uroborosymphony

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They’re both strays. Kicked out, the mad ones their packs didn’t want anymore. Sometimes it almost feels like a new kind of family, him and the boys. She knows it’s no real replacement for Dongcheon for Gangjae ( @crue11 ) but she keeps that to herself. Plenty have dropped suitcases of bills on her desk to take Gangjae out, she simply picked the highest bidder. That’s what she is, after all : a hound, and a stray stays a stray, no matter what. Obviously she hasn’t killed him yet besides the many occasions she had. When his neck bare in bed, when his ribs were only a few inches away from her glock. There was more pleasure to this game, she liked how blood was dripping out of their bare mouths after a night of chaos, the business, the fighting, the fucking, the torturing, the madness, the ecstasy, the survival. Like the morbid contemplation of something sick within him that resonates hard with her own. She sees it, that rotting, ravenous thing he has and it sings to the same rot that grew inside of her. They're never been human no, they’re animals. “ Who now?” she says, voice slow. “These limp dick pathetic little pigs will never be a threat to our business, you know that.” She leans back, that crooked grin of hers. “But we fucking own Seoul now, every rat wants a piece of the cake, no? Wanna go for a hunt? " She asks, licking her fingers covered in grease and salt. "I shoot. You hunt.” One shoots the legs of the target, the other chases after it and catches what's left to finish it raw. She runs her tongue across her teeth. She likes watching him. “My favorite game”

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Cerberus did not speak again. The flicker of green flame in Hades’ eyes was enough to make her bow her head lower from the instinctive submission her spine was made of. Her breath caught in her throat, from both fear and something new she was beginning to feel. One knee struck the ground, her fingers are pressed into the obsidian floor, the cold stone grounding her, reminding her of what she was, what she was made for, and who she belonged to. She had been forged for this place : for its silences, its fire, shaped by duty into something diligent and unquestioning. A guardian. A hellhound. Cerberus would chew through the flesh of any who dared trespass, show no remorse, no emotion, no mercy. She followed only one rule: his. And yet, yet, ever since she had been cursed, somewhere in her, a part reached for a sky she had never seen. She hesitated, then lifted her eyes again, her voice nothing but breath shaped into sound. “My Lord of the Below. High Warden of Silence. Did you never wish to rule where they rule? To rise above the roots and hold domination over the air, the water, the warmth? The seas. The clouds.” Her gaze softened, reverent still. They : Zeus and Poseidon, one ruler of the overworld, the other of the seas. “Your realm is of inevitability, of burnt and shadowed beauty. There is nothing Hell, our Home, cannot provide me, my Sovereign. And yet… I believe the other realms would fit just as perfectly in your hand.” She should not have asked. She almost wished she had not. But again, it was the seed planted by Hecate and her daughters that changed something inside the hound. The thought was alive. It grew like wildfire. Could it be the beginning of a trap? To curse the Dog to reach the Master, could it be someone after Hades and his throne? And so to lure him out would be a way to steal his kingdom from his hand? Cerberus was too obsessed with the simple idea of foreign skies to consider the possibility. She knelt still, unmoving, though something in her pulsed forward, torn between the master she revered and a freedom that tasted like betrayal. But no, she would never betray him - she was simply asking. “It is not from you I wish to be freed, my King. Only… something has shifted. And I find myself dreaming. Craving. Wanting. A hunger that cannot be stopped.” She looked up again, eyes lit like coals. “We could go... together.”

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Life and Death dealt by humans have always been fascinating to Ara. There’s a flavor to mortality, raw, specific, that she adores observing, dissecting. Mourning, sobbing, wailing with knees sinking into mud… she’s seen it all. Often seated quietly among strangers at funerals for souls she’d only brushed past once in life, she was always curious enough to attend and watch. Graveyards, though, offer a different kind of stillness. With time, grief settles like dust. The ache doesn’t vanish, but it softens. Time makes pain feel almost unreal it seems. Rain falls in cold, relentless sheets. Her large umbrella shields her from the worst of it as she sits on a wooden bench, a silent witness, all dressed in ceremonial black. Two men stand far, at the other side of the graveyard, their backs turned on her, sharing fragments of memory and pain: Siwoo, the older brother, and Sen, the boyfriend. They cry, they talk, they sink in sorrow. It’s been three weeks since Sasha (@cemeterysgirl) has been buried. Three weeks of daily visits from both Siwwo and Sen, but also three weeks that Sasha was just standing there, nearby, like the ghost she is now. Ara remembers that one conversation with Siwoo, when he announced to her that Sasha has tragically passed away. Ara appreciated the announcement even if the moment split her open like a blade between ribs for being warned last : even her fucking clients knew. During the announcement, Sasha was already there in a ghost form Ara refused to look at, pretending like the rest of them that she couldn’t see her. But she could. She always could. Born of Hell’s womb, Ara had walked both realm and knew many of their secrets. Not all souls linger after death like Sasha does; only few are allowed. There is always a reason behind it, too : Unfinished businesses and whatnot. Something sadistic inside of her enjoyed watching Sasha Oh So Desperate in trying to communicate with her only two loved ones, drifting, clinging. Today is different : it's time.

