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pixiedus7 · 5 days ago

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🎤🔥 pat chayanit. cis - woman. she/her. | breaking : SARISA "PIXIE" THAWORNWONG spotted at location. the TWENTY SEVEN year old has been making moves at gravity records as a SOLO ARTIST ( DREAM POP ) - known for being a former child star and girl group member, it’s clear they’re not here to play. with a reputation for being SPONTANEOUS and RESTLESS, they’ve already made quite the impression, but will it be enough ? let’s see if they’ve got what it takes to stay on top.

statistics.

BASICS:

FULL NAME: sarisa thawornwong.

NICKNAMES: risa.

STAGE NAME: pixie.

GENDER: cis female.

PRONOUNS: she/her.

SEXUALITY: pansexual.

AGE: twenty seven.

DATE OF BIRTH: november 25, 1997.

ZODIAC SIGN: sagittarius sun, leo moon, gemini rising.

APPEARANCE:

FACECLAIM: pat chayanit.

VOICE CLAIM: rina sawayama.

HEIGHT: 5'2".

BUILD: petite, athletic, slightly curvy.

HAIR: black, with a silky, straight texture. she often wears it long, usually falling past her shoulders, but she’s been known to experiment with different styles. Sometimes she opts for soft waves or a sleek, polished look. her hair has a healthy shine and a smooth finish, often styled in a way that frames her delicate features

PIERCINGS, TATTOOS & MAKEUP STYLE: pinterest board.

OTHER DISTINGUISHING FEATURES: sharp, heart-shaped face with warm golden undertones ; dark, slightly hooded almond eyes that sparkle with mischief, framed by long, fluttery lashes ; naturally arched brows that give her an effortlessly expressive look ; a delicate, slightly upturned nose with a subtle button-like quality ; full lips with a natural rosy hue, often curved into a playful smirk ; a slender, toned build with an energetic presence, always in motion, as if she’s ready to dance, run, or chase the next thrill.

STYLE: pinterest board.

PERSONALITY:

TRAITS: pos / spontaneous, charismatic, creative, fearless, adaptable, playful. neutral / restless, dramatic, impulsive, unpredictable, flirtatious, hyperactive. neg / reckless, stubborn, temperamental, overindulgent, attention seeking, flighty.

LIKES: the electric pulse of a crowded club, bass thrumming through her veins like a second heartbeat ; the dizzy sugar rush of a neon-pink cocktail, sweet and dangerous all at once ; the feeling of wind whipping through her hair as she speeds down the highway, music blasting, city lights blurring past ; late-night convenience store runs in platform boots, neon signs buzzing overhead, candy and energy drinks in hand ; the satisfying click of a perfectly timed edit in her music software, turning chaos into something euphoric ; glitter smeared across her cheekbones, catching the light as she moves ; the rush of an impulsive decision— a spontaneous trip, a last-minute tattoo, a brand-new hair color ; the sound of a packed crowd screaming her lyrics back at her, a fleeting fever dream ; the nostalgia of early 2000s pop bangers, bubblegum beats and auto-tuned perfection ; the sharp fizz of soda against her tongue, chased with the artificial sweetness of strawberry lip gloss.

DISLIKES: the cloying aftertaste of artificial watermelon flavoring, lingering too long on her tongue ; people who mistake chaos for personality, as if being loud is the same as being interesting ; the sticky, suffocating feeling of stage lights after hours of performing, makeup melting under the heat ; forced sincerity, the kind that feels rehearsed and hollow ; having her phone die right when she needs it most, her whole world suddenly on pause ; industry gatekeepers who pretend they invented fun ; the unsettling quiet of a room after the party’s over, when the music stops and reality settles in ; people who ask “but what’s your real name?” like her stage persona isn’t just as real as anything else ; plans made just to be canceled, wasted energy on something that was never going to happen ; when the aux gets hijacked by someone with tragic music taste ; people who use the word “guilty pleasure” unironically—just own it.

