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redbone.

pakihwan‌:

“finally, someone’s starting to talk a little sense.” his voice was quiet, just loud enough for marisol to hear. “the solstice is supposed to be one of those more magickal nights or whatever, isn’t it? drinking’s fun and the party’s kind of cool i guess, but it kinda feels like a waste, yeah?” he chuckled. “it’s in my car, almost always is. you know, in the glovebox you have to jiggle just right to open.” he rolled his eyes, knowing he was getting off topic. “ anyway. you seem to have something else on your mind, though. is there a certain something you’re after or do you just wanna shift through the book until we find something to fuck around with?”

kihwan doesn’t disappoint.

she needs something to do, on fire beneath her skin. there’s a wild burn in her lungs and a seeking twist of need in her veins. it’s not sexual. it’s not desperate. but it’s there, a nameless longing that prompts her to scattered thoughts and distracted words, fractional and fragmented as she jumps erratic from whim to whim. there’s a greed to it, in an extent, but moreso than that is the fear of a moment left unlived, a single second un-spent. if the fear of missing out or the fear of sitting still had a human form, it would be marisol. everything in her rebelled raucous against stasis. the static nature of her life in junae repulsed her, it felt like being a hamster on a wheel, running the same treadmill day in and out. like groundhog day without a hope of escape. years spent repeating the same hours, watching herself grow older in the mirror as the world passed her by.

the necronomicon had been her first respite from that since being drawn back to the goddamned town, despite her best efforts to leave. maybe she should just have gotten some stupid business degree, at least then she’d be in a better place- or if not better, then bigger. with options, with something to hold onto. some promise of hope. something more than a dead end, a giant middle finger from the universe to her dreams, hand sealed and delivered.

so she throws herself to the promise of something more, and grabs kihwan by the wrist as she plunges, pulls him down with her. she’ll be the first to admit she has a certain fondness for the madness of the night, the first to admit that magic has gone entirely to her head. kihwan is as accommodating to her ideas as she’d hoped he would be. “oh yes of course, the glove box,” she repeats with a drawl, a joke at her own expense. her car-less life is a testament to growing up on the edge of broke in a town that you can walk across in the lesser part of a day, perhaps.

“i just want....” she trails off, her gaze wavering to sweep upwards as wistful and wisping as the smoke still rising to join the clouds. “something to do. i want to feel productive.” i want to feel alive, is perhaps the truer statement, but she doesn’t dig into that. she bares her soul to few and kihwan is not quite among that lot, not yet. “i’m open to suggestions, as a result.”

#thread.#redbone.#pa. episode 1 #q.

pamarisol-blog

corpus christi.

pamarisol-blog

paxromi‌:

for the best. all that’s locked up in romi’s chest is years of wrath, unresolved. “i like the dark,” romi allows, reaches out enough that she can spider-crawl her fingers lightly up the length of marisol’s spine. she laughs then, a sound that’s never quite matched her face, or assumed demeanor. it doesn’t settle on sweet. it’s off, like sugar-water soured. “don’t you want to fuck with them?” he head tips back toward the crowd as she says it, her smile sharper in the virulent flicker of the fire. “or else, drag me away.” another laugh, and she offers marisol a wrist like she means for her to shackle her, drag her away from too many bad ideas.

it seems to make sense. that the two of them have complimentary sections of the book. her pages finishing right where romi’s pick up. it seems as if they were fated to fit together, to connect in the quiet spaces between words and thoughts. she imagines a world without the necronomicon might yet have lead her to romi. to the enigmatic flare of the girl. it’s hard to say how they weren’t closer in school. marisol had made it a point not to be too close to anyone, aside from jinsol. had torn apart relationships with her bare hands, had rent the world asunder at the slightest provocation. she had been cruel and unkind, she had fought and flailed against the lot provided to her in life. against the restrictions of her mother, the narcissism and cruelty that were wielded so casually.

sometimes it felt like all she had ever done was fought. first with childish temper tantrums, then with bloodied knuckles and split lips. later with cruel words and vitriolic, acerbic wit. with her magic or with her sexuality or with promises unkept, she fought against the perceptions and predicaments assigned to her. with romi, she fights nothing. she gives herself over to the current of her, to the wildness of her heart and the strength of her spirit.

some people are born leaders and romi is one of them. there’s a calm and powerful energy to her that radiates silent, silk, steel. marisol is many things but a leader is not amongst them, a wildfire that needs taming, and so she clutches at her wrist and begs for direction, takes it with an open heart and wide eyes that flash like a fire in the dark. “i do. i really do.” she laughs,shivering as fingers tiptoe up her spine. turns her head towards the other and takes the other’s wrist in her hand, ringing her fingers around the girl, pulling it closer. presses her lips to the point of her pulse, then her palm, dotting each of her fingers lightly before she nips at the pointer. “what do you think we should do?”