Even from 300 meters away, Ara’s gaze doesn’t look away. She decides that she had her fun and that, the charade is over - and so she waits, with her wide grin for Sasha to finally turn around and see her. And when Sasha finally meets her eyes, truly sees her, Ara lifts her hand, waving slowly. That’s right, Love. I can see you.

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The cigarette travels from Ara’s lips to her fingers again and again, fast, pressed, frustrated, and smoke spins in the air coming out of her nostrils. She’s reading a letter that was never sent. Anger, that’s what Ara Anthea feels, always. Not the temporary kind, but the kind that lives in her bones, burning through her flesh like fire from the seventh hell. Needy was never the type to say much out loud. She was quiet, withdrawn, wrapped in her own silences, and Ara loved to believe she was the only one who could understand her. Every micro-expression, every pause between breaths felt like a secret language meant only for her, an intimacy no one else could touch. To her, Needy ( @dollypardonne ) was an angel, no more, no less, and she cherished being the safe place of an angel. But Ara never truly saw her own nature: a monster, a man-eater, a cannibalistic nightmare that clawed her way up from somewhere beyond the ground. What a tragedy, then, when for the first time, through Needy’s eyes, she caught the reflection of the abomination she truly is. The letter is covered in blacked-out words, scratched and scribbled with sorrow, pain, and tears. What did she do to Needy? She cracks her neck like a predator scenting blood, walking on the edge of madness. The paper is crushed in her hand before falling to the floor, already filthy with other sins. Blood stains her mouth, her neck, her clothes. She’s soaked in it, like she has just fed. Without Needy, Ara was a beast, or so she told herself. Now, even with Needy, she cannot be controlled. They were in bed when it happened, legs tangled, Ara's mouth on Needy’s neck, her hand slipping between her thighs. That’s what best friends do, right? They whisper secrets in bed, braid each other’s hair, kiss until they moan under the blankets, then fall asleep in each other’s arms. It was never like that with men. With them, it was seduction turned slaughter. Ara only ever lured them in to kill. But with Needy, it was love. Maybe, somewhere deep down, she wanted to turn Needy into something like her, to make her feel this hunger, this thing that grows inside and devours everything. She wanted them to be one, to share the same flesh, and so that night, she bite her. Her gaze flickers around Needy’s wrecked apartment. Everything is broken, upturned. What happened here? There is shame too, stepping back into this place, knowing she did something unforgivable to the only person she’s ever loved, and then abandoning her afterward. She despises herself for it. “Where are you...?” Her voice cuts through the stillness as she steps over debris, moving like something feral across the living room. Is Needy here? Hiding? Did she change? Did she kill? Ara doesn’t walk straight, she stalks, unsteady, fever-eyed, blood-drunk. Every moment away from Needy, she’s been killing and killing, trying to punish herself, trying to feed the monster until it eats itself alive. Because yes, that’s all she is. A monster.

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"Eaten or rotten. I am all mouth." — .

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Wanted plot :    "I was supposed to kill you but we got married in Vegas. Well, I'm still gonna kill you."

Looking for a target for Ara Anthea. Plot inspired by Anora, mixed with Ara's backstory and lore.

Ara Anthea is a mercenary, survival has always been her only rule. On the job, she’s known as Cerberus. Efficient. Lethal. But there’s something chillingly sadistic in the way she puts a bullet through a man’s skull, she enjoys it. People say she’s not alone in her head. Unstable. But she’s one of the best, and when you need results, how can you not hire her? This time, though, the contract is different. Trickier. The target? Your muse. Her plan is the following: infiltrate a club your muse frequents, pose as a sex worker, lure them in, and finish the job. Clean. Simple. Just another night. Except it doesn’t happen. There was something about the conversation they had that night. Something that caught her off guard. Curiosity, maybe. Or something deeper. They start spending time together, drinking, laughing, losing themselves in the chaos. Your muse has money and keeps spending it for Ara, she likes it. One night, they even get drunk-married in Vegas, just for the hell of it. That was supposed to be the moment she struck. But... something goes wrong and she doesn't manage to kill your muse. Another miss.

