#anne of cleaves

[doorknobhater]

i have six personalities. here they are:

[punk-o-ween]

i just finished watching six (through animatics) and oh my fucking god that musical IS SO GOOD

i learned so much abt them ?! especially katherine howard, poor girl! ofc she had to be the one to blame when in reality she was only 13-19 (approx) !! lord have MERCY 😞 anyway, i love anne of cleaves and anne boleyn sm, we love you besties 🫶

i dont even think the fandom is alive anymore (or accepts new fans but...) the musical was great and id totally reccomend! this is the playlist ive watched (linked below) and i HIGHLY reccomend watching my faves (the anne boleyn one and the jane seymour one)

i might draw boleyn soon 😋😋😋

[darkwitchingflower]

Me in an exam, doing chores doing anything for that matter* :No

My brain: '-'

Me: no

My brain: :)

Me: dont. You. Dare

My brain: Hans Holbein goes around the vorld painting all of ze b e a u t i f u l gorls

[anneliesengland]

[kkecreads]

The Tudors in Love by Sarah Gristwood

The Tudors in Love by Sarah Gristwood

Published: December 13, 2022 St. Martin’s Press Pages: 571 Genre: Biographies of Royalty KKECReads Rating: ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ I received a copy of this book for free, and I leave my review voluntarily. Sarah Gristwood is the author of several bestselling Tudor histories. Sarah regularly appears on television and radio talking about royal and historical affairs in series such as Secrets of the…

[sinligh]

A siren, a female being made of liquid stars and all the unnecessary wars. A beauty that is overpowered by rejection an overdose of a vitamin…

Well, I’m begged for redemption only i lure to self destruction.

I sing about broken promises that lasts a lifetime and fears that grow as you do... grow viscously, and as big as the void an emotionally absent parent can leave behind in you.

I’m one year closer to my mid twenties It took me a life time to realize It’s not love that I’ve been starved from

It’s the comfort of feeling seen, without dressing myself up with all the glamorous words that I weighed myself down with since i was a child

forced to communicate; only to please. Now I sing, and it’s out of tune but I seduce and I ruin.

I was loved growing up, i felt so even when no one ever gave me a definition to what love really means.

Maybe they didn’t even know it was missing.

I felt indestructible so I kept stripping my love from misconceptions; only to be left with suffering

Now I know better. It’s either leaving or being left and both in a way are synonyms of love.

the residual of that love is almost nonexistent among the memories that resemble a never ending internal bleeding.

That being said, tragedies stands out more and i use them like bookmarks to my memories.

So i love; and i leave.

I cut into myself with my own teeth dissecting the pieces with my tongue knowing very well how much it will hurt me to taste something that i don’t recognize…

I spend most of my hours dwelling on all the parts of me that make me a duplication of my mother

hypocritically i pack them in the carry on bag that’s always open on my bedroom floor

So ready to leave; just like my father. he emptied more of me in his bags every weekend for business trips

Carving unintentional hollows and leaving them for my mother to fill.

I thought he was the one sacrificing himself, until I noticed that alot of my missing pieces are still under his bed.

Mama doesn’t like it when I point out where my father went wrong she loves him too much, and i .. i reflect that love; by leaving

I know they did their best molding me into a human that knows how to survive, but that’s all I know now.

I don’t understand affection, nor how to accept it in my body.

Not even when I crave it; i suspect it’s because I’m too full of myself and if I feel this way… why would I expect anyone to carve themselves out to fit me in ?

Anyway, I don’t know how to ask women for acceptance and men can’t stand me cause I don’t flatter them

Love sounds like a curse to me.

What if I loved for all the wrong reasons?

my body understands the mechanisms to create another life from love, but i don’t.

I fear that the taste of motherhood will resemble that of a defense mechanism.

