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firedawnd · 3 years

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Love For Them (AKA, a study of Ace!Katherine)

Katherine Howard does not know love: not at first.

Not until he came. Not until he, broad-shouldered, bearded, creased face, the spitting image of alluring maturity entered her life.

Wordcount: 7366.

Series Link: Don’t.

AO3 Link: Love For Them.

(Yes, it’s finally here!!)

Heavy trigger warnings for r*pe, corrective r*pe, gaslighting, acephobia (external & internalised), grooming, internalised self-blame. No heavily explicit r*pe is shown but it is alluded to, implied, and in imagery.

Katherine Howard does not know love: not at first.

Not until he came. Not until he, broad-shouldered, bearded, creased face, the spitting image of alluring maturity entered her life.

Some have gushed about Mannox’s allure. He was… broad and dark. Desirable was the words which she had overheard some of their maids say.

And he wants her.

(Who was she to refuse?)

And so Katherine stares. Up at her music teacher. Of a gigantic stature; so much taller, stronger, wider than her was he. And that’s part of the allure, she’s sure, but she’s also sure that he can crush her in her fingers, leave her in only little pieces, mingling between ashes and dust amid piano keys.

He looks back at her. You can stop, Katherine. I see how you stare at me.

She flushes, then. She gazes up at him. Tall and glowering and imposing. A knowing smirk presses by his lips.

How… do I stare?

His eyes turn dark then. Don’t pretend you don’t know.

And she doesn’t know, she doesn’t, not really. All she knows is what the maids relay to her through bated whispers. He is captivating. Have you seen him? Dark. Mysterious. How breathtaking. I want him to make me his.

Mannox reaches for her hair. He combs his fingers through the ends. She lets him.

I’ll show you how you’re supposed to feel.

And she loves him. How could she not? He is… striking. That is what they say about him. He is… brooding. He is handsome. Desirable.

He fondles— he’s fond of her. And of course, she was never a fan of the sensation, but that was normal. Nobody liked it; not at first. You were to get used to it.

And Katherine is patient. She can wait.

Dereham is the next person they speak about.

How charming is he! So enchanting… so handsome… and so intelligent. Always so astute, so cultured and scholarly: one would think him a nobleman. I hear he is well-endowed… and oh, his virility…

Katherine knows of Dereham’s virility well. He enters the girls’ bedchambers at night. He and the other men. Their eyes prowl, like they are pickings at a market.

(Katherine always curls up in her bed, underneath the sheets, as if she isn’t there. She is not asleep. She knows better than to pretend to be asleep. But she curls herself up, as if, with enough time, they would not see her there anymore.)

And she catches his eye because she is independent.

That is what he says she is. That first night: when his footfalls pause by the end of her bed, and Katherine had refused to meet his eyes. She did not manage to curl within the safety of her bedsheets in time, and so she had stayed, there: eyes cast to the side, averting away from the bodies that mangle the beds and the screeches that interpolate the air.

Look at me.

She looks.

You don’t want me?

And she gazes.

He is tall. He has a strong jaw. A muscular chest. A symmetrical face. A powerful gait. Sculpted, is how they would describe him.

(So enchanting… so handsome… so intelligent. And he wants you . Do you really not want him ? Would you really refuse Dereham? Dereham?)

A breath catches in her throat . Because—who is she to say no?

But Dereham shakes his head before she can speak. He lets out a laugh. A husky laugh. One that speaks to pride and promises once he reaches out to her face. Tilts her chin down with his thumb and makes her meet his face. She lets him.

I’ll prove myself worthy of you.

He gives her 100 pounds. It is yours if I do not return from my voyage. And he leaves her with the sum of his fortune, and Katherine’s stomach is sick with responsibility, for she is merely fourteen, and she had not known him until months prior. What makes him trust her so?

He loves you so.

He reprieves himself from sexual duty. I will be celibate for you, my love. My eyes belong to you. And he presses a kiss to her knuckles, and the roughness of his lips do not leave her skin until days after.

The other girls jostle her. Stare at her. Scowl at her. Jealousy mingling in their eyes. Desire rupturing through their words.

You didn’t have to take Dereham away from us! Not the most… well-endowed man of the home. And they share giggles, and they nudge one another, and they laugh, and Katherine listens to their glee.

