MATRIARCH

[venividivicii-blog]

    “Did you think I’d forgotten you?”

[matriarcha-blog]

     ‘I don’t know, Francis. Had you?’

[cknd]

Barcelona industrial loft

[aestatemagazine]

Daily inspiration. Learn more about the project www.aestate.be

[life1nmotion]

Cozy Apartments With Modern Interior Design by Vasil Enev

[venividivicii-blog]

     ( all the weight of things considered, Frank feels lighter talking to Claire than he used to. He’s past reminding her that he loves her, doesn’t bother to suggest that he wants to see her. Frank has come to terms with the chasm he made. )

     “She’s grown.”

     ( beat. )

     “That is what children do, I suppose. Only so much had happened since she was last home.” 

[matriarcha-blog]

     A cool gust of wind pushes her hair away from her face. Claire welcomes the cadence of Frank’s voice the same way she welcomes rain beating against the windows before she goes to sleep: it’s a kind of balm, and for a second she allows herself to be soothed. That second is not a weakness: weakness would be to multiply it.

          ‘Have you talked to her about it, Francis?’

[bre-roz]

Stylizimo Blog by Nina Holst 

[cknd]

[venividivicii-blog]

                                       venividivicii​ & matriarcha                                                  ind. frank & claire underwood

[0310mp3]

Monster ft. Jay Z, Nicki Minaj, Rick Ross and Bon Iver, by Kanye West (2010) // Ellen Terry as Lady Macbeth by John Singer Sargent (1889)

[sharontates]

Princess Tarakanova in the Peter and Paul Fortress at the Time of the Flood,

[matriarcha-blog]

vintagesonia:

- Konstantin Flavitsky, 1864.

[plasticdynasty]

Difficult Questions for Muses

(Please remember to use trigger warnings as and when necessary)

Do you think that you’re a good person?

Do others like you? Do you want others to like you?

What do you think others like or admire about you?

How do you know when you’re in love? (romantic or platonic)

Would you or have you ever killed? What would drive you to kill? 

Do you think that killing is ever justified?

Have you ever done anything that you feel to be very morally wrong?

Should all people be treated as equal, and have the same rights?

If you committed a crime, would you accept punishment willingly?

Is suicide ever the right choice?

Is euthanasia ever the right choice?

Is it right to have an intimate relationship with somebody you don’t love?

What could make you break your own moral code? 

Have you ever doubted your own beliefs? (Spiritual, philosophical)

Would you always be loyal to your loved ones even if they wronged you?

What would you consider a fate worse than death?

Why do you love the person or people you love? (romantic or platonic)

Do you agree with capital punishment?

Could you ever forgive your worst enemy?

What would you like to achieve before you die?

[franderwood-deactivated20161011]

A slow exhale, a long pause, pulling the suitcase up to the wall with a few steps back again to take one last look at herself in the mirror. No, she looks fine. Nobody begged to differ but she reassures herself nonetheless. Her heels click against the tiles of the kitchen floor and Fran announces her presence with a quiet throat-clearing, smiling at Claire from the kitchen doorway.

   “Sorry I’m late, traffic was hell.”

[matriarcha-blog]

     ‘Traffic always is.’ It’s a satisfying kind of relief that pulses through her: she sets the salad bowl back on the counter, firm, and closes the space between them. There’s a momentary, frightening pause where she doesn’t know what to do from here, and (there’s a tiny decisive nod that marks her decision, barely visible but Claire knows she’d done it) puts her arms around Fran’s shoulders. She’s warm. Comfortable. The malignant echoes of that fright vanish in an instant.

          Things changed while she was gone. A lot of things. But that’s a conversation she’ll enter only if Fran brings it up. Only if Fran wants to hear it -- her side. As if any of this is about her any more.

     ‘Have you eaten? I’ll make you some lunch.’ It’s something petty in her that forces her to ask even while she’s still holding her, one hand curled over her shoulder, the other on her upper arm. The sentimentality sticks in her throat: she doesn’t mind how it tastes.

[franderwood-deactivated20161011]

She gives the hallway mirror a side-eye, anxiously patting back loose strands of hair and levelling the hem of her skirt before Claire can see her. Her little suitcase makes quietly satisfying clicks along the hardwood floors while she rolls it in, glancing tentatively around the loft. (Empty.) Fran clears her throat.

             “MOM? YOU HOME?”

[matriarcha-blog]

     For the last minute and a half, Claire has been standing in front of the open fridge, letting the cool air press against the edges of her skin. She imagines the surface of her turning crisp and chipped with ice, creeping like vines, spreading from the tips, glacier-slow, down to the marrow of her bones.

          It’s a combination of Francesca’s voice and the soft, urgent beeping of the fridge door alert that drags her out of her thoughts. Slamming it shut, she turns, brushes down her shirt and calls, sharp and clear, ‘In the kitchen.’ A half-prepared salad is demanding her attention.

[venividivicii-blog]

           The only thing more satisfying than convincing someone to do what I want,            is failing to persuade them on purpose. It’s like a “do not enter” sign. It just            begs you to walk though the door. 

[venividivicii-blog]

                                       venividivicii​ & matriarcha                                                  ind. frank & claire underwood

[anthonysoprano]

claire + costumes > Season 3

[jesuisfemmeecarlate-deactivated]

Shakespeare ; l a d y m a c b e t h

Come, you spirits That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here, And fill me from the crown to the toe top-full Of direst cruelty! make thick my blood; Stop up the access and passage to remorse, That no compunctious visitings of nature Shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between The effect and it! Come to my woman’s breasts, And take my milk for gall, you murdering ministers, Wherever in your sightless substances You wait on nature’s mischief! Come, thick night, And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell, That my keen knife see not the wound it makes, Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark, To cry ‘Hold, hold!’