn’t perceive the flashing lights as a disregulatory signal. 

“We came out of that stronger than ever,” Dorian reminds her. “We always will.” 

“Oh, save your pretty words for the press!” Sybil scoffs. The lights return to red. She stands up from her armchair and approaches Dorian. Although her high heels are off, her shorter stature does nothing to diminish her domineering presence. “That second-act-sabotage caught us both off-guard. With our wands in our hands. While we were already expecting a sabotage! How is that possible, Dorian?” The lights flicker. “Answer me that, Mr. Blimerance!” 

Dorian winces at the flickering light. With a simple flick of his wand, he changes the light to bright white. He would’ve gotten sick if he had to tolerate those flickering lights any longer. Though he fears Sybil, and rightfully so, he is not scared of her. He hands her the steaming hot cup of mint tea. 

“It’s impossible,” Dorian answers. “It’s fantastic. It’s miraculous.” 

“We’ve been out-miracled in our own Big Top.” Sybil sips on the ice cold tea. She dumps it out. “And by Phantasm, at that. They’re not even world class!” She tosses the porcelain tea cup over her shoulder without a care. It poofs away. 

“Sybil… do you realize what that means?” 

Sybil nods. 

They grab each other by the shoulders. 

Their smiles are wide and gleeful. 

“A witch hunt!” they declare in unison. 

--- 

After the show, Ralph wanders around the empty circus grounds just as he did before the show. He calls it walking a mile in Peterkin’s shoes. In Ralph’s mind’s eye, Miracle Circus is a bright wonder of endless amusements, always teeming with toothy smiles and boisterous laughter. He thinks of Miracle Circus and its sweets that never give you a stomachache; he thinks of colored fire that won’t burn you; he thinks of water that doesn’t soak your clothes. 

He thinks of his father ruffling Peterkin’s hair as if Peterkin were his own son. 

He thinks of Auntie Sybil denouncing all lesser magicians.

He thinks of infinity. 

Before tonight, Ralph has never thought to see Miracle Circus in its rawest form: a collection of tents. Sybil and Doran don’t produce the tents until the very second before the circus opens—thus, the only time to see the circus empty is during the Big Top show. Only Peterkin would ever think to ditch a Miracle Circus Big Top show and Ralph wants to get closer to how Peterkin thinks. Ralph’s hypothesis is that understanding Peterkin will help him understand why he’s lesser than Peterkin. 

The circus is suddenly inanimate. Usually, the circus would’ve stopped existing as soon as the circus-goers left, and usually the circus-goers also wouldn’t be gone by now. Ralph has a lucky second chance at experiencing what Peterkin feels when he’s ditching a Big Top show, but this time, it feels different. The circus isn’t simply empty, because an empty circus feels like a relief after pushing through crowds all day. It’s desolate. Ralph has never noticed it before, but there’s an energy in Miracle Circus that is now missing that reminds him of the protective gaze of a parent while they’re watching their child at the playground. Miracle Circus is dead without Sybil and Dorian, whose ambition to be the best is the lifeblood of the circus. 

Ralph walks through a few tents looking for either his father or Auntie Sybil. The circus is smaller and easier to navigate now that it’s not constantly rearranging itself. He visits all of his favorite tents, the clock-related ones, and notices all the clocks in the clock-related tents are hours off and out of sync. He assumes it’s one of Phantasm’s petty attempts at sabotage and moves on to the other tents: the Tent of Vibrations and Storms, the Tent of Waterfalls and Canyons, the Tent of Temperature and Mercury, the Tent of Spring and Jumping, and many other tents that seem as if their themes were lazily pulled out of a hat at random. 

Ralph has never had so much trouble finding the two ringmasters before. They like having their presences known, but now, they seem to be in hiding. He closes his eyes and tries to hone in on whatever energy he can pick up on. It’s a witchy method, because really you shouldn’t be able to sense someone’s presence unless through supernatural means, but he does swear he can usually feel Dorian and Sybil’s presence. Any half-smart magician is aware of the sheer power they radiate. 

He opens his eyes and heads toward the Tent of Void and Nothingness (one of the empty tents). He thinks Sybil is in there, though he has no proof other than a vague feeling. 

“Auntie Sybil?” Ralph calls out. Ralph pushes through the flaps of the black-and-white-striped canvas. It’s dark, but not pitch black. He makes out Peterkin’s small frame, made smaller by the fact that he was curled into himself, sitting with his head buried into his knees. “Oh. It’s you.” 

Ralph shivers. He gives out a long exhale to test the coldness in the tent and it comes out in a white cloud of condensation. It’s summer in the rest of the circus besides the tent he has entered. He thinks it odd. The empty tents in Miracle Circus are supposed to have no magical effects on them. But anything is possible in Miracle Circus, so there’s no way to be sure of any anomalies. It could be another one of Sybil’s pranks. 

Peterkin lifts his head up. “Hi, Ralph.” 

“Where’s my father and your mother?” 

“What do you mean? They’re just around.” 