Do not tell me that you do not want him. Do not.

Katherine, you might as well let him have you. Maybe then he’ll have us too.

Is it not obvious that he wants you, Katherine? And he is trying so hard for your love, too—he wants you! Don’t be a tease. Give him what he desires.

And he returns from his voyage. She is there, at her bed. He approaches her. She does not meet his eyes. But the indignance is too present in his voice already.

Do you not love me still? I have done everything for you. Do you still seek to keep your independent pretence, Katherine? Or will you allow me to love you?

Her throat is sticky and sore. And she looks up to Francis Dereham.

He is even more masculine, upon his return. Muscles jut from his arms. As if he had been at work. Exuding an odour which is reminiscent of the sea. So much more sculpted.

Katherine, don’t tell us that you don’t love him. He is so handsome… have you seen his body ? And not to mention his charm! If you reject him… I am sorry, but your taste must be atrocious.

There is a plea in Katherine’s eyes. She flicks her gaze away from him. But it does not stop her from seeing a smirk writhe its way across Dereham’s lips.

He grabs her by the chin. Roughly, now.

Of course you love me.

Dereham reaches for her lips. He kisses her. His fingers tousle her hair. He combs his fingers through the ends. She lets him.

(Katherine had never wished for anything more different, then.)

“You desire him, do you not?”

Katherine flushes once again. She carefully turns her eyes away from Joan’s eyes. “He is… enthralling, of course.”

And she’s under Joan’s scrutiny. Katherine presses her fingers into her dress and tries not to squirm. Because she could see, couldn’t she? That Katherine saw him as majestic, as intense, as impressive, yet not…

“You want him, do you not?”

She nods. Vigorously. Twice—thrice—that should be enough to emphasise.

“Yes,” she says. “Yes, of course I do!”

For who was she? Some fool? Who cannot love Mannox? Who cannot love Dereham? Who cannot admire their... sculpted beauty? Who cannot love their bodies?

(She kisses Dereham more vigorously, that night. He does all he wishes to her and she lets him. She screws her eyes shut and forces herself to relax. For she loves him. For she desires him. She is not a monster. Who can love and cannot desire at the same time?)

And then she is raised up-high into the Royal Court. She is the Queen's lady-in-waiting. Anna’s lady-in-waiting. A marriage arranged by the ever-intelligent Cromwell. The German Queen, about to be wed to England’s most… fitting suitor.

They meet in the golden hours of the morning, at first. Katherine courtesies, but Anna waves her off: That is not necessary. And she is bewildered, at first, but soon her lips morph into a slight, not quite, smile.

Oh, she enjoys it so. She has a purpose, a reason, here. She is to serve the Queen. And Anna talks to Katherine, and she does her best to fulfill her wishes.

(At first, at least. Before their conversations had evolved elsewhere; beginning when Katherine had accidentally intruded upon Anna’s chambers and found her with tears glimmering by her eyes, gazing out into the muted England beneath her window. And she should have apologised profusely, and retreated, but words, unbidden, had slipped from her lips: my Queen, if I may ought to know… what is troubling you? )

(And Anna talks to her about home, about missing it all, about how much she despises Henry, how she wishes she weren’t here. Katherine’s heart wrenches, because even if she had never come from a foreign country to marry some man. She understands. Compromise. She understands. Obligation. She understands. Desire.)

They’d spend hours away in aimless chatter, since then. And every time she is not with Anna, Katherine finds an aching void in her heart, waiting, wanting to be reunited with her friend’s company.

Of course, she has the other ladies-in-waiting. They are amiable. Their company is amicable. As it should be, really. But Katherine cannot help but feel disassociated, from the conversation they make.

“... was none a man so stark and strong, of strength that ever came near! None a man so fair under God. He, the most bold, the most knightly, with the appetite, I hearsay, of a voracious beast…”

And she sees that, yes, he was a knight, he was strong, and yet….

Voracious? Beast?

“Katherine? What about you? What do you think of Thomas Culpepper?”

Her eyes snap up.

“I don’t know,” she replies, half a struggling smile parting her lips. “He is a… fair man.”

And she means it, in that sense. He is fair, of a fair proportion, a healthy man of his stature, and tall, too—that would be appealing. His facial features are even, smooth, and defined. Broad shoulders. Decently muscular. Tall. That perfect image of nobility. A peer.