•••

•Quotes: Alexander Pushkin/George Eliot/ Leo Tolstoy/ Chris Cleave/Clarice Lispector/ Anne Carson/ Kiki Nicole/ Richard Siken/ Lidia Yuknavitch/ Sylvia Plath/ Franz Kafka

•Original context: Sinligh

•Art reference:

1. A young beauty reclining on a bed By Enjolras Delphin. 2. Details of John William Godward's: Eurypyle (1921) 3. Details of John William Godward's: Eurypyle(1921) 4. Painting by Roberto Ferri (details). 5. The Table (1971-80) Antonio Lopez Garcia. 6. Painting by Alex Venezia. 7. Narzissin by Josef Fischnaller. 8. Painting by Valeria Duca. 9. Painting by Ricky Mujica.

[doueverwonder]

actually i'm not surprised Mary's love life was a mess, and Elizabeth never got married. Like babes their dad went through six wives, and Elizabeth wouldn't but Mary absolutely remembered all the bullshit considering she was already 11 when he divorced Cathrine of Aragon.

[beannary]

asdfghjkl i feel like such a fool I just realized that today at work I kept on mixing up Anne of cleaves and Jane Seymour like a complete loser who does that I need to get my act together

[todo-morira]

Personally if your Six cast is mostly white or white passing queens I think you should recast

[ynwa4eva]

Brituals what does minger mean ?😭

[doorknobhater]

Story Idea:

Modern version of King Henry and his six wives

HEAVILY inspired by SIX the Musical

But no songs, cuz WRITING a fic like a musical is hard

Plenty roasting sessions from Anne Boelyn and Catherine Howard, of course

[galaxiasgreen]

⛅💗Nippy

Fluffy Ominis x F!Muggle-born!Reader [T-Rated, 1.5k]

He laughed, a rich sound, deep from his chest. You glanced sidelong at him then. The glow of the lamppost was cleaving shadows over his face, cutting at angles, accentuating what you'd never noticed about him before – his beauty. Sebastian was boyish good looks, round cheeks, a devilish smile. Ominis had none of that same charm, but there was something so divine about his features, his sloped nose and knife-sharp lips, hair combed back in golden-brown waves. And his eyes, despite not seeing, were... intense, unforgettable. Vivid.

It's cold on the way back from Hogsmeade, and you forgot your jumper.

A/N: This is a scene from Troublesome and Unladylike Chapter 2, but it’s edited to work standalone. Jumper-sharing trope, Oh No He's Hot, banter and fluff ahoy. Reader is Gibby, but no prior reading is required. Enjoy <3

[read on AO3, read on Wattpad]

It was during third year that something about Ominis changed for you.

It wasn't a particularly warm day that March weekend, so it was a mistake on your part to go to Hogsmeade with him and Sebastian, late that Sunday without a proper cardigan. The afternoon had deceived you, the sun whispering against your skin, and by the time you'd bought everything but your usual stash of sweets, a swathe of clouds had rolled in, a grey ribbon across the sky.

"What do you mean, the essay was twenty inches?" Sebastian crossed his arms. "You're pranking me."

"It was twenty, Sebastian," said Ominis, exasperated. "I told you it was twenty."

You nudged your head towards Honeydukes. "Okay! Just to replenish my midnight snacks—"

"You said it was ten!"

"I specifically remember saying add another ten."

Sebastian said a word you could not repeat. "It's due first thing in the morning. Blast it. I better go back. Can I take a look at yours?"

"So you can copy it? I don't think so."

"I wouldn't copy it. Just... take inspiration from it. Verbatim."

He made the approximation of a glare, and Sebastian, wincing, turned to you with a desperate gleam in his eye.

"Gibby? Please?"

"Sure!" you chirruped. "But only if you're okay with a mediocre-to-dreadful Potions score!"

Sebastian threw up his arms in exasperation. "You two, honestly. I'll ask Anne."

When he hurried off, back to the carriages, Ominis snorted. "You're very secure in your mediocrity."

"It's one of my best traits."

To that he laughed. "Very well then. Honeydukes?"