Peterkin is right; the circus can’t exist without Sybil and Dorian around. Ralph isn’t sure why he gets the impression they’re gone. He wants to look for them some more, but he’s scared to leave the relief of Peterkin’s presence. He sits down next to Peterkin and wonders how he’s not cold and also why he would choose such a frigid place to isolate himself in. 

Peterkin, after a long moment spent riling up the courage, finally gets around to saying what’s on his mind. “Ralph, can I ask you something?” 

“You just did.” 

“Never mind.” 

Ralph doesn’t mean to bully Peterkin. He thinks Peterkin makes it too easy. A magician shouldn’t ask to ask a question. He should simply ask it. A better magician would already know the answer, thus eliminating the need for asking unless for rhetorical purposes, but they had the excuse of youth to fall on. Although Ralph knows he is not the better magician, he takes responsibility as the older magician. He must lend his wisdom. 

“Tell me what you want to ask,” Ralph demands. 

“I wanted to ask what happens if you’re a witch.”

Ralph hesitates. His first instinct is to call Peterkin stupid, but he’s trying to be nicer to Peterkin and also it’s not Peterkin’s fault he doesn’t know. He’s surprised his father hasn’t told Peterkn, yet. After all, Peterkin gets to see Dorian all year round. Ralph is only 30% Dorian’s son, but Peterkin is 100% Sybil’s son, and Dorian and Sybil—they’re contractually bound together. That contract is more soul-binding than Ralph’s parents’ marriage ever was. 

With Ralph’s surprise comes pride. It gives him the reassurance he’s been looking for that he is his father’s son. A Blimerance. His mom almost had him change his last name to her maiden name after the divorce, but decided it would be too troubling for his paperwork. Ralph thought convenience was the only reason he stayed a Blimerance, until now, with his heritage shining through his unique connection to the history of witches, a connection that Peterkin lacks. 

“Do you know how the Blimerances came to their affluence?” Ralph asks. 

“I don’t know. Stealing from the poor?” Peterkin guesses. 

“What! No! The Blimerances were the best witch-hunters, back when this country was still a collection of colonies. And they were so good that witches don’t exist anymore. The end!” 

“But what happens if you find a witch nowadays?” 

“You’d burn ‘em at the stake, of cour—oh, what are you crying for?” 

“That’s awful! Why should we kill anyone?” 

“You don’t get it, Peterkin.” Ralph tries to phrase himself as if he’s speaking to a child, which he is. “Witches are bad. Their magic has gone corrupted from their ill intent. They hurt people, Peterkin. Magic isn’t for hurting people! It’s for making miracles. That’s why we have to get rid of witches, so they don’t hurt anyone. And they’re already gone, so what’s there to cry about? There’s nothing to cry about.” 

“You think I need a reason to cry? I don’t!” 

Ralph listens to Peterkin cry himself out in the empty tent, as he had many summers before. The temperature continues to drop. He expects, at any second, for the tent to poof away and for the summer air to coalesce into the cold air around them, but the night sky above them is never revealed. It’s anomalous, though that in of itself was also a part of the routine. Sybil and Dorian are hiding somewhere, brewing up another innovative spectacle, and then Miracle Circus will monopolize the circus industry so triumphantly that every other circus will fold in shame. 

[player-0ne]

Mario For A Day - Prologue

Pairing: Peach x Pauline

Chapter Rating: T for Teen, nothing risque here

Story Rating: E for Explicit

Summary: Mario gets sick one day, and so he asks Pauline for a favor. Pauline very quickly realizes that she may be out of her league. This fic will most likely be rated M or E once future chapters are uploaded.

A03

Mario had been outstandingly helpful to Pauline when she had needed him the most, and so she was perfectly happy to return the favor when he wound up getting sick. After all, his immediate work was completely okay with him missing a day, and so all that she really needed to do was make sure that nothing in the Mushroom Kingdom caught on fire while he wasn’t looking. With Peach being a perfectly competent woman, Pauline thought that she had a pretty easy job. She was wrong.

Almost as soon as she was ready to get some of her other work done, she received a letter that had been sent to Mario and then re-addressed to her. Inside were two folded pieces of paper. One of them was pastel pink with very neat, small handwriting on it, and she chose this one first. It read:

“Dear Mario, I thought that it would be nice if we spent some time together. Would you like to chat over tea and cake? Princess Peach.”

Pauline blanched. It was a little unprofessional of Mario to send his girlfriend’s love letters to his ex-girlfriend. Unless… He did say to watch over the mushroom kingdom. Did he really want her to go on a date with his girlfriend? Was that what his idea of “filling in for me” entailed? Pauline shook her head, before her attention was grabbed by the next piece of paper. It was old and yellowed, and had Mario’s familiar handwriting on it. Pauline opened it up, taking a look.

“Dear Pauline, Every single time that I have ever gotten a letter from Peach asking that we go on a date, she’s been abducted. Seriously, every single time, without falter. I know that it’s a lot to ask, but could you just pay her a visit? Say it’s from me, thanks Mario.”