He sets my loins on fire, one of the ladies-in-waiting says. And Katherine’s brow furrows. Of course, he was fair. And yet… loins…?

Katherine brushes the thought off with a chuckle. “Seems we may have to try and bring Lady Margaret and Lord Culpepper together, then.”

But by the end of the day, when it is merely her, and Anna, alone. They are quiet together. And Katherine always feels better, when they are together. When they talk, together. And perhaps their company is aimless, but Katherine is content, and so is Anna.

And one day when they are alone and together at night at the palace. Katherine tilts her head at Anna. Teach me how to dance, she whispers to her. My teachers had always found me unteachable. They said, and it was with a giggle that she kept within the confines of her throat, that I was unruly. Unfocused. Diffuse.

You would not learn much from me, then, Anna says, her lips curled in jest.

She feels something play by her mouth. She meets Anna’s eyes again, tilts her head. I would pay attention to the Queen.

Anna laughs. Take my hand, then.

They dance. And it is so quiet, then. Katherine isn’t sure what she was expecting. But Anna’s hand is soft, and her arms on Katherine’s shoulders are not invasive. What they do, is just that, as Katherine’s asked: they dance.

And sometimes, when it is only just them there in Court, Anna asks for Katherine’s hand. And Katherine fancies herself in a ballroom dance; in Hampton Court, maybe, or Richmond, during festivities: on St. Valentine’s day, perhaps.

It is there where they dance. In the centre of the room, next to nobilities and courtiers, yet they are too far away to touch. Where music ebbs by and invigorates the air in currents and flows.

They sway, to nothing at all.

(And sometimes, when Katherine gazes into Anna’s passionate eyes, her unrepentant fervour, her vigour and her smile , her heart flutters, ever so slightly.)

Yet it is so transient, like a flickering firefly to the ever-tenebrous night.

(And when she is raised Queen. It is as if that feeling were never there at all.)

And she is raised Queen, and she stands, in the hallways, next to Anna. Katherine is not Queen, not yet: it is not her coronation, yet, not yet in July. Yet Anna is no longer Queen, annulled, was what she had overheard from the courtiers.

It has been a while since they had spoken.

“You don’t need to marry him,” Katherine says to Anna, finally. A sad smile lifts her lips.

Anna’s jaw is set. There is a storm of emotion, Katherine knows, that is concentrated on her face. But it is kept under trellises and stone.

“Not at your expense.”

“I know,” Katherine says, quietly. She looks away from her eyes. “But I am truly happy for you. Anna.”

Anna shakes her head. It is like there is something she is about to say. But she leaves it. And Katherine meets, reads, her eyes.

I am not. Not for you.

And she does not understand why her heart aches so, not really. When, later, she turns her gaze away from Anna to Henry. She only understands that she aches.

(That word, Katherine would later come to understand, is saudade. Where the pit in her stomach. Tells her of what meets her in the future. Where her glimmering eyes. Brim, involuntarily, for they would not see each other again. Not truly.)

(Where she longs. For a time when Katherine were simply a lady-in-waiting, and Anna simply the Queen. For their conversations, for their dances, for their entwined hands, for their boundless laughter. For her firefly heart.)

(Katherine knows she cannot long. Not for long. And yet.)

Henry is repulsive.

And that is a shared sentiment. Anna shares it, with a scowl, contemptuous, from the day she had landed on England and beyond. Katherine’s own ladies-in-waiting share it, with a flitting laugh. She takes comfort in it. Good, she thinks, relief in her mind. I’m not… I’m not wrong. There’s nothing wrong with me.

But as her ladies-in-waiting make idle talk about Henry’s less-than-desirable state, they also make talk, other talk : Have you seen that courtier today? God above, he is gorgeous. Dudley, was that his name? He stirs in me a hot flame under my skin. What is with the nobility? What they can render me…

She is not even safe from that talk in the Royal Court. For, despite how much they are the King’s royal servants, appointed to serve, she still hears the courtiers speak.

…. who else finds your fancy, my lords?

I say she. How dainty, how delicate is she? Truly a fine, full, comely creature. So sensual in her beauty. So nubile in her fertility. How much I desire her…

They continue. And although they are not speaking of her. Katherine cannot help but feel isolated from them all.

