easterparades:

A REQUIEM FOR VILLAINOUS QUEENS

ZIP

lady macbeth
you say this is a game so take your place, then you set the mask upon your face, my silhouette in the air you trace, and the dagger performs with a start 
mirah / the knife thrower 

evil queen of snow white
she learned it from a book, suitors approach, receive dirty looks. calling on her for good or grief. these types of fool who beg and never read
horse feathers / rude to rile

morgan le fay
“what say you good people?” (guilty, guilty, guilty) “i am responsible for your actions.” “wake the witch.”
kate bush / waking the witch

cersei lannister
beautiful, alone with my enemy, and share a bitter cup of poisoning, my countenance, to see his face in mine, and follow every line back to my enemy
jesca hoop / enemy 

marisa coulter
she damned if she do, she damned if she don’t, if history hang hang hangs her well, her memory won’t…and i am no stranger to the strange, and all his ways, what could be stranger, than to be stuck outside your cage
the kills / damned if she do

 marguerite d’anjou
is your armour thin again? do i want to wear it down? am i worthy to come in? do you want to be found?
charlotte martin / your armour

attolia irene
there is a light in my lady’s house, and there’s none but some falling rain, this like a spoken word, she is more than her thousand names. no hands are half as gentle, or as firm as they like to be, thank god you see me the way you do, strange as you are to me.
iron & wine / my lady’s house

atia of the julii
know myself, well oh hell, prissy queen, iron bars, iron heart, everything…more alive than you’ve ever been
yeah yeah yeahs / dull life

lucrezia borgia
read to me again, about the king who took his daughter to the feast. tell me how she lifted up her veils and laid them at his feet. execution in her eyes, she pointed to her prize, and said, “i want him to be mine.” and everyone knew the man was going to lose his head tonight.
emmy the great / bad things coming, we are safe

regina mills
i could tell you stories like the past was dead and gone, but i know nothing changes in this world, everyday the muezzin calls, sun comes up and baghdad falls.
anais mitchell / before the eyes of storytelling girls

bastard guinevere
the day i go to war, i won’t be there tomorrow, the days i go to war, i won’t be there, i won’t be there, story of the night shows itself, go to sleep, they are not to see this. 
zola jesus / shivers 

(Source: sunneinsplendour)

“

His wedding gift, clasped round my throat. A choker of rubies, two inches wide, like an extraordinarily precious slit throat. After the Terror, in the early days of the Directory, the aristos who’d escaped the guillotine had an ironic fad of tying a red ribbon round their necks at just the point where the blade would have sliced it through, a red ribbon like the memory of a wound. And his grandmother, taken with the notion, had her ribbon made up in rubies; such a gesture of luxurious defiance! That night at the opera comes back to me even now… the white dress; the frail child within it; and the flashing crimson jewels round her throat, bright as arterial blood.

I saw him watching me in the gilded mirrors with the assessing eye of a connoisseur inspecting horseflesh, or even of a housewife in the market, inspecting cuts on the slab. I’d never seen, or else had never acknowledged, that regard of his before, the sheer carnal avarice of it; and it was strangely magnified by the monocle lodged in his left eye. When I saw him look at me with lust, I dropped my eyes but, in glancing away from him, I caught sight of myself in the mirror. And I saw myself, suddenly, as he saw me, my pale face, the way the muscles in my neck stuck out like thin wire. I saw how much that cruel necklace became me. And, for the first time in my innocent and confined life, I sensed in myself a potentiality for corruption that took my breath away.

The next day, we were married.

” — Angela Carter; The Bloody Chamber (via eldritche)

(Source: sherlockable, via hotelsongs)

(Source: designersof, via hotelsongs)

jonquille:

Hmmm so. Imaginary plot to this imaginary movie: Léa plays a beleaguered writer who attempts suicide and enters a coma. When she “wakes up” she’s greeted by Matt, who says he’s an element of her subconscious meant to guide her through her dreamscapes and back to reality. Then… there are twists that I’m too tired to think up, and shit goes down.

I have no excuses for my life.