Pauline read and reread the letter, confused. So… he expected her to go hang out with his girlfriend whom she had never met. It was a lot to ask, but she supposed that she could understand his concern. Getting abducted was traumatizing, and she’d hate for that to happen to anyone, even Peach. She was thoroughly confused despite this. Was she supposed to bring anything? Should she just�� show up? Eventually, she just decided to do Mario a huge solid and bring Peach some red roses, claiming that they were from him. That way, she also wouldn’t come empty handed.

When Pauline arrived at Peach’s castle, it was not without mild confusion from its residents. On second thought, strutting up to her front door with a bouquet of roses would look a little weird out of context. Toad still greeted her, and she explained why she was there, so he showed her to the room where Peach awaited. She didn’t know why, but she felt… uncomfortable.

Knocking politely on the princess’s door, she immediately realized why she felt uncomfortable.

“Come in,” chimed a voice. It was innocent but there were still some rather… implicit undertones, and suddenly, Pauline was not really sure that she wanted to come in. I mean the woman was waiting for Mario in her private quarters, anticipating a long period of time spent alone together. Pauline felt very, very out of her element. Regardless, she did as she was told, politely opening the door with an apologetic look.

“Mario sends his apologies-” she began, before looking at the room in front of her. Or rather, the woman in the room in front of her. Peach was… well, she was… something. Pauline politely looked away, blushing a little out of civility.

“Sorry, princess,” she said, “Mario sent me to see you. He’s sick today, you see…”

“And he sent you?” asked the woman. Her voice didn’t sound demeaning, just curious. Still, Pauline wished that Peach would get into a different position. It simply wasn’t decent, her entire calf was showing.

“Yes,” she responded, still looking away, “he wanted to make sure that you were okay. He said that in the past, sometimes your letters were cries for help, so he wanted me to check on you.”

“That’s sweet,” was the response, “I really was just looking to have some time with him, though. Thank you for coming on his behalf.” Pauline nodded.

“It’s no problem,” she said, finally returning her gaze to the woman. Sure, she was still a little exposed, but they were both girls, “anyway, he brought you some roses.” She closed the distance between the two of them, carefully handing the bouquet to Peach.

“He did?” Peach seemed skeptical, before smiling absently “that’s unusual.”

“If you really are fine then I’ll just take my leave now,” Pauline continued, taking a step back, “I’ll tell Mario you liked the roses and that you’re doing well.”

“You could stay for cake if you liked,” offered Peach, looking up at Pauline with a smile that she couldn’t really read.

“I’m… sorry?” asked Pauline.

“Well it would be a shame to let it go to waste, and I’m certainly not going to eat it all by myself,” responded Peach, standing up, “besides, it’ll be a chance to get to know you better.” Pauline really did not want to stay.

“I mean, I’ve still got to do a lot of paperwork for New Donk City-” she began, cut off abruptly.

“You should stay,” Peach insisted, softly but in a way that made Pauline think that she might not have any other option, “I think I’ll like your company.”

“Princess…” managed Pauline, utterly confused.

“Please,” chimed the woman, already headed to her balcony, “call me Peach.” Pauline could do nothing but follow her.

[lonelypond]

Casual Lunacy, Chapter 3

Love Live, NicoMaki main pairing, 2K, chapter 3/?

En-Thrall-Ed

Maki ditched Rin and Hanayo as soon as they got near campus and ran home, transforming in the shed and letting herself in the backdoor. Her mother was in bed, her father had been called in to St.Joseph’s. But sleep wasn’t even lurking. She sat in the TV room, music videos running on the screen, twisting Nico’s scarf between her hands. Not a strong Nico smell and someone else’s mixed in slightly, a recent gift maybe...but there was still the trace of peach and vanilla and musk and magic that had become something she searched for whenever she went outside.

“Maki?” Her mother stood in the doorway, bathrobe wrapped around her nightgown.

“Was the music too loud?” Maki stretched for the remote, muting some random K-Pop group.

“A little.” Her mother smiled, “but I’m glad to see you.”

“Yeah,” Maki returned to her default sprawl along the couch’s length, “We’ve both been busy.”

“Out for a prowl tonight?” her mother wondered.

Maki blushed, dipping her head, “Just a brief one.”

“Be careful. And be discreet.” Maki had gotten the same warning in the same strict tone ever since her first transformation at the age of eight.

Pacing back and forth in front of Cup o’ probably didn’t meet her mother’s definition of discreet but Maki just opted to nod and smile, unmuting the TV while her mom searched her non communicative daughter’s face and posture for any cues.

“How is your Cognitive Psychology class?” Maki’s mother decided to take this rare moment as an opportunity.

Maki shrugged, “The cognitive aspects are more interesting than the social so it’s an improvement on last quarter.”

“Are you really interested in Psychology?” Her mother made certain to drain any judgement out of her voice as Maki seemed in a talkative mood.

“With the headache clinic, Papa spends so much time talking about how people’s actions affect their health, I thought it might be beneficial to get some insights into behavioral sciences.”

“But do you enjoy it?”

Maki wondered what her mother wanted her to say. The most honest answer would be ‘not as much as music, but I know I’m expected to pick some scientific major to become the latest Dr. Nishikino in the long line of doctoring Nishikinos’. But this was only her freshman year, Maki still had a few quarters to play the piano, take a music composition class occasionally and dabble her way through sciences until one of them called to her like music -- or the moon.