#thread.#corpus christi.#pa. episode 1

fyeahred-velvet

#visual.#big marisol lookz

pamarisol-blog

i’m looking for some threads! hmu with a like or a reply or a message or a discord mx#9905 if you want to work something up! i was on vacation and then a lil sick so i may have lost track of things so now is a good time to remind me if i did!

#ooc.#bumping this up because there's new folks to plot with!

PLEASE HOLD

ksolpa‌:

“I’m having a blast. Officer Lee was just about to try another pick-up line he found off Naver.” Lee chokes on his water and the rest of his crew take it as a cue to tow him away before he humiliate himself further. By the time the fence is gutted clean Marisol fumbles closer, palms hot against her skin. More heat is the last thing she wants right now but she just lets her hands readjust to frame her hips instead. Because this is the same girl who’d stood in front of her ten years ago with that very same expression, asking that same exact question. She didn’t have an answer then. She still doesn’t now. Instead, Sol cocks her head to one side and lets a small grin slip.

“Why don’t you show me, then?”

sometimes marisol ruminates on the past.

sometimes she lets it haunt her.

there are many who have memories of marisol.

the mothers, who saw a shrieking terror of a girl, a streak of pure movement and energy, at the playground (doesn’t her mother discipline her? they’d ask behind their hands, but the answer was no, anyway. not that anyone was stepping in to help. maybe if they had, she’d be different.)

the clerk at the 7/11 who grabbed her by the wrist when she was eight, told her to empty her pockets, took away the gum she’d snagged. (her mother had sent her for cigarettes as if that was even possible, but she hadn’t wanted to go back empty handed.)

the girl who’d called her the bastard daughter of a whore in the locker room when they were thirteen and empathy was a distant goal to reach when one’s brain was more developed, the girl cradling her face after jagged, anxiety-bitten nails had raked over it, while marisol screamed like a banshee as she was pulled off. (and why was she complaining anyway, when it was fairly true?)

marisol doesn’t like to think about the memories people have of her. of the things she might have been if she’d had love or a chance or more self control. she doesn’t like to think about how it’s as much her fault as anyone else’s, or about how sol might think of her after all these years.

she sticks to the present, really. sometimes she remembers sol, though, the snippets and glimmers of good moments strung between the rest of her life, pleasant memories pressed to fading polaroids and strung up in the back of her brain. thinks about how she deserves a place better than this, more than all this. sol was so much more put together, had followed all the right steps to escape, only for this.

she settles her hands on the other’s hips instead. for sol, she can take direction. she’s not a complete monster. “officer lee likes you very much,” she notices, as the man is spirited away, leans forward to put her chin on sol’s shoulder, to grin cheshire wide at him as he makes his retreat. but it’s too hot to remain in that embrace, retreats once more to breathe deep. “well the first step is generally a drink.” she points out helpfully, gesturing towards the table of refreshments by the fire. “it’s rather slim pickings, but i’ve heard the forest after party will have much better fare.” she lifts one hand to gesture the tipping of a phantom shot glass, cocks her head to the side to add, with a feral-bright smile, “or we could just strip and dance naked around the bonfire. i hear that used to be all the rage at these things. and officer lee would surely approve.”

#thread.#tw. blood #tw. injury #minor in a flashback but???#please hold.#pa. episode 1

redbone.

@pakihwan midsummer festival, post-punch sin: lust, passionate or overmastering desire or craving * lust for life, lust for power

to be perfectly honest, the difference between marisol before she drank the punch and marisol after is rather negligible. this is for a simple reason, though marisol hasn’t the foggiest idea of it. if the potion is set to leave one giving themselves over to their greatest whims, hedonistic desires, or general sinfulness, the basic point of fact is that marisol’s greatest flaw is her flagrant disregard for anything but her own overwhelming impulse; it is a fatal recklessness, her personal hamartia. so, for a girl who’s greatest sin is to flout inhibitions and second thoughts and careful evaluation to be introduced a concoction that further reduces that barrier, well, not much can happen. 0-0 is still 0, after all.