By the time you came back out, armed to the teeth in your weekly supply of cherry pops, Fizzing Whizzbees and rock, the sun had dipped below the horizon, and a sharp wind sliced through the village. It only exacerbated by the time you stepped out of Hogsmeade.

Where there were no carriages.

"Fiddlesticks," you muttered. "We must have missed the last one."

His lips buttoned in displeasure. "Makes sense. You took a profoundly longtime deciding between cauldron cakes and pumpkin pasties."

"It's a hard choice to make."

"Well, now we're going to have a hard walk."

About an hour, down the meandering path back to Hogwarts. Ominis gathered his belongings and headed off, wand drawn for navigation, and you scrambled to catch up.

As the chill deepened, the canopy snuffing the coming rays of the moon, you kept close to his side, aware of his warmth.

"Are you mad at me?"

"Why would I be mad at you?"

"For taking so long in Honeydukes."

He scoffed, not seeming particularly annoyed, albeit a little inconvenienced. "I know you well enough now to know you cannot be rushed in there. And I could've left you if I wanted. I just decided not to because I am a good person."

"My papa says if you have to tell people you're a good person, then you're not a good person." Teasing filled your voice. "I guess that makes you really quite terrible."

"Oh, yes, waiting for you. How rotten."

"Suppose I could give you the Good Person award. You just have to admit how amazing I am."

"Only a Good Person can bestow the Good Person Award, so I'm afraid you don't qualify."

"I take offence to that. I'm spectacular."

"Incredible how you manage to be simultaneously spectacular and mediocre."

"Hey!"

He laughed, a rich sound, deep from his chest. You glanced sidelong at him then. The glow of the lamppost was cleaving shadows over his face, cutting at angles, accentuating what you'd never noticed about him before – his beauty. Sebastian was boyish good looks, round cheeks, a devilish smile. Ominis had none of that same charm, but there was something so divine about his features, his sloped nose and knife-sharp lips, hair combed back in golden-brown waves. And his eyes, despite not seeing, were... intense, unforgettable. Vivid.

Your gaze unwittingly travelled down the column of his neck. He'd grown taller since you'd known him too, lean in the way a river meanders, lazy in its strength. Sturdy biceps were hidden within woollen sleeves – not muscular, but not flimsy, either, you knew from when Sebastian cast a Shrinking charm on his shirt once. The Gaunt family were all inbred, generations of parents and grandparents that were cousins, so Ominis was a product of centuries of incest – but aside from his eye condition, and his somewhat ropey gait, there were no physical indicators of poor health.

He was... arrestingly exquisite.

Oh. You blinked. Why am I thinking that?

"What's the matter?" he asked suddenly.

You flushed. "Hmm? What? What do you mean?"

"You're quiet. That's never good."

"I— can be quiet," you said, a little breathless. "I'm... thinking."

"Don't hurt yourself."

You swatted him, and he smiled lightly.

"Dare I ask what occupies your mind?"

How good-looking you are. "Sweets."

A tsk. "I don't know what else I expected."

You fell into companionable silence, but now something had shifted in your stomach – something that drew your eye back to his profile again, drinking in the details, the beauty marks, the even jaw, finely slashed, the quirk of his smile—

You stumbled suddenly, toe hitting a jutting rock. You flailed your arms, bags rattling, before you managed to right yourself – and noticed how he'd reached out, ready to catch you if you fell. Ever the gentleman.

"Careful," he warned.

"Yes, sorry, too busy staring at— the view."

The view being you. You forced yourself to watch your feet, frustrated. Stop staring. It was terribly perverse to take advantage of him when he couldn't see, not to mention impolite and very unbecoming of a lady.

"You're quiet again."

"Sorry, sorry," you said automatically. You hoisted your bags to wrap your arms around yourself. "Just— trying to stay warm."

"You're cold?"

"It's a little nippy."

"Nippy?"

"Sorry, Muggle thing— I mean chilly."