Loneliness encroaches her. It delves down her skin, swathes across her limbs, until she is huddling and shivering and so cold. Loneliness makes her enclose herself, as their obstreperous conversations seep in her ears and she suppresses her repine. Loneliness is nighttime, when her ladies-in-waiting have dispelled and it is only she and him trapped in darkness.

And he parts her legs every night and she struggles and gasps and she quells herself.

No. She is supposed to enjoy this.

And she squashes the anxiety percolating through her skin. Even as he makes her lay on the bed and he crawls above her. A beast imposing. Panting. Wanting.

She looks away. She pretends that the windows are windows and not trellises that grip stone like she is in the Tower itself. She forces her eyes to the moonlit night and thinks of her virginity, thinks of her duty.

Henry reaches for her cheeks. He smashes her mouth against his. His breath is hot and his odour is heavy. His fingers wrangle through her hair, desperate, seeking, he wants her, he wants her, he wants everything of her.

And she is an orb, crushed between the weight of his grasp.

She lets him do it. She lets him touch her. And she lets him and she shudders with breaths that he thinks is pleasure. She lets him assume.

(And it is better, when dawn murks through the whole of England, and he gets off her, brushes himself off, makes his way towards his kingly duties. But gloom settles all the same, when it is night. And Katherine bites down a wince every single time his eyes go feverish with desire.)

It is then when she meets Thomas Culpepper.

She does not know what to think when she first sees him. For he was all-too reminiscent of those courtiers, the ones that would leer at ladies when they pass by.

But he is not.

He is kind, and he is all she needs, really. A confidant, a friend. And her heart is elated, for he does not comment upon any lady’s looks, nor does he ask her whether any man catches her eyes.

He guides the conversation. Of court affairs, of England and the world, of nature and birds. Sometimes, it enters into more personal areas: of her home life, of her time with Anna, of life with the King. But she is comfortable.

(And there is something that stays in her stomach. A certain gratitude. For she does not need to fear, when she is with Culpepper. She is no longer isolated, when she is with him. He is her companion. Her friend.)

(And some days, she allows herself to think that, perhaps, he is like her. He is disinterested in… the carnal calls of flesh, too. And Katherine knows that there is still something wrong in her, for she is supposed to love , she can’t not , but then, at least, she is not the only one.)

Until his hands snake across her waist and she feels the unbidden press of his cold fingers upon her skin. Until she had looked up at him, a question in her eyes. And panic resounds her insides.

Never have I seen a sultrier woman than you, Katherine Howard…

(And if she’s being honest to herself… it isn’t the first time. His fingers had always lingered a moment too long, on her hands, as he’d helped her off her horse. And his hands had caressed her cheeks, had slunk down her neck, despite how she shrugs away from her touch.)

His hands, like spiders creeping upon their prey, a foreboding madness latent in his grasp. Slinging his arm over her shoulders. Upon her back. Upon her stomach. On her ass.

But she wanted to pretend. She wanted a friend. Why couldn’t she— why couldn’t he—why couldn’t any of them—

And he’s boring into her, his eyes, and they are sharp-cold-curious, anger quivers in his blood-red mouth, and—

Do you not want me?

Katherine looks into his eyes. Into his glinting eyes and his fair face and his heaving chest and his chivalric pretence.

She shakes her head. The no is muted under her breath. Fractured by her heartbreak.

I thought—I thought you were just—I thought you didn’t want —

Katherine, he scowls. Exasperation on his lips. This is ridiculous. Do you not know love? Do you not know want, do you not know desire? Such a fair creature like you cannot not want.

She freezes.

(Does she not know love? She is supposed to. That is the ultimate union: of man and woman, tangled in love, tangled in flesh. That is God’s gift: love in sensuality, love in physicality, love in creation, the fostering of a child of perfect likeness.)

(She… can’t not love. That is… unholy. She should have at least reciprocated Mannox’s affections of her bodily frame. She’s supposed to relish in Dereham’s body, after he had loved her so. She’s ordained to love Henry, by God, for she’s the Queen, that is what she is supposed to be. Yet she can barely contain a scream when he is with her at night. She’s supposed to love Culpepper. The courtier admired by all the ladies-in-waiting, the courtier so handsome that it would be incomprehensible to reject him. That’s what she’s supposed to feel, especially after all that time of companionship, of courting, is that not?)