but to have everyone around her seemingly as interested in her erratic whims as she herself is in the moment, that in itself is a joy that brings her unbridled amusement. she feels on top of the world. too often she spits rapid fire suggestions from the tip of her tongue without truly even thinking first- the words form as she speaks them. let’s jump in the lake, let’s make a torch and strike out into the forest, let’s try - and this is pitched low and secret and small - a summoning.

romi isn’t impressed with that suggestion, however, which leaves her pouting ever so slightly. perhaps romi’s sins are not so foolish as hers, direct themselves in another arena. but for so many others as intent on impulsive madness as she seems to be in the moment, to have her dearest of covenmates turn down her impulses in favor of other haunts hurts her heart, ever so slightly. just the littlest bit, you understand. so she seeks out a new target, a flicker in her eyes, as if the stray embers of the roaring fire from the bonfire earlier that night.

“ah, kihwan!” she calls, a half jog of long (proportionately, the poor dear isn’t very toll) legs brings her to his side, hand at his wrist to turn him to face her. “tell me,” she says, a poorly suppressed fervor in her voice, “that you brought your book with you.” she furrows her brows a little, pitches her voice low. “doesn’t it seem like the perfect night for a little magic?” she smiles a wicked smile, walks her fingers up his arm to his shoulder before brushing a leaf away lightly. rocking back on her heels she tilts her head back to look up at the looming moon. “or we could just get some more drinks. hang out with me, whatever way.”

#thread.#pa.episode 1 #redbone.#kihwan.

pamarisol-blog

bloodletting.

pamarisol-blog

pasonyul‌:

yul shifts, opens some space between them, and puts even more when he picks up the camera, points it in her face. “so, what’s the ever so captivating lee marisol doing out here all alone during the midsummer festival? party too boring for you? drink too much already? waiting for someone in secret, did i interrupt something?” he barrages her with questions but plays them jokingly, a grin clear on his lips, his tone light, his eyebrows raised.

marisol pitches her voice a little lower, tilts her head, grins. “is it? you’re not doing very well, then,” she points out to him, lets her gaze roam his features with free reign, a reckless abandon. there are many in the town, mostly the older folk who have seen too many horrors and heard too many whispers, who do not trust newcomers. and while the young are starved for variety and thirst for change, even the most stalwart among them would balk at a boy with sharp eyes wielding a camera and uncomfortable questions. everyone in junae has secrets, things they wish not to have pried into, deep dark cupboards where no eyes dare go and no light dare shine.

marisol has as many skeletons in her closet as anyone else does- or a fair bit more, if she’s being completely honest, which perhaps surprisingly she often is. she’s not one for deception so much as trickery, though the difference may be hard to pinpoint. but marisol, she’s on top of the world. just ask her. she’s young and beautiful and carefree. reckless and indulgent as she wields her vices alongside knives, offering of herself in return for a power she’d always dreamed of. she’d spent eternities like a doll, propped helpless and fractured of porcelain and paint, forced through the hoops of childhood at the behest of a broken mother, a puppeteer with no direction but madness and self gain. and now, she grasps agency by the throat with blood stained fingers, smiles with crimson rivulets between her teeth, bites down.

so a boy with a camera doesn’t scare her a bit.

it might have something to do, also, with the way that his smile fills his cheeks and pulls his lips open to flash his canines, the rose pink of his gums. it might have to do with the tousle of dark hair that falls into darker eyes, the strangely compelling way that he laughs- much like his smile it’s not all the way there. a half offered attempt. his questions come six at a time and breathless, tripping over themselves to get to her and she waits, patiently for the stream to finish before she hums, softly. takes another drink of the wait. flexes an ankle, points her toe. spins a circle. it’s exactly three beats too long to answer a question, right at the point one would wonder if she’d heard him at all. “i thought i’d make a sacrifice to beelzebub and i was waiting for the right option to come along.” she pauses, smiles brightly, beatifically, even, as if an angel. “so you’ve come just in time darling.”

#thread.#tw blood #its just imagery but its there #bloodletting.#pa. episode 1 #yul.