More than that now. The sun had dipped, leaving a paint stroke of indigo in its wake. Hogwarts was in view, but it seemed no closer, the path winding and long. You hadn't even passed the balcony yet, where all the older students hung around to do lewd things... like holding hands (that had been quite the shock when you first got here).

Ominis sighed. "You should've brought a jumper."

"I know. I'm silly."

"Tell me something I don't know."

You halted to put your bags down and pull your shirt sleeves over your hands. "I'll be okay. I'll jog it!"

A ruffle of fabric pulled your head back up. Ominis had pocketed his wand, sticking out of his trouser leg, and was shucking his jumper. The shirt beneath it caught, flashing his midriff when he pulled the wool off – you flushed an even deeper colour when he offered it to you.

"W-What are you doing?"

"It's cold," he said, like it was obvious. "You can borrow this."

"But— then you'll get cold."

"I'll be fine." He shook it again. "Take it before I change my mind."

The wool was coarse, a dark green with the Slytherin insignia emblazoned on the breast, but warm – warm from his body. Great Scott. You scrunched it before sliding it over yourself, and of course it was too big, drowning you, but it was the scent that disorientated you worse than a Confundus charm. Ominis never bothered to use cologne, preferring some scentless soap, but still it smelt of him. Sweat and wood and an oily lotion. When you finally pulled your arms through the sleeves and your head through the neck hole, glasses askew, you were dizzy with it.

Lord have mercy. Your gaze flickered to him – he'd picked up your bags of sweets with one arm. One well-defined arm.

"Let's go."

You could barely swallow. What on earth is wrong with me? But your heart was pounding, your ears ringing. He turned away to go, but he was also surrounding you, invading your thoughts with zero intention to leave.

If you were a Muggle, your mama would've thought to bring you to church with an agenda by now, introducing you to boys of similar age in hopes that later in life you'd find a match, marry, and start a family. When you were younger, the local baker's son Timothy liked to joke you could marry each other, an easy escape from the societal obligation to court. You'd agreed as all children do, appalled at the idea of parading around to search for a husband.

Magical folk didn't follow those same customs – strange as it was to adjust – but that didn't mean you didn't think about the future, about marriage. That, one day you might like to have a family. That it would be nice to marry someone of your choosing, someone both handsome and kind.

Someone like Ominis Gaunt.

Oh no, no, no, you thought. Please do not take a fancy to your best friend.

But by then, it was too late.

"Thank—" your voice came out as a croak, and you tried again. "Thank you for this."

He slowed about two strides away. "Bring a jumper next time."

"I will."

"Mean it."

"I do mean it!"

He smiled again, and your heart bounced. "We'll see."

Please reblog/ share if you enjoyed <3

[read Troublesome and Unladylike on AO3, Wattpad] [Divider credit]

[laurapetrie]

- Anne Boleyn's Sleeve by Juliana Gray, "The End"

However understandable the impulse to universalise Anne Boleyn’s story might be, these attempts mostly fail to account for the very historic specificity of her narrative. How can we account for a woman who apparently had so much sexual and emotional appeal she had the power to cleave King and country from the control of the Catholic Church, yet whose downfall was so complete she became the first English queen consort to face the executioner? The story of Anne Boleyn is about dissenting from and challenging the dominant cultural norms; her example is that of the woman who created herself and, for a brief time, through her brilliance and her beauty and her will, maintained herself in a society in which quasi-independent female empowerment and agency were relatively unknown. She continues to speak to us as an avatar of feminine power. - Stephanie Russo, The Afterlife of Anne Boleyn: Representations of Anne Boleyn in Fiction and on the Screen

[letters-unsending]

55 — Hero with randomized powers.

/////

"What's the power for today?"

"Mind control of anyone named Anne," Hero answered, peering up from his book to squint at Villain. After a stretch of time, he sighed and looked back down, flicking his pen in his hand. "Well, that knocks one name off the list, I suppose."

"Did you get to use it?" Villain seated himself on the corner of Hero's desk.

"No," Hero frowned, "I'm not one for mind control and I don't know any of criminals named Anne."

"That's fair." Villain picked at a piece of paper and Hero swatted his hand away. "How about yesterday? What power did you have?"

In a rare show of emotion, a smile slid across Hero's lips. He appeared nigh triumphant as he set his pen down and closed his book, the pages exhaling spectacular plume of dust.

"I'm afraid I can't tell you," Hero smirked, tossing the volume in his desk drawer.

Villain raised a brow. "What power of yours could possibly be worth keeping a secret?"

"Well, that's rude," Hero snarked with little heat, pulling his jacket off the back of his chair and shrugging it on, "I've had plenty of useful powers."

"Like what?" Villain hopped off the desk to follow Hero out of his office.

"I solved one kidnapping case by talking to pigeons." Hero wound through the maze of shelves, all of which were rife with leaflets of spells, powerful trinkets, and other items heroes collected on their excursions. Many of the lower shelves expelled their contents onto the floor and Hero deftly stepped over them.

"Yeah, I think I remember that one. Wasn't that a few years back though?" Villain tripped over a tree sculpture that lashed out of silver root. Without turning his head, Hero yanked him upright by the shoulder and steered him around another corner. "Haven't you done anything new?"

"I don't get out much, if you couldn't tell." Hero groused. "I'm in the archives every time you take it upon yourself to visit."

"They don't lock you down here."

"They might as well." They approached an elevator, which began to groan down to their level after Hero pushed the up button.

"You still have your training. You know, the good ol' right hook." Villain shifted his weight back on his heels and mimed a punch. "That's more effective than half the powers out there right now. Plus, I know you keep up on conditioning." He winked, squeezing Hero's arm for good measure.

Hero stiffened and gave Villain a dull look. Upon opening, the elevator's light cleaved through the dust-laden dark of the archive, and Villain would've thrown a hand over his eyes, if not for Hero dragging him forward by the attached elbow.

The doors squealed closed.

Distorted jazz sounded from the speakers.

"You still haven't told me."

"Look, I would, but it's classified."

"Classified?" Villain echoed. "What could you have possibly gotten yourself into?"

Yellow light poured from the elevators grime-filmed lights and caught the round rims of Hero's glasses.

"I don't tell you all my powers. I can't." Hero shoved his hands in his pockets. "I have a deal with Superhero. If I have a particularly good day, I go straight to her."

"You know Superhero? You?" Villain looked over Hero, at his jacket that crinkled each time he moved, at the cowed curve of his posture.

Hero avoided Villain's gaze, tracking their progress in the scuffed number window.

"My power follows a bell curve. Most days land in the middle, where all the mundane things are, but occasionally, a day will be good. Real good." Hero turned toward Villain, a gleam lighting his eyes. "And I've been feeling pretty lucky recently."

The elevator had been going up for far too long.

"[Hero], what did you do yesterday?"

The door opened, revealing the immaculate foyer of the Hero Organization. A rush of people filed into the elevator, but Villain couldn't seem to move as Hero slipped away, hands still in his pockets. Hero turned back as the doors began to close.

"You should probably go back to your Organization. I've heard they're going to need a lot of help down there."

[reverie-quotes]

He knew Mara had always thought love made things complicated, but Peter knew love was a sharp blade slicing an apple: cleaved—both blade and bond.

— Anne Michaels, Held

[in-kyblogs]

“But his eyes, they remained the same, staring wildly at the ceiling, the irises dancing from side to side, even as the flesh cleaved to the bones, became nothing but a parchment wrapping for the bones, the clothes hollow and limp over the skeleton that remained. Finally the irises rolled to the top of his head, and the whites of his eyes went dim.

The thing lay still.

A great mass of wavy blond hair, a coat, a pair of gleaming boots; and this horror that had been Lestat, and I staring helplessly at it.”

Interview with the Vampire,

Anne Rice