(But she doesn’t, and it is sinful, it is. Who has heard of a wife that physically cannot bring herself to love her husband? And not just that—but unable to take pleasures in the joys of flesh, unable to reconcile with the sight of unclad bodies? Disinterested in skin, in sensuality, in intimate connection?)

(There’s something gravely wrong with her. Something so fundamentally broken in her. And she is immoral for her relationships, she is false for her pretending, she is reprehensible. Was this punishment? Why can’t she feel?)

Her breaths go erratic. She hopes Culpepper does not see her freeze.

Culpepper’s eyes narrow. And his voice is low, she is uncomfortable, but she fixes her eyes ahead, still, forces herself to still.

Katherine. You are not frigid, are you? Do you not want anyone?

She swallows. His eyes go dark.

No matter. I'll make you love me.

I will redeem you.

I will save you.

(I’ll fix you.)

Culpepper reaches for her body. He rakes his fingers down her back. He grabs her hair and pulls so hard it sears her scalp. He roams over her chest thigh hips —

She sobs. She hurts.

She hates him.

She lets him.

And Henry discovers then, and she is dead, of course, and yet an irrevocable laugh sears her throat. And it is almost a choke, for, oh.

If it is not doing what she loves best.

Anna brings her to the others, after she returns to life again.

(They separate, after their hug. And Katherine keeps to herself, for her skin still feels tender, so delicate, so much like a newborn’s and she clutches to it, for she does not quite believe that she is here. Hisses from ghosts linger amid her breaths, and electric static runs through her heart.)

Perhaps that is why her first meeting with the Queens does not turn out to be the… best.

“Welcome!”

It’s like a dozen voices chorus at once, and Katherine cringes, because the noise, the chaos, the flurry is almost overwhelming. And then there is chatter, and then there are faces, then there are hands on her…

She flinches. His fingers drag through her hair. His words lurk by her ear. I love you, don’t you love me, don’t you like my touch, touch, touch…

“Don’t touch me.” Katherine snaps.

They all jolt away, immediately, at once. And the sensation disappears, just as fast as they come. She quells the tremble in her hands. Knots her knuckles into her dress and forces them to stop.

Katherine lets out a breath. Maybe someone says something: through the groggy murk that is by her ears, somebody probably does. But she steels her breaths.

“I’m sorry,” she says, a bare whisper in her throat.

“Don’t apologise,” says a voice. Katherine lifts her head to meet Anna’s eyes. They’re glinting. “I am glad we have you back, Katherine.”

She stifles the sob. She lets a soft smile rest by her lips. She looks around, and sees the rest, looking back at her. Some faces are kind; some are with concern; some are with half, not quite, smiles. All without judgement.

She says, “I’m glad to be here, too.”

The adjustment, at first, is not… easy.

Especially not when she is living with five other Queens, the only thing in common is their mutual ex-husband, and too much unresolved tension, unresolved drama to behold.

Katherine would not have minded. Not before. She was, after all, in a factious Court, one which its favour swayed between the Howards and their enemies.

But this was a different sort of drama. This was Anne Boleyn and Catherine of Aragon at one another’s throats; and when it was not that then it would be Boleyn against Parr, over Elizabeth; this was Jane Seymour attempting to quell the nonsense which did not help matters anyhow.

Perhaps she should have stayed at Anna’s home. At least she would be able to have some sort of peace and quiet, then.

But what the other Queens do have is boundaries. What they have is respect. For they have endured the same man together in their old lives.

(She doesn’t let any of them touch her. Not so soon; not yet. Her skin is tender, and her wounds sink deep. Listless dreams made of men pervade her head. No: she does not need touch, now.)

They respect her. They don’t ask.

And that is all she can ask for. She is glad.

(And Katherine later learns that what they have is mutability, too. Arguments resolve; apologies are made; pasts are put in the past. And while resentments remain, they dissipate, with compromise, with understanding. And that, perhaps, is as good as they can achieve.)

Slowly. Katherine gets better.

It is not long, then, after. After she’d broken down about her past. That their guards crash into sand. That pity suffuses their eyes. She knows she cannot get away from it. And Katherine resents it, really. But there is another emotion, too, that twines in her stomach, for being…. cared about.