#ooc.

lifeinpoetry

What is this impulse in me to worship & crucify / anyone who leaves me—

Emily Skaja, from “Aubade With Attention to Pathos,” Brute

pamarisol-blog

corpus christi.

pamarisol-blog

paseolbi‌:

“hopefully something monstrous.” a joke, mostly. mari could probably hear it in her tone. but it’s no secret that seolbi harbors a great amount of resentment, ill will. it’s no secret that she finds some twisted amount of glee in the possibility that there is some large, hellish danger caged away somewhere. waiting to be unleashed. “bet it’d be more fun in the dark.” it wouldn’t, but it might be fun to watch the bewildered terror if it was suddenly snuffed out.

the fire leaps high and higher and marisol wonders, not for the first time, why they make such an impressive bonfire in the dead, heavy heat of summer. surely a bonfire would be a better celebration in the frigid hands of winter, she thinks. she likes it, though, the fire. how it races over limbs and how they crackle and scorch. she likes the crumbling ash as it tumbles down. she likes the sparks that race desperate toward the night sky and the discomfort of the heat that burns into her skin, stretches it taut and aching over hollowed out bones.

“not particularly,” she admits to the returned question. her gaze fixes on the other’s eyes as she turns to look at her, then draws down to her lips as if magnetized, a temptation impossible to resist. but she’s not stupid, knows better than to go any further past this could-be-skinship in front of such an undoubtedly conservative crowd, thanks god at least for the platonic same sex physical affection built into cultural expectations.

she doesn’t like the humidity. she’d be happy for a dry heat, but the weight of summer crushes down on her, leaves her breathless. but she curls closer to seolbi despite it, fingertips grazing where they shouldn’t, lingering where they oughtn’t, but how can she help it? when seolbi is so radiant she could dwarf the light of the fire with a look. it’s been the one thing that’s kept the girl’s reputation in the town afloat despite it all else. she’s from that family but isn’t she a pretty, sweet thing? yes, her parents are... but isn’t she just the loveliest girl? it’s such a shame.

marisol hears the whispers but never heeds them. she’s always been the type to gravitate to other abused parties, and given how her own reputation has suffered at the hands of her mother across the years, she’d had a predisposition to approve of seolbi before she’d ever met her, one that had only been helped along by the soft curl of her hair and the softer curve of her waist and the desire that burned in mari to touch and take.

“should we wreak some havoc maybe?” she offers, as if casual, a certain easy charm to her voice. “i don’t have my book with me but we’re resourceful, we could figure something out.” she pauses, leans away from the other to tuck her hair behind her ear with slender fingers. “or we could go somewhere quieter? darker?” she teases, the edge of one corner of her mouth beginning to rise upward.

#thread.#pa. episode 1 #seolbi.

pamarisol-blog

foolsong.

pamarisol-blog

pahanjae‌:

“her leg was hurting. i shouldn’t have come but…” the words get lost. midair, in his throat. he looks back at her, and there’s something here that he wants to take back. “are you having a good time?”

“she’s not feeling well,” he replies, looks away from her, back to the path in front of them. and it’s not only that she brings his fiancée here, makes her present. but the tone of her voice. that glimpse of her eyes. it’s unfair, hanjae thinks. that she speaks like that. as if she’s angry at him for moving on. as if she’s jealous. and that is very much like her. and he knows, just as he knew back then.

that she wants him, but mostly she wants him wanting her.

memory stretches long between them, a thin spun thread. spidersilk, impossible to escape, stronger than it should be, near invisible in the air. it webs over her, a net that tangles her ankles like a trip wire, brings her to her knees in front of him. she hates that, the feeling of vulnerability. it grows in her chest with a warmth she wants to reject, eager to douse the fire of it.

so she does her best, in a sense, to push it away. to remind herself that he discarded her, the memories that he brings up in her. times when she’d thought she had the world at her feet. when she’d still believed effort could carry you to success despite the odds and against your fate. but she had been a fool then, bright eyed and wildhearted, a wild mare galloping, freewheeling across the plains towards a distant shore. and he’d loved that about her, or at least she thinks he had. now it seems to set his teeth on edge to be reminded of it.

maybe in the end he had outgrown her. maybe she was stuck, stagnant in some miserable place, pulled down deep into a bog. maybe she will sink there into it, mummified in her own foolishness as she remains stuck in a past that was as cruel to her as the present, in some shortsighted and romanticized nostalgia.

her eyes narrow, a little, and one brow arches. “but you did come. how thoughtful of you,” she notes, one hand moving to settle at her hip as he looks at her, with something in his eyes she could mistake for longing, if she let herself. and she shouldn’t even entertain such a thought, but she does. takes a snapshot of amber honey eyes that drip sticky, bait in the trap, and presses it behind her eyelids, hides it there to commit to canvas later.