“I’ll probably take my stats class next quarter and knock off a Distribution requirement in Anthropology. I think there’s an ethnomusicology one being offered.”

“Sounds like you have a plan.”

Maki yawned, starting to feel the run in her muscles, “I’m going to take a hot shower.”

“Good night, Maki.” Her mother smiled fondly as her daughter slowly rose from the couch. “I’m glad you’re home.”

  Nico hadn’t run into any obstacles, furry or otherwise, on her way to rehearsal this afternoon. She wasn’t on the call sheet, but she wanted to get a feel for the production and today, they were working on the choreography for the Jonathan Harker and the Three Sisters big confrontation scene. Micah Ling, the actor playing her character’s fiancee, Harker, was a friend of Nico’s. They’d been in a few ensembles together.

Nico recognized a certain dark haired woman lurking in the back row and slid next to her, voice an admonitory whisper, “You can’t just come to rehearsals to ogle the dancers, Nozomi.”

Nozomi raised an eyebrow and put on the sweet smile that had never once tricked Nico about the depths of dark truths Nozomi was willing to push, “You’re here as well, Nico-chi.”

Nico slouched in her seat, smugly confident, “Micah invited me. We’re helping each other.” Nico tapped the armrest between her and Nozomi to make sure she had the green eyed gossip’s attention, “I’m mostly here to pick up tips on how the dancers express being under Dracula’s thrall.”

“Thrall....” Nozomi drawled.

“Thrall.” Nico countered, decisively.

Nozomi giggled, “Oh, Nico-chi, you’re so amusing.”

Nico shrugged, watching the three women on stage weave around Micah, wondering which one Nozomi was here stalking. As far as she could tell, Nozomi didn’t have a type, unless it were easily embarrassed so Nozomi could have as much fun as possible teasing them. Nico had had to intervene when Nozomi had gone to far with Umi one night and now if she wanted to see Nozomi, Nico went to her place. Umi had a long memory.

“Speaking of ogling, how’s your new friend, Nico-chi?” Nozomi’s voice had her usual mocking undertone.

Nico was paying close attention to the dancers so her reply was matter of fact. “Princess? She ended up at Cup o’ last night, but I still haven’t met her owner. Just two goofy girls who might know the owner.”

 Nozomi turned around in her seat, “You really did meet a dog?”

 Nico chuckled, “And she is a pretty redhead.”

Nozomi stared at Nico, genuinely puzzled, and then the tallest dancer, a lithe blonde crawled to the front of the stage, her movements long, slow and seductive, and Nico smirked at how fast her friend dropped their conversation. Crush mystery solved. Cue Nico’s chance to bait.

“I didn’t know you liked blondes, Nozo?”

Nozomi hissed out of the side of her mouth at Nico, hand gripping the armrest, “Her name’s Eli, she’s in my Economics of Gender class and she never gets a question wrong.”

Obviously not the crush of just a moment so Nico let herself get absorbed in the action happening onstage. How did one cue the audience to ‘under vampiric thrall?”

 Maki had to eat lunch, she was starved and the dorm cafeteria was the closest but that meant Rin. Maybe if she just grabbed some cereal and ran, she could avoid her intrusive, seemingly caring friend.

Nope. Maki set foot on the stairs leading to the dorm and she felt someone grab her in a hug. Rin.

“Maki Maki Maki. Your barista is so cute.” Rin shouted.

Maki pried Rin off, “Shut it, Rin. She’s not my barista. We’re not even friends. She’s just interesting. A little.”

“I bet Princess wants Nico to take her for a walk.” Rin pushed Maki into the line.

“What, like Hanayo does with you?” But Maki’s attempt at withering scorn was ruined when Rin nodded eagerly, excited by the idea.

“Rin and Maki can play and Nico and Kayochin can talk. It’d be awesome.”

Maki groaned. Needling Rin about how she behaved around Hanayo never had any traction. They just orbited each other in a state of mutual adoration that deflected any harassment or criticism by others. But Rin wouldn’t understand ‘discreet.’ Maki stopped and dragged Rin out of line, letting her eyes go full werewolf glow green to impress upon Rin the seriousness of her next statement, “Nico can never know about us, Rin.”

 “But…” Rin’s green eyes dimmed.

“Never.”

“She seems nice.” Rin pleaded as Maki’s grip on her arm tightened enough to bruise.

“Rin.” Maki snarled again, loud enough to draw attention, eyes commanding agreement from Rin.

“Okay, Maki.” Rin hung her head, and looked so sad Maki was sure Rin understood the gravity of the situation. “But Rin was excited about a new friend.”

Maki’s tried to make her voice soothing as she released Rin, “Friend, yes, but you know we can’t trust just anyone.”

Rin nodded and Maki felt a surge of empathy. Rin was so close to her animal side that it was hard for the smaller girl to hide it. Without Hanayo, Maki didn’t know what Rin would do. The other two girls had met in elementary school. Hanayo had witnessed Rin transform at the age of 5 and been by her side ever since. Maki wondered what it would be like to have someone she could rely on like that in her life.