FEARS: waking up one day and realizing she’s just another manufactured pop star, her edges sanded down into something palatable and safe ; the thought that maybe she peaked too early, that she’s burning fast and won’t last ; becoming irrelevant, her name fading into the background noise of a scene that moves too quickly to hold onto anyone for long ; the idea that people only love the version of her that’s fun, wild, easy—that if she slowed down, they’d get bored and leave ; being trapped in a routine, in a life that feels predictable, like she’s on autopilot with no way to break free ; looking around and realizing she’s surrounded by people but still feels completely, utterly alone ; the industry swallowing her whole, spitting out a version of her that she doesn’t even recognize ; finding out that the thing she’s been chasing—the fame, the adrenaline, the next high—isn’t actually what she wants, and she has no idea what is.

HOBBIES: collecting retro arcade tokens and spending hours on rhythm games ; rollerblading through the city, weaving through traffic like it’s a video game ; designing chaotic, candy-colored nail art that barely lasts a week before she changes it again ; obsessively customizing her outfits with DIY patches, studs, and safety pins ; hoarding vintage tamagotchis and actually keeping them alive ; unboxing and collecting blind box plushies, always chasing the rarest one ; making unhinged tiktoks at 3 a.m., a mix of chaotic rants, makeup transformations, and hyper-edited edits of her own music.

PET PEEVES: people who take forever to text back but are always online ; getting interrupted mid-sentence, especially when she’s on a roll ; people who pretend to be fans just to seem cool ; lukewarm boba—ice should actually do its job ; condescending “industry veterans” who think they know better ; stickers that don’t peel off cleanly, leaving that annoying sticky residue ; when a remix strips a song of all its personality ; people who treat fashion like a rulebook instead of an art form.

FAVORITES:

ICE CREAM FLAVOUR: blue raspberry sorbet.

CURRENT SONG: vroom vroom by charlie xcx

TIME OF THE DAY / NIGHT: 3 a.m., when the world feels unreal

WEATHER: the humid warmth of a summer night, city lights glowing in the distance.

BREAKFAST FOOD: strawberry pop-tarts, slightly burnt.

DINNER FOOD: pad krapow gai.

DESSERT: sour candy, the kind that makes your tongue hurt.

COLOURS: neon pink, electric blue, ultraviolet.

COFFEE ORDER: iced matcha latte with vanilla, oat milk, and extra ice.

PERFUME: dusita's la douceur de siam.

biography.

sarisa thawornwong was born into the spotlight, whether she wanted it or not. from the moment she could speak, she was on camera—blinking up at bright studio lights, small hands clutching a script, smiling on command. her parents made sure of it. they weren’t the type to waste potential, not when it could turn a profit. so she became their golden ticket, the wide-eyed, bubbly child star who hit every mark perfectly. disney channel came calling before she even knew what it meant, and soon enough, she was america’s sweetheart, her face plastered on lunchboxes, her voice autotuned over bubblegum pop tracks, her life no longer her own.

if it wasn’t acting, it was music. if it wasn’t music, it was press tours, brand deals, meticulously curated social media posts. whatever the next move was, it was never hers to make. her parents handled everything—the contracts, the meetings, the bank accounts. sarisa just had to show up, smile, and perform. and she did. she did it well. she played the part so convincingly that, for a while, she almost believed it was real.

but the thing about disney darlings is that they have an expiration date. the industry builds them up just to watch them fall. when she was sixteen, they put her in a girl group, a perfectly packaged ensemble of pretty faces, radio-friendly hooks, and choreographed dance routines. it worked—for a while. their music was everywhere, their tour sold out, their fanbase rabid. but just like all prefabricated pop acts, the cracks started to show. the industry loves a young star, but it loves their downfall even more. the media picked them apart, pitting the girls against each other, twisting every interaction into a scandal. by eighteen, the group was done. contracts ended, her disney deal expired, and suddenly, for the first time in her life, sarisa thawornwong was off the script.

she could have fought to stay relevant, clawed her way back onto screens, into the charts. her parents certainly expected her to. but she didn’t. instead, she disappeared. she burned through what little money her parents hadn’t touched, packed her bags, and left for thailand, the country she barely knew beyond stories and postcards. she stayed with family, distant relatives who had nothing to gain from her fame. for the first time, she wasn’t a brand, a paycheck, a character. she was just sarisa, sitting on the floor with her cousins, singing karaoke until sunrise, her voice raw but real.