“i’m having fun, sure,” she tells him, lifts the edge of her glass to her lips and lets her gaze linger over him, heavy and burning. she wants it inescapable, to pin him down like an ant beneath a magnifying glass. “i could be having more fun, though, if you’d like to do something to help,” she drawls, brow raising to a delicate arch.

#pa.episode 1 #thread.#foolsong.

bloodletting.

@pasonyul, midsummer festival, late

the name marisol, when written with the hanja her mother intended for her, speaks to a clarity found in the stillness of a pine forest. laying now on her back against a wide, flat rock, with the rush of water from a winding stream beside her and the pines swaying in a gentle breeze overhead, this makes some sense. it also makes her wonder if her mother had intentions to condemn her to solitude.

she’s lonely, right now.

it gapes and aches in her chest. a hundred unfulfilled dreams and the passage of time press down on her sternum like the hand of god, cracking her ribs and splitting her open. fingers curl listless around the bottle of wine she’s taken from the festivities, spirited (pun intended) off the table with a quick sweep of movement because, she’ll be the first to admit, her youth had been marred with various shoplifting incidents. but she is a greedy creature, one that wants and wants, one that needs and needs, and will not be denied.

when son yul makes his approach she sets aside her skepticism at his ever-present camera in favor of a swig of the wine. eyes narrow on his figure and she uses one elbow to prop herself upright, examining him in the dim light. he’s backlit by the distant festivities, the moon throwing shadows over the planes of his features, and while she would like to say she finds him as annoying as his vlog is, she doesn’t.

the wine is going to her head, maybe.

she shifts, slightly, against the river smoothed rock, pats at it. “are you going to stare at me or sit down?” she questions, because the aching solitude of the forest is as overwhelming as the party is right now, and perhaps the company of one secretive and suspicious creature is exactly what she needs. one mouse to torment in sharp claws. she flips her hair back over her shoulder and regards him with sultry eyes to add, “or you can sit and stare, i know it’s hard not too.” if you didn’t know her well it might sound serious, but marisol is anything but, eyes glimmering in the dim light. “some cheap wine?” the bottle lifts towards him in offering.

#pa.episode 1 #thread.#yul.

shkaya-blog

PLEASE HOLD

pamarisol-blog

ksolpa‌:

She hardly bats an eye when the woman staggers and nearly tips over, arms gripping her side in an instant. Mildly bloodshot eyes. Flushed cheeks. Could be an unfortunate sunburn, could be the alcohol. Probably a bit of both. Hair smells like wet grass and a hint of something dark– whiskey, maybe. She bypasses the automatic I told you so and settles for something considerably less patronizing:

“Looks like you’re having a good time.”

the fire roars before her, this great creature of lust and destruction, warmth and promise. fire gives with one hand and takes with the other, scorches through the forest and renders it fruitful in it’s wake. with it’s decimation comes new life. fire can burn into wood for art or for kindling, the discovery of it brings light and pain alike to shape a new world.

the heat of the bonfire sears into the skin of her cheeks. she feels as if she might have absorbed it’s glow, as if she is overflowing with it. as if it is bursting back out of her, shining through her skin. there is a raucous madness that pervades the atmosphere, something that unites them beyond reason, beyond doubt.

or at least, most of them anyway.

she’s reveling in this manufactured sense of community, this tribal impulse to connect with the people around you in drink and revelry and fire. to admire the incredible roar of nature. she’s lost in this, some ancient ritual from the past, some long held truth of the world. the hypnotic nature of the fire.

she’s lost in this until hands grip her sides and sol steadies her on her feet. there’s a smile wide on marisol’s lips, a laugh that bubbles there, flickering upward like so many sparks disappearing into the night sky, rising and dying, burned out in a wink. “of course i’m having a good time,” she tells her as if to assume otherwise would be foolish and as if to do otherwise might be sacrilege. “it’s a festival. the point of a festival is to have a good time,” her gaze, wavering and yet still critical, sharp, sweeps across the other. “you could stand to learn that.” she sighs out a dramatic sound, cups the other’s cheeks in both her hands and tilts the taller girl’s head down to hers. they look almost as if they are locked in embrace, and mari shakes her head. “why do you keep yourself so set apart and solemn, hm? there’s no fun in that.”

marisol knows, as it were, rather a lot about fun.

#thread.#please hold.#sorry this is late!#pa. episode 1

corpus christi.