Ara : Fine, now the cats are out of the bags darling but I can still kill you and have a lot of pleasure doing so.

Y/M : Yeah? Or I can be your ticket out of this miserable life of yours, just stay married to me. My money will be yours.

Ara : Won't you try to kill me in my sleep as revenge if I do?

Y/M : I certainly will.

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Cathy Linh Che, from Go Forget your father//Friedrich Nietzsche// Richey Edwards// // Moss Angel, Girldirt Angelfog// Rainer Maria Rilke, Fragment of an Elegy,// Leila Miccolis, till death do us part.

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ANORA (2024) + f a c e l e s s

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She doesn’t speak right away. Lets the silence breathe. Lets it stretch between them like a string of golden silk, the same her dress is made of. Her gaze holds his with a quiet passion, eyes molten with something timeless as if in other lives, they might have known each other. How? When? Did they fall in love? She wonders... Is he the type of man his reputation says he is, if his previous lives were made of violence and power, the same way as hers. She smiles then, slowly, the kind of smile that curls at the edges like smoke and promises she never has to say out loud. Her fingers still on the table, caressing the velvet-red cloth. And when she finally speaks, her voice is a ribbon of midnight. "I always believed borrowing was for the desperate, darling. For men and women excusing themselves to exist. I would say I don’t borrow. I steal, yes. I love to take what's mine and make what I want of it. Ahh.. If I do steal your time then, I'm that type of vixen." She tilts her chin ever so slightly, her golden dress catching the flicker of a low lamp above, with her grin and smirk at the teasing of him saying he would let her ruin it all anyways. Seduction and destruction, she loves all that. Isn't that what they are doing? A game of slow seduction that only deepens her curiosity towards such a man and the words of destruction they could build together. "Mm. You don’t strike me as the kind of man who offers moments so easily, am I wrong. Yours are locked behind iron and silence and the weight of names no one dares to say twice." Her voice dips, softer now, velvet draped over steel. "But here you are, holding one out to me like it costs you nothing. As if it’s just a drink. Just a line. Just another Tuesday night." She leans in, slowly, her forearm folding elegantly on the table between them. Her nails tap lightly on the table, once. Twice. The only sound between them besides the low, lazy moan of a trumpet somewhere in the background. "How have you ended up here, Gentleman, in this velvet-lined hole, here in Hongdae? This place is hardly worthy of your attention."

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Bernini’s Apollo and Daphne at the Galleria Borghese in Rome, 2016. Photos by Stuart Franklin.

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"Et in tenebris cordis mei, daemonia sussurrant veritatem." — And in the abyss of my soul, my demons whisper the truth.

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The room is thick with velvet shadows and the slow pull of jazz melodies. It wraps around the space like cigarette smoke, intoxicating, clinging to the marrow of the bones. Black Velvet isn’t the kind of place where people raise their voices, no, only Ilana’s voice could be heard, threading through the air like silk, a sound men in pressed suits and loosened ties paid to drown in. They came here to drink, to forget, to exchange dirty money and bloody handshakes, pretending they weren’t the same filthy animals outside these doors. Ilana knows them all. She is the charming snake of the underground scene, after all. She whispers into their ears, and they whisper back, spilling their sins like confessions in a church that deals only in indulgences. She knows them all : the powerful, the desperate, the dangerous. The ones who think a seat in the dark makes them invisible. And tonight, there is him. Lee Geonwoo. A name passed between men who never said it too loudly. A phantom, always there, always just out of reach. No one really knew how far his shadow stretched, only that it did. She sees him now. The way he sits, still as stone, he doesn’t watch the stage like the others. He just exists, raw and untouched, and somehow that silence of his is louder than any of the noise around him. Intriguing. Magnetic. The last note melts into the hush of the room, and she steps off the stage, slow. She ignores the applause, the eyes that reach for her the way greedy hands always do. Let them look. Let them wait. Her curiosity has sharper teeth tonight. She moves through the room like a cat, the shimmer of her dress catching the warm glow of the lights. A sway in her hips, the kind that turns heads, but her focus never strays. She doesn’t stop for the men who expect her company, who are waiting with glasses of expensive scotch and tired attempts at charm. Let them wait. Her heels click against polished floors, a sound almost swallowed by the hush that lingers between them when she reaches him. She slides into the seat across from him, uninvited but not unwelcome, her presence settling into the space like she’s always belonged there. Close enough to catch the sharp scent of his cigar, the slow burn of whiskey curling from his breath. Close enough to see him now : not just the shadowed legend, but the man. Well-suited, sharp-jawed, the kind of handsome that doesn’t ask for attention but demands it anyway. He doesn’t look at her the way men usually do. That alone makes him dangerous. She smiles, enigmatic curve on her lips, her elbow resting against the velvet-red tablecloth, chin propped against her hand. Her gaze is steady, unhurried, stealing pieces of him like a pickpocket working the crowd. "Most men in this room want to be known. You sit in the dark and let them wonder." She lets the words settle, tilting her head slightly, watching for a shift or a tell. Her fingers trail the rim of the wood, slow, thoughtful, tracing absent patterns against its polished surface. "That’s an expensive kind of quiet, don’t you think?" She questions. "Will you share it with me, Gentleman?"