it was them—her family—who reminded her what she had spent years trying to forget. that music wasn’t just a product. that singing could be fun. that she didn’t need a contract, a team of executives, a marketing plan to be an artist. it took time, but eventually, they convinced her to go back—not to disney, not to the life she had escaped, but to music, on her own terms.

so she did. she found a manager, one with no ties to her past. she changed her name, because sarisa was the girl they controlled, but pixie? pixie was hers. she carved out her space in the industry from the ground up, diving headfirst into the glitchy, hyper-saturated world of dream pop. the transition wasn’t easy. the media mocked her, called her desperate, a washed-up child star clinging to relevance. and for a while, they weren’t completely wrong—her first releases were met with more skepticism than success.

but she kept going. slowly, quietly, she built something real. she wasn’t a household name anymore—most people wouldn’t even recognize her if they passed her on the street. but that was fine. she had no interest in nostalgia-baiting, in playing into the industry's expectations of what a former disney star should be. she wasn’t selling a redemption arc. she was making music, and that was enough.

now, she’s a rising star, no longer a novelty but not yet a fixture. her fanbase is small but growing, a patchwork of indie pop lovers, club kids, and ex-disney diehards who never stopped rooting for her. the industry tried to make her a cautionary tale, but she made herself a phoenix. and if anyone still wants to ask about disney? they’ll get nothing but a smirk and a subject change.

headcanons.

no matter how hard she tries, pixie cannot stick to a structured morning routine. some days, she’s up at dawn, hitting the gym or going for a walk. other days, she wakes up five minutes before a meeting and has to join it half-asleep with last night’s eyeliner still smudged under her eyes.

she takes her coffee seriously—always iced, always sweet, always extra. if it doesn’t taste like dessert, she doesn’t want it. if she has to drink hot coffee, she complains about it the whole time.

she gets random bursts of energy at 2 a.m. and will use them to clean her entire apartment, start a new project, or impulsively dye a streak of her hair a different color.

she refuses to drink water unless it’s in a fun cup. no, she will not just drink from a normal bottle. it has to be in a glittery tumbler, a ridiculous novelty cup, or something with a silly straw shaped like a star. otherwise, she claims she’ll simply “perish.”

she impulse-buys weird gadgets and immediately forgets about them. somewhere in her apartment, there’s a cotton candy machine, a bedazzled karaoke mic, and a mini claw machine filled with keychains. she used each of them exactly once.

she has a million unfinished songs. buried in her notes app and voice memos are snippets of melodies, half-written lyrics, and beats she swore she’d finish. her producer has learned to never ask how many projects she’s actually completed.

she believes in the power of glitter. clothes, makeup, phone case—everything is better with a little sparkle. even her ferret has ended up accidentally covered in it more than once (don’t ask how).

she texts like an absolute menace. random all-caps messages, chaotic typos, too many emojis, and voice notes that are mostly just her cackling. if she ever texts you “omg dude,” brace yourself.

she hoards tiny trinkets like a dragon. cute keychains, nostalgic stickers, plastic rings from vending machines—she has a drawer full of them. they serve no purpose, but getting rid of them is not an option.

she’s never been on time for anything in her life. no matter how much prep goes into it, no matter how early she starts getting ready, she will be late. the pixie standard time zone operates on pure chaos.

she thrives on nostalgia. early 2000s pop culture, old-school disney channel vibes, tamagotchis, lip gloss that smells like childhood—she’s living in a perpetual y2k dream world.

she has an entire shelf dedicated to blind box plushies. she’s absolutely obsessed with mystery toys like nommi, labubu, and sonny angel. every time she sees a new series, she has to buy at least three. if she pulls a rare one, she acts like she won the lottery.

she keeps stickers on everything. her phone case, laptop, water bottle, mirror—everything is covered in neon, sparkly, or holographic stickers. some are peeling off, but she refuses to remove them because they “have history.”

she owns more phone cases than any human should. clear cases filled with floating glitter, ones shaped like cartoon characters, a literal bedazzled flip phone case—she swaps them out like accessories. her favorite? a massive, impractical hello kitty case that barely fits in her bag.

#( introduction ! / * 𝘴𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘢 𝘵. )#gravity.intro #this is criminally long if you finish this i will literally bake you cookies

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