@paseolbi, midsummer festival

there’s a band aid on her palm.

clumsy marisol they’ll say, always getting hurt. it’s not an unfamiliar sight. she has been that girl for many years now. with split lips and bruised cheekbones, with a cut through her eyebrow or a bruise on her jaw. blood in her mouth spat to the ground.

she spills blood with intention these days.

there’s a malice that glitters in the back of dark eyes, a slow burning force that bubbles resounding in the pit of her gaze, threatens to spill over. she fixes her gaze on the girl in the distance, outlined at the edges of the fire. she stands far from the epicenter and the fire plays over her features with a haunting abandon, outlining her in shadow and a searing glow. she’s beautiful. breathtaking. there is a sinister flicker of recognition as their gazes lock across the square and marisol throws back the last of her drink, setting it aside to beeline for her.

she makes her way to seolbi’s side in moments, hesitating for only a breath as she grazes her hand against the girl’s arm, a smile blooming on her lips. “unnie,” she greets with a softness, sighing quietly as she bumps her shoulder lightly to the other girl’s. she stares out at the fire, eyes burning slightly from the heat it gives off, but it’s nothing to match the burn of the girl beside her, the overwhelming impact of her presence. “have you been here long? having fun?” she lilts.

the secret burns in between them. the promise of power. of blood and ash and bone. it surges through her with fascination and magnetism. it comes in flashes, finding seolbi bent over the same book, the memory of stolen kisses in the projection room at work, the drag of the other’s nails on her skin. if anyone were to be the picture of a witch- beautiful and bold and barbaric- it is undoubtedly seolbi. marisol has never been a leader and she would, in response, easily follow seolbi into the bowels of hell. perhaps literally, should the occasion arise.

she leans her head to the side to rest against his shoulder, humming out a soft sigh. she laces her fingers into the girl’s, palms pressed together. seolbi’s hands are cold against hers, as they always are, and marisol presses her hand closer as if to lend her some heat, some fire. “i wonder what the night will bring this midsummer.” she muses, gaze flickering to the fading light of day.

#thread.#corpus christi.

foolsong.

@pahanjae, midsummer festival, in the woods

the fingers of the trees stretch high up towards the darkening sky, indigo hue against the blackened protrusions that scrape the heavens. there is something ominous about the outline of the mountain, jagged on the horizon. there is something unspeakable about the depths of the forest, cold and dark. it draws her in.

as they meander en mass from the bonfire to the edges of the forest, marisol hums a quiet song. tuneless, pointless, as sandaled feet drag and pivot, dance over the road that wears away to dirt and gravel. it slides between sole and shoe and drags cuts over her skin, pinpricks and points. she is unbothered, perhaps too drunk or too inured to the spilling of her own blood.

its a sinister thought. necronomicon. it seems to whisper on the wind, this promise of power and atrocity. she bites the corner of her lip and weaves through the crowd, past familiar faces, as they walk close and closer to the encroaching forest. the treeline looms over her in a heavy embrace, and she finds herself tip toeing towards her own destruction.

she shouldn’t go near him. she has no business near him. beside him. but she finds herself beside him and allows it to seem as if it was an accident. she bites at the edge of her lip. tastes blood. horrible habit, that, but one that’s found itself handy enough since having begun to need blood spilled for her own magic. she wishes to curse him sometimes. for the way all this has unfolded. for the way he’s hurt her. driven the stake into her heart time and time again. like the witches of old she feels as if every moment in his presence she burns at the stake, consumed.

“having a lovely time?’ she asks him. the words are slurred and bitter. “where is she then?” it’s acrid on her tongue, like a poison, like a medication hard to swallow. “or have you come out without her for once?” she doesn’t look at him. it makes her too weak, when she does, when she sees his eyes, so warm and soft - misleading, a lie in their very image.

#thread.#foolsong.

hello! here i am shrieking in excitement, how’s it going?? i’m so ready for plotting and roleplaying and for this setting bc whew have i needed a bit of paranormal horror spooks in my life, let me tell you. i have no plots yet but hopefully soon and in the meantime we can brainstorm. here’s some links! in short, marisol is the hellion wild child blood witch you’re sure to love (or hate?), working freelance (art/copy editing) and as a projectionist at that stuffy, small, arty theater on the edges of the town’s center. very glamorous, truly. click the links below for more information because i am in fact a fool who sucks at intros. and hmu for some plots here or on discord (drop me a line and i’ll give you my s/n!) profile+tldr / weird / history

#ooc

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