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Ara Anthea watches her—really watches her. The way Mitsuko’s voice wavers just beneath the surface despite its resolve. The way her eyes, sharp and searching, latch onto hers like a lifeline. It’s familiar. Her own past rises like a tide—memories of those who once clung to her as Mitsuko does now. Some are dead. Some are worse than dead. And others… others had simply let go. But Mitsuko? She is still here, grasping. Seeking. And there’s something in that, something Ara wants to fight for. Her smirk is wry, but beneath it, something softer lingers. "Leaving your side?" she repeats, tasting the words as if they are foreign. Her grip on Mitsuko’s shoulders remains firm. "Darling, if I planned to leave, I wouldn’t have held on in the first place." She exhales, slow, considering. The weight of Mitsuko’s words lingers in her mind, the recounting of what had happened—the possession, the loss of control, the way that thing, whatever it was, had noticed her. Had reached for her. It unsettles something in Ara, something deep. She has seen creatures like that before. She knows all about their pull. And if Mitsuko had felt it, had almost succumbed to it— Ara’s nails press lightly into Mitsuko’s jacket, just for a moment, before she releases her, stepping back. Her gaze flickers over the dimly lit space, the neon sign trembling in its dying glow, the hum of something unseen pressing at the edges of the world.

"You probably tell yourself you should’ve looked away," she murmurs, voice low, unreadable. Then, softer, "But you couldn’t, could you?" Her arms cross over her chest, the leather of her jacket creaking slightly. Because she knows what it means—to stare too long into something that shouldn’t be seen. She knows what happens when you let it see you back. "You’re right about one thing," she continues, voice thoughtful, dark. "It had a reason for reaching out to you. Whether it was instinct or intent… that thing marked you in some way. The question is, how deep did its claws sink?" Her head tilts slightly, gaze full of questions. "Did you feel anything after?" she presses. "Something off? Something missing?" Her eyes flicker, searching for the unseen. "I’ve met things that steal pieces of you without you realizing until it’s too late. Sometimes you don’t even notice what’s been taken—until you do. And sometimes..." A pause, a shadow in her voice. "Sometimes, you become it." A warning. A possibility Ara doesn’t want to think about. What if Mitsuko has already started to become .. It? "This might be one of those things," she says, tone even, controlled—but beneath it, something keen, something urgent. "And if it is, I need to know before it comes knocking again." Because it will. These things always do. "You don’t have to figure this out alone," she says, quieter now, something like reassurance coiled between the words. "I’ll help you see clearer. But..." A hesitation. Then, with a bitter, self-aware smile, "I'm just hoping it won't be more powerful than us. My ego wouldn’t want me to say this, but—" her gaze darkens, almost distant, "—I’ve been defeated before. Hence why I’m here, too. I have weakened even since hell has been taken over." There’s a quiet admission in that, one she doesn’t offer lightly.

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Also I have finally found the new faceclaim for this blog I will slowly delete traces of the former and incorporate the new one in icons !

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Roberto Ferri, The Last Judgment (𝟤𝟢𝟣𝟧)

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— Willi Kissmer, “Half-nudes” | 1999-2013