They teach her. And Katherine learns. Of her past. Of her life.

(And one day, when she feels ready enough, her fingers stray to the handle of the opaque bookshelf. Katherine grips the book of survivors that Jane had brought her. She inhales a quiet breath, and begins to read.)

She does not tell them everything. She cannot. But they see the shame that flushes her face. They see the pain that wrenches her eyes. They see her huddle in on herself, they see her tuck her head between her legs, they see her quench her quiet sobs.

Those men were wrong. They took advantage of her. They molded her, shaped her, groomed her. They gaslit her. And, of course, she would not desire them. She was a mere child back then. That is what the other Queens comfort her with.

No , she says, shakes her head. You don’t understand. I… I know it’s wrong, but they… weren’t entirely wrong. Culpepper was… trying to help. And Katherine averts their aghast eyes, extricates the next words from her throat.

It is not just… that. I’m wrong.

Disbelief echoes in Parr’s eyes. Confusion’s in Aragon’s. Pain’s in Jane’s. Anger’s in Anne’s.

Why?

Yet every time she tries to speak, she cannot convey what she means. And so Katherine shrugs, lets out a small sigh, and smiles. Sorry, I shouldn’t’ve mentioned it. Just pretend I didn’t say anything. Never mind.

And she leaves, despite the calls in protest behind.

(She goes to her room, those times, then. Shuts the door. Curls in on herself. And prevents all thought from conspiring in her mind.)

But after those times. There is always Anna, who checks upon her. Who knocks on her door. Who asks if there is anything Katherine wants. Who takes her leave, if Katherine does not speak.

(And there is no question, no judgement, no anything in her eyes. Those days when Katherine opens her door for Anna. Anna simply lets Katherine talk, and their chatter is idle, as aimless as before. But it is like before, and that is a safety blanket that environs her, a feeling that she had not known she needed, not until they were reborn and present and here. )

And sometimes, if Katherine was brave enough, she would tilt her head, look up to Anna’s eyes, exhale a breath. Anna. Would you like to dance?

(And there is a certain feeling that stirs in her gut, when she takes Anna’s hand, when they take their positions in Katherine’s bedroom, when she closes her eyes and finds herself in an empty ballroom.)

(Fireflies. She thinks. It has been a while.)

They’re in a circle, playing a game. Katherine isn’t sure what’s brought this on, exactly, but her overenthusiastic cousin had dragged them all into a so-called Game Night and so. Here they are.

“… yes, that’s my choice on who to bed, shut up, Anne. That leaves me to marry Beckham. And I think beheading Henry is a no brainer.”

Anne’s eyes, tinged with mischievousness, light up at the last one. “I like your taste!” she exclaims. “Is that some revenge for me?”

Parr rolls her eyes. “Don’t be silly, Anne. Of course it is.”

Aragon scoffs at the sight, though her amusement’s evident in her eyes. Jane doesn’t even try to hide her amusement. Katherine watches Anne nuzzle into Parr’s shoulder. And, unbidden, a slight smile twinges her lips, too.

Anne must catch her stare because she extricates herself from Parr, and Katherine raises an eyebrow at the cunning smile wreathed upon her cousin’s face.

“It’s your turn, Katherine! Wed, bed, behead.”

From beside Katherine, Anna rolls her eyes. “Why can’t you just say fuck, marry, kill, like everyone else?”

“Shut up, Anna! It’s funnier this way.”

Anne rats off a few names. Their faces float somewhere in the back of Katherine’s mind. And she feels unease creep up her neck. She hasn’t really thought about what this game entails, until, well…

“... so, what do you think? What’s your verdict? And c’mon, Kat, don’t tell me that you don’t know. You’ve got to have a preference!”

Their faces are distinct, but distilled. And Katherine tries to make them clearer, for clarity in her mind. But even as she does, and even as the other Queens clamour, they’re the one with the abs to die for, he’s the one that’s a straight-up hunk, she’s the one that’s so freaking hot…

Katherine stares.

“I…”

Their words do not help her decide. And she knows there is a correct answer, knows there is a consensus that everybody agrees upon. Yet finding that out is another guessing-game in itself, like attempting to pry a sight from a stone vice.

“Oh, come on, he’s so sexy. Total smash?”

“She’s so hot? Like… so fit? Don’t tell me you don’t see that, Katherine!”