“Let’s get lunch,” Maki pushed Rin back toward the line.

 Lunch, check. No class for another hour. Maki would have to remember to reserve a practice room for afternoons like this. Rin had gone off to her classes; Hanayo had an appointment with her advisor. The snow on the Lakefill was still fresh and relatively crisp to walk through...Maki had fun jumping into larger drifts, dragging her boots through and enjoying the sun as she drifted in the direction of Norris.

Nico...musk, peach, vanilla, magic, coffee, so close...just left Norris? Maki felt herself drawn in that direction and pushed through a snowbank, only to trip over a student veering into her path. Maki stumbled forward and realized a surprised Nico was practically in her arms, also suddenly aware that she’d caused Nico’s coffee to spill. Now Maki’s fisherman’s sweater had coffee beading off it.

Nico’s voice snapped, “So you drink coffee but you don’t want anyone else to?”

Maki was still thrown off by the sudden appearance of Nico and found herself muttering an indecipherable excuse as the shorter woman, enveloped in a voluminous white quilted parka, brushed some of the liquid off Maki’s sweater with a pink mittened hand.

Nico laughed, “Nico is kidding, Maki, student, coffee, black, fancy mansion, serious sweater. But you do owe Nico a coffee now.”

Maki met Nico’s eyes, the smaller woman gleamed at her and reached out to yank her back Norris-ward. “Ok.” Maki managed to squeak out.

“Enthusiasm, I like that.” Nico kept towing and teasing as Maki found herself tripping along.

Get it together, Nishikino, she told herself, ask a question, “Do you have a class, N...N...Nico?”

“No. Music rehearsal later for the play later. Nico stopped by to watch one of the other scenes and think about how to play someone under a thrall.”

Thrall? Maki wondered what exactly the play was about? Werewolf form wasn’t the best for retaining details and nuances, but Maki couldn’t remember if Nico had said what she was doing.

“Thrall?” Maki stepped ahead to open the student center door for Nico who nodded gratefully as she swept past.

“Didn’t I tell you? Oh, I hadn’t gotten the part yet, that night. Dracula bites Nico and Nico is in a trance.”

“Bites?” Nico kept rushing through words and Maki found herself getting a bit dizzy from the storyboard of visuals her brain was creating as she struggled to keep up with Nico’s trajectory toward the Dunkin Donuts counter.

“Oh, no actual biting. Or fluid exchange. Nico is very careful.” Nico glanced speculatively at Maki, “Nico skipped the donut last time.”

Maki pulled out her wallet and ordered, “Two coffees and two donuts, one, toasted coconut, one…?” She turned to Nico.

“Strawberry frosted please. And make my coffee a medium in a large cup.”

Maki watched the server put a very pink donut on a napkin. “Nothing should be that pink.”

“Nico is that pink.”

“On the inside, yes, after eating that.” Maki moved to a table at the window looking out over the Lakefill. “Like a mutant.”

Nico snorted as she slid across from Maki, “Nico is 100% Cute Girl ™ .”

Maki took a bite of her donut, watching as Nico poured creamer into her coffee, lots of creamer. That explained the larger cup. “Do you even like coffee?”

“Shush, serious sweater girl. Nico is a professional and knows what she’s doing.” And Nico winked. Then they both started sipping their coffee, with Maki yelping at the heat on her lip. She refused Nico’s offer of creamer to dilute the coffee, but did hold the chilled metal container against her lip.

“That’s embarrassing. And unhygienic.” Nico chided.

Maki let her eyes go wide, “But it hurts.”

“There we go with the pouty puppy eyes. Now I really recognize you.” Nico stole a chunk of Maki’s donut. “So do you have a class soon?”

“Probably in a half hour. Freshman seminar.”

“Oh, WCAS.”

“Yep.” Maki put down the creamer and tried her coffee again. Drinkable.

“Nico is a theatre major.”

 “Northwestern’s a good school for it.” Maki remembered hearing that sometime.

“Exactly. The only one.” Nico slammed her coffee cup down, “Nico was expecting to be in LA by now, but Fangs is the opportunity Nico was waiting for.”

“F...fangs…” Maki spit her coffee out and Nico grabbed a napkin to clean the table between them, frowning.

“Fangs...the play Nico is starring in. Don’t you pay attention to what’s going on on campus?”

“No.” Maki said flatly, amused by how Nico’s mouth dropped open.

Nico made a fairly random and highly amusing exasperated noise, Maki couldn’t help grinning, canine tooth peeking out. Nico glowered at her audience’s disrespect. “Nico has to run but stop by Cup o’ tomorrow night and Nico will explain the variety of arts this campus offers.” Nico pfffffed, her cheeks puffed out. “Freshmen.”

“Maybe.” Maki winked, Nico shook her head, corner of her mouth almost quirked into a smile.

“Thanks for the donut, Maki.” Nico air kissed and ran off, leaving Maki with half a coconut crusted donut she didn’t actually want to eat. Fangs. Vampire. Nico. More visuals to process.

