MODERN VANITY;

INDIE. PRIV HORROR OC - VALENTÍN RÓSSANTSON, a dissection of ego, parasocial horror & dystopia built from celebrity. unsettling themes ahead. scripted by day. he/him. 18+. BYI + INFO. TIMELINE & VERSES. EST. DEC 2019 & REVIVED NOV 2024

“ what exactly did i tell you, hm ? some low blow jokes ? i mean, i didn’t mean to hurt you. ” words ring out, apathetic tone a dull but painful kick to her ribs - his eyebrow raises to the question, you are nothing but fault, a broken cog in a system so exploitive—how can she fix something that was never taught how to mend itself ? the last lie on his tongue lingers, he smiles briefly before it falters, hands clasped, “ i sense that you are more, mara, i just don’t see you reaching for it. if you want me to be honest. ” brutality from elegant lips, bait set / will she cling to it for any semblance of comfort ? there is some formidable actress in there, some mirror reflecting the darkest, most hidden shades of the human psyche, but beyond that idea—is the actuality, the slew of disasters waiting at her call, a mess of issues he doesn’t have the time nor care to help her fix. a wire mother bares no warmth. he has no time for patching old wounds, only piling bodies comprised of them. “ you are human, [ so am i, after all. ] flawed, but … not ever meeting your best, content at staying in this, pit. at the end of the day, i haven’t seen the change in you to prove me otherwise, there’s nothing else to it. ” you haven’t got what it takes to be me. you will never have it. can you take to the challenge, be stained with red forever, dearest hyena, or have your name in the credits audiences never quite stick around long enough to see ?

it was now not debatable on whether or not she was a lightweight, practically asleep & uncomfortably splayed over his custom tom ford suit—que a prompt prod of pink acrylics, truly touched by such a display of unwelcome vulnerability, “ … hey, adore, wakey wakey. ” how does one even sleep in an environment like this anyway ? it’s not as if the cheap leather nor blaring interchangeable dj sets provide much comfort, “ … ugh. adore, you’re ruining my look here. the folds are going to be a pain to iron. ” he speaks it as if he takes care of the fashion he dons, but he’s got a million people to take care of such normalcies of life—regardless, he wants her to not have to be carried out in slew of endless theories regarding a new girlfriend. fans would run rampant at such a scandal, perhaps even to the extent of losing loyalty in thousands, prospect bitter on his tongue. excuses excuses. tch passes lips glazed in multicolour strobe, honestly : he did not intend on babysitting his newest coworker whilst 8balled, she could fend for her own makeshift pillow among the masses of dregs for all he cared, afterall—the rabbit should not sleep belly-up to the delight of a foxes open jaw, “ c’mon. [ she stirs, finally, from an inebriated slumber, eyes wide & drowned in a slurred confusion - false concern is worn akin to a funeral veil ] i think you should be getting home. i’ve never seen you more wasted. ”

hm, jaw unhinged in a mock crack, rolling into a smile, maybe you should see a doctor about that imbalance of envy that troubles you so, “ take isn’t quite the right word, now is it ? ” a huff of corporate air, a tug at his sleeve, absent eye lingers toward his nails—smug tone lunges forward, “ i think you’re being very reductive in your argument, patrick, it’s called earning. i can’t help that socially i just seem to click more than you. ” people love me. people like you. the difference is stark, intoxicating, you have the money & the well ironed suit, but the public image is lax to non-existent outside of this extravagant bubble of entrepreneurs that view you as lower, a future betrayal, a meal on a silver platter. my image is simply everywhere, procured & cherry-picked to entice. surely you know to keep your guard up enough to protect what is supposedly yours in this cutthroat concrete jungle better than some hollywood actor ? or is your naïveté that visible ?