“Oh, come on! You can’t kill him! ”

“I—I don’t know,” she says, flushes. Panic spikes in her stomach, and she wants to leave, yet she feels so trapped, here. Because it’s like she’s back in Court again—amid the ladies-in-waiting, amid the courtiers and the noblemen, listening but not there, feeling a little colder the more the words exited their lips, a basilisk curling in her stomach…

Not because she truly doesn’t know. She knows, she does. There are men who are the definition of a knight, and women a definition of a fair maiden. There are people that are sculpted like Greek gods. There are people that she could watch, entranced, in minutes: for they were like nature embodied.

But she doesn’t know by their measure.

(Her measure is this, which she had used back in Court, whenever she had to participate in such discourse. Facial evenness. Body shape. Whether they wore short cloth or studded tunics. Yet, and this is when Katherine realises, yet they mean as much to her as a grain of salt does.)

They’re staring at her expectantly. She knows she’s supposed to say something. And it’s easy, really; her words slipped from her like water in the Royal Court. He is ravishing; so fanciable; irresistible, bedabble. She was so good at it, they branded her a vixen, a whore, a sex-addict for it.

But her throat’s dry and she realises she cannot speak. She does not want to say the same. Not to them.

(Not for them to see how wrong, how abnormal, how broken she is. Not for them to know that they aren’t guilty, not as much as they paint Mannox or Dereham or Henry or Culpepper out to be, because fuck, she detests what they’ve done to her, what they’ve done torments her at night, but they were doing it for her. )

“I don’t know,” Katherine finally says, letting out a small, quiet breath. “I—I’m gonna go.”

She gets up and leaves, despite their protests. She crosses her arms. Her stomach knots, as she advances up the stairs. She huddles in on herself, once she arrives at her bed. She closes her eyes, and lets out a long, shuddery breath.

Her room is colder than before. And she should stay there, really, until she drifts off into bed, until the nightmares tap her windows and trespasses into her mind’s eye.

But Anna doesn’t let her.

There’s a knock, two, three, at her door. Katherine? And Anna enters, before Katherine can respond because she’s so exhausted.

And before she can stop herself, a sardonic retort pulls from her lips, powdered with a smile. “Barging in on rooms today, are we, Anna?”

“Only checking up on my favourite Queen of England,” replies Anna, and a light laugh shakes Katherine’s chest; at least she doesn’t take it as a jab.

“But if you really want me to go. I’m sorry. I can leave—”

“No, don’t.” And there’s an unspoken please that stays between her words.

Anna stays. Katherine looks to her side; to the walls, to anything but Anna’s eyes.

“Do you want to talk about anything?” Anna asks. “I’m… sorry, if that game triggered anything.”

“It didn’t.” Katherine says.

There’s a moment of silence that diffuses between them. And the awkwardness is nigh-high in the air, oh so uncomfortable, almost as if she was back to where they began: Katherine, a lady-in-waiting at Court, fretfully counting down the minutes until the Queen’s arrival.

“What’s this about, then?”

Katherine lets out a low laugh. “Nothing. I just… needed a moment, is all. Think I had too much to drink.”

Anna’s belief, or lack thereof, is even starker after Katherine utters her words. And something curls in her chest, because she at least could’ve found a better excuse, or she could’ve said it earlier. Because now Anna’s waiting for her to say something, especially after Katherine’s told her to stay, and…

“... I don’t know,” Katherine says, sighs, tries to put a smile on her lips. “Look, Anna… I really appreciate you being here. Truly. But…” and her words falter.

Another pause.

“Katherine… you know you can talk to me about anything.”

No. No, I can’t. And yet even as those words echo in her mind, she knows it isn’t really true. She has spoken to Anna about everything; back in the Court, and now. So instead, she settles with:

“You wouldn’t want to know.”

“Give me your worst.”

Katherine feels something struggle by the ends of her lips. “Do you really want to know?”

Anna gives one nod.

Katherine exhales. She turns her head away, and a burn creeps onto her face, and she closes her eyes because she can’t meet Anna’s face.

“Fine. They raped me. And it was my fault.”

Nothing, for a moment. And then another. Katherine swallows and opens her eyes.