A/N I like terrible puns. Share some (ʃƪ¬‿¬)

Casual Lunacy is now officially set at my alma mater, since I don't have time to research or make up another college, but it is definitely an AU Northwestern,as I haven't been back in awhile. Theatre department details are mostly my invention as I spent most of my time between Lakefill, library and books related to Shakespeare, Poe and whatever I was researching outside of classes any particular quarter.

Thanks for reading and for those of you who might miss her, Princess is eager for her return.

Comments lacking puns or poetry are also gladly accepted d(-_^)

[sageslays]

Hello Beauty Babes!

I just got back from a much needed vacation to Orlando, which somehow I feel like I needed a vacation to recover from the vacation. Disney is no joke! I swear it’s like a mad house! I don’t know about you, but the happiest place on earth is now my bed. (Or Ulta & Sephora)

So, after a few days rest, I’m back! And seriously, I couldn’t have picked a worse time to go on vacay. So much is happening in the beautyverse! I’m gonna be popping out new content like booty pops at a J-Lo concert.

As soon as I got home, I was greeted with a new Colourpop Package! So, get ready for a haul!!!

I picked up a bunch of new stuff, and I can’t wait to show you guys and share my thoughts!

First, I picked up one of the new Colourpop Concealers!!! Does anyone else dread picking out face product shades online? I always feel like there’s a shade I could’ve gotten that would be better.

But anyways, I picked up the shade Medium Tan 35. I would’ve like a more yellow tone concealer, but I think this shade will work out for me.

The packaging is pretty big compared to other concealers. It’s .14 oz (4.0g) which isn’t as much product compared to other concealers.

The texture is very smooth. It’s not too light or thick & cakey. It kind of dries to a matte finish. I’ve worn it only once since I got it so I haven’t formed a full opinion on it yet, but I didn’t have any problems wearing it.

Next I picked up one of the new Super Shock shadows recently released in Lightning Bug, which is one of the shadows in their Summer Solstice Quad.

I try to buy more different things instead of buying the same old stuff (at least a try, but I mean come on. We all have at least five lipstick colors that are the exact same but we swear are somehow different). When I saw this, I didn’t think I was going to buy it. I mean, it’s a golden eyeshadow. but I decided to get it, and I am SOOO glad I did!

This shadow is so stunning! It’s like a gorgeous piece of jewelry on your face. It’s a warm classic gold color that’s bursting with shimmery goodness. The swatches don’t do it justice! Sometimes super shock shadows can vary in pigmentation, but Lightning Bug is full of pigmentation! It’s such a great shadow I’m so excited to wear this!

I was so excited that CP came out with pressed highlighters/bronzers so I decided to pick one up!

The shade is called Boujee Call, and yes the name is why I picked it. I had high expectations for these, but because beauty babes should always be honest with each other, I’m gonna tell you guys this didn’t meet my expectations.

When I swatched this, my mind went “whomp whomp whomp”. it was dissapointing! It was clumpy and not very smooth. However, when i swatched it on my hand, it looked pretty good. I was even more suprised when I wore it. It actually looked good!

I’ll be honest, it wasn’t the smoothest highlighter, But it is wearable. I wouldn’t 100% reccomend this, but if you are curious, it isn’t a total waste of money, especially since it’s only $8

The Sun Seeker Lip Trio was another product I picked up. I really like the shades in this trio, but I was more so into this trio because of the gorgeous sparkly gloss inside!

Sizzle, an Ultra Matte warm red berry shade

Tidal, an Ultra Satin warm brown shade with red undertones

Cabana Boy, an Ultra Glossy Metallic rose gold

Sizzle is such a pretty color that’s perfect for this time of year between summer and fall. The only thing is the finish! I feel like the Ultra Satin formula is amazing for liquid lipsticks! The Ultra Matte formula for me is too matte! I’ll probably wear this with a gloss. I think Cabana Boy would look great on top of it.

Tidal is right up my alley. I love warm toned browns! This actually reminds me alot of Tansy from Colourpop! (also an Ultra Satin Lip) Putting them side by side, they do look really similar, but not the same. Tansy is a straight up yellow brown while Tidal is a warm toned brown with slight red undertones. However, I probably wouldn’t stress over buying both.

  Cabana Boy is soooo stunning! It’s a rose gold tube of fabulousness. And, like Tidal, Cabana Boy has a doppleganger of its own from Colourpop. My Jam is really similar to Cabana Boy. They even have the same colored shimmer. The difference is the base. My Jam is more gold while Cabana Boy is a rose gold. If you want to be logical, then you probably don’t need both but if you love shimmery metallic glosses like I do, then do whatever floats your boat. Colourpop does metallic shimmer glosses well. Cabana Boy & My Jam both have a great formula without any friction or discomfort.

Last but not least, I got the Ultra Matte Lip in the shade Troublemaker.

As soon as I saw this mid-tone brown peach shade, I was all into it! A lot of times, peach shades are too pink. I love how brown toned this peach shade is. Also, the brown tones are great for other WOC who love peach lip colors like me!

The only thing is that this is an Ultra Matte Lip. Really, it’s more of a preference thing, and sometimes I can wear these with no problem, but I’m really not into non-transfer stay all day super matte liquid lipsticks. I’m more into satin finish, comfortable, semi-transfer formulas, so I would probably wear this with a gloss. I actually tried this out with Smith’s Rosebud Salve on top, and I loved how it looked and felt! So if you’re like me, try using Smith’s on top or something similar to it or a gloss so it’s more wearable.

Alright you guys! That is it for this post! I’ll let you guys know how these products work out. I might even do a haul update post later on.

I’m so excited for all the new posts coming, and just to be blogging to you guys!

Keep up with me on social media so you don’t miss anything!

Snapchat @SageCatherineXO for makeup talk, swatches, hauls, and just random sage life. Snapchat is probably where I’m the most personal

Instagram @SageSlays_ for all things makeup, makeup looks, makeup news, makeup swatches, and my day to day slayage and life

Twitter @SageSlays for random thoughts and makeup news. Also, I live tweet during ratchet tv shows. 

Thanks for reading, & I’ll see you in my next post!

Stay Fierce, and Stay in Touch!

XOXO, Sage Slays

  COLOURPOP HAUL!!! Trying Out the Newest Products (Concealers, Highlighters, & More!) 😍🛍💸✨💋💁🏽 Hello Beauty Babes! I just got back from a much needed vacation to Orlando, which somehow I feel like I needed a vacation to recover from the vacation.

[anneedmonds]

Is This Lipstick Perfection?

I’ve been testing out quite a few new luxury lipstick launches and a couple of them are really quite fabulous. Comfortable, creamy, immensely flattering lipsticks that manage to retain a real punch of colour and (at least in the case of the Becca lipsticks I’m about to show you) do a good job of staying put. The first new-ish launch that impressed me no end is the Becca Ultimate Lipstick Love range and the second, the Bobbi Brown Crushed Liquid Lipsticks.

I’m going to review the Bobbi Brown lipsticks separately because they are very different to the Becca ones – they’re liquid, for a start. But I also want the Ultimate Lipstick Loves to have their own dedicated post because there’s something rather clever about them that’s rather unique. (I think.)

The clever thing is that rather than having a mass of lipstick shades covering every possible colour on the colourwheel – pale peach to deepest mauve, pearlised beige to bright blue – the new Becca range concentrates on finding your perfect nude and your ideal red and – to help with this mission – categorises the 30 shades according to skin undertone. There are six cool-toned nudes, six warm-toned, six neutral nudes and then the same drill for the reds – six with a cool tone, six reds with a neutral tone and six with a warm.

So you work out your undertone (Becca advise that you’re a “cool” if you look best wearing white, a “warm” if you look better in cream and a “neutral” if you look equally good in both) and restrict your lipstick choice to the relevant groups. Rather like finding a foundation, where you determine the depth of colour that you need and then look for the right tone – one might look too pink, one too yellow, one will be just right – the cool, neutral and warm labelling makes it easy, or at least easier, to find the perfect colour.

Because I had the whole shade range I decided to do a little experiment and see whether or not the whole “picking a shade by tone” actually worked in practice. I first selected shades based on gut instinct and then chose the shades that I should select to according to my skin undertone. Amazingly, most of the shades I first selected were in the cool category – I just seemed to be drawn to the crisp freshness of the colours – but as soon as I tried them on my face it was clear that they were simply wrong for me. And then, when I applied the equivalent warm or neutral lipstick, they looked instantly perfect. It was like trying on a load of jeans that were slightly too tight, or too gapey at the back, or too loose on the knee, and then slipping on a pair that made me look like Gisele but felt as comfy as pyjamas.

Buy Becca Ultimate Lipstick Love*

So the organisation of the shade range is exemplary – whatever your skintone and skin undertone, you should be able to find a lipstick that suits you completely. Of course you can absolutely ignore the undertone system and select whatever you bloody want – it’s just a guide. Go wild.

And it’s not just the shade system that’s brilliant; the texture and finish of the Becca Ultimate Lipstick is, without exaggeration, near-perfect. I can’t think of anything I don’t like about it, which, strictly speaking, should make it fully-perfect and not near-perfect, but there’s always got to be some wriggle room hasn’t there? Perfect is a bold statement. It’s a commitment. It’s a risk. I like to have a contingency for any small complaints that may crop up in the future. For the moment I can’t think of any complaints (some may not like the fragrance, which is faint but gourmand) but life wears us down and I’m a grumpy sod, so perhaps after a few months I’ll find the packaging a little heavy or the product name (Ultimate Lipstick Love?) a bit irksome.

Back to the texture and finish; applying this lipstick is an utter joy. It’s creamy but not too slidey, comfortable and moisturising but not so oily that the formula bleeds into fine lines. Soft as can be, a light butteriness, a gorgeous surface sheen but nothing too glossy or high-maintenance…

The greatest thing is that this immense degree of comfort and creaminess doesn’t affect the depth or vibrancy of the colour – the lipstick shades are punchy and vibrant, larger than life. And the colour is relatively long-lasting, too – it’s not at all comparable to some of the new longwear liquid lipsticks that stay on for weeks, but for such a hydrating, cushiony finish it’s more than adequate. You have to reapply after eating lunch, for example, but in between meals and drinks the Becca Ultimate lipstick sticks fast.

In these pictures I’m wearing my perfect nude (Dune) and my perfect red (Poppy). If you look on the Becca website here* then they have all of the shades swatched on different skintones – it makes it very simple to see at a glance which depth of colour you need, and then you cross reference with your undertone and Bob’s your Uncle. A flattering shade match.

You can find Becca Ultimate Lipstick Love at Cult Beauty here* – lipsticks are £20 each, which I think is pretty reasonable for a luxury buy. Chanel’s lipsticks now come in at £30 ish and Tom Ford’s (far less creamy and moisturising than the Becca) are £40. Perhaps you don’t get the same little rush without the double-Cs on the lid or the signature square casing of the Tom Ford lipsticks, but Becca’s packaging is equally premium in feel. As I said, we’re talking near-perfection – thank me later.

You can see these lipsticks (and three other luxury lip launches) in my latest video – just click play below. The products featured are listed below the video screen.

Chanel Coco Rouge Flash in shades Boy, Pulse and Beat – £31 at John Lewis*: http://bit.ly/2TJGTPi

Hourglass No28 Lip Oil Neutral Rose, £45 (yikes!) at SpaceNK here*: http://bit.ly/2F7px4Y

Bobbi Brown Crushed Liquid Lipstick in Hippy Shake and Peach & Quiet, £16.50 (at time of writing) John Lewis here*: http://bit.ly/2F7px4Y

Becca Ultimate Lip Love £20 at Cult Beauty*: http://bit.ly/2TEQC9E

The neutral shades I tried were Sugar (cool) Bare (Warm) and Dune (Neutral) and then the red shades were Blaze and Poppy. 

The post Is This Lipstick Perfection? appeared first on A Model Recommends.

Is This Lipstick Perfection? was first posted on March 17, 2019 at 10:41 pm. ©2018 "A Model Recommends". Use of this feed is for personal non-commercial use only. If you are not reading this article in your feed reader, then the site is guilty of copyright infringement. Please contact me at contact@amodelrecommends.com Is This Lipstick Perfection? published first on https://medium.com/@SkinAlley

[lovefrommaira]

I’m back with another review of a Too Faced product, and spoiler alert, it’s a positive one.  

I have been on the hunt for a new foundation for a while now and was torn between Estee Lauder’s Double Wear and Too Faced Born This Way. Considering I have mostly dry skin, I opted for Born This Way because it seemed to be more geared towards my skin type. It claims to be a medium to full coverage, undetectable foundation that is oil-free, and contains other beneficial ingredients. The most praised ingredient is the coconut water that is included to replenish the skin’s moisture levels without the heaviness of oils. In addition to that, Too Faced have packed this foundation with Hyaluronic Acid to smooth out the skin and Alpine Rose to brighten the complexion. 

My First Impressions - This foundation comes in a frosted glass container with a good quality pump, complete with really pretty gold detailing and has some weight to it; the packaging is without a doubt perfect, as expected from Too Faced. The foundation itself isn’t very thick, which makes it easy to spread and blend. It does not have any distinct scent to it, which I’m relieved about because Too Faced are known for their scented products and despite being fun and all, I wouldn’t want that in a foundation!   

The Finish - I really enjoy the way my skin looks after blending it in with a beauty blender; it’s radiant, whilst covering up my redness and acne scars. It’s almost picture perfect, but that I was born this way. 

  The Durability - This foundation actually stays on all day for me - my typical day is between 9am and 7pm and I don’t experience any separation or dry patches, although the coverage begins to fade at about the six hour mark. Most foundations leave me with a ridiculously oily t-zone by the evening, but this one really only leaves my nose a little shiny, nothing overly frightening. 

  The Colour Match - This is my only complaint, and it comes with a mini story: 

I was in Debenhams deciding on which shade to go for, and found that most shades leaned pink whilst I have a yellow undertone. I was stuck on the shade Honey - one shade lighter was too pink and one shade darker was too dark, so I asked a Sales Assistant to help match me. I was advised that Honey may be too light, but I decided that it was probably the best match. I was right, and wrong. Right that it was the best match out of the other options, but wrong because it wasn’t a good match at all. After purchasing, I finally had the chance to try out the foundation a couple of days later. As soon as I dotted my face with the product, I had to double check that I did not pick up the wrong shade - nope, the box and bottle said Honey. I calmed myself down and blended it all in with my beauty blender, and to my horror, it was indeed way too dark. The Sales Assistant really believed Honey was too light for me!? In the end, I found a way to make it work for me, using yellow concealer to highlight my face quite a bit. It’s a time-consuming method, so I guess I can only use this foundation on occasion, which is a shame because I love the formula. In retrospect, there weren’t any other shades that would have been a better fit. There are a lot of shades to choose from, but there is a lack of diversity. I hope Too Faced have plans to continue growing their shade range with it being such a popular foundation, as I know that they have extended the shade range once already. I could probably get a better match by mixing two colours, but I don’t fancy spending £58! 

I’d like to know, what is your go-to foundation?

Too Faced Sweet Peach Eyeshadow Palette