Anna’s eyes are wide. She stands, in stunned silence, for a moment, until her eyes narrow, until she shakes her head vigorously. “Katherine! It’s not your fault. I cannot conceive how it can be your fault, Katherine. They forced themselves on you!”

Guilt sloshes in her stomach. Katherine lets out a breath. Forces her words out of her throat. “No… no, it’s not just that. I didn’t tell you everything. He… he wanted to fix me.”

“What?”

She huddles in on herself. “I said what I said. I let them.”

Another moment. And another. And another. And Katherine doesn’t know what Anna’s thinking, and she doesn’t know, doesn’t know if she wants to know that it’s revulsion or confusion that colours her face, doesn’t want to know if judgement or aghastness that lines her eyes . But Katherine can’t bear the silence.

Please say something.

She takes another look at Anna. And something inexplicable reigns on Anna’s face. And then, the last thing Katherine expects tumbles out of Anna’s mouth.

“Katherine... what do you think of men?”

“What do you mean?” She scoffs, quietly, as if to hide the recoil in her chest. “I think you know what level of esteem I hold men in.”

Anna shakes her head. “No, I don’t mean that. I mean… how would you describe them? Physically?”

… what?

“Bodies. Flesh. Faces,” she says, without really thinking, and heat tinges her cheeks, because what is she supposed to say?

“... of course, their faces can be pleasing to see, but that is… merely that.”

Anna stares at her. “Is that really how you see men?”

“Am I wrong?”

That coaxes a chuckle out of Anna. “No, not wrong. What about women, then?”

Katherine stays there, bewildered, for a moment. Till finally, she finds the words on her lips.

“They are… bodies, of course. Flesh and faces. And their faces are certainly beautiful, of course. Like marble stone. It is not… I’m not… men and women are both beautiful. Like sunsets, or paintings, or well-crafted statues.”

“... Aesthetically so?”

Katherine nods. And even as she does she feels a sinking feeling in her chest. Because now Anna’s going to understand, now Anna’s going to know, and yet she cannot stop the words from forming on her lips.

“Yes, I suppose that’s it. They are aesthetically beautiful.”

There is a moment of quiet between them.

“Katherine…” and Anna gnaws her lips, “… do you feel sexual attraction?”

And there.

“W-what?” she says, and it escapes her throat, almost a laugh—yet the sound is more strangled than that.

“Like… how do I put this.” Anna exhales. “Do you see someone, and do you desire them?”

“I—I think they’re beautiful, of course.”

“But do you want them?”

She’s about to say of course when she stills. No, no.

She cannot lie.

For this is Anna.

(And, involuntarily, she thinks of when she was a child. She thinks of men and courtiers, of women and their laughter. Of bodies pulsating against bodies.Of skin grinding against skin. Gasps. Sweat. Breaths. Of slimy bodies and of repugnant odour and screams. Of crevasses that remind her of bodybags.)

Something bitter reigns on Katherine’s lips.

“... no, I don’t. See? There’s something broken in me, something unnatural, Anna, I—”

And she falters. Anna looks at her: with concern, with care.

And gentleness not before heard in her voice presses through Anna’s tone, so soft, so quiet. “Katherine, have you heard of asexuality before?”

And there is something that chokes at the back of her throat. As she looks at articles and comments and statements. Asexuality.

Because she thought she was wrong and thought she was broken and it didn’t make sense, not before.

But she trawls through articles. She trawls through what other people say and it hits. Their words make sense. They resonate.

This… this is her.

(And she remembers how she’d cried, then, into Anna’s shoulder. And she remembers when Anna held her. And had murmured.)

(They were wrong. They are wrong for wronging you. You are not wrong, Katherine. Don’t you dare say that you are wrong, that you are abhorrent, that you are broken . You are not. You are yourself. And there is nothing wrong with you.)

She isn’t alone.

(She never was, not really. But she just never… knew.)

They didn’t believe it when she’d said it; not at first, the moment she’d gathered everyone in the living room, told them she had something to say.

“I’m asexual. That means... I don’t feel… sexual attraction. Not towards others. Not to anyone.”

But the Queens’ eyes are wide and there is a glimmer of a smile that hangs off their lips. And Katherine feels something twitch by her mouth, too.

“Thank you for trusting us enough to tell us, Katherine,” says Jane, softly. “We love you no matter what.”

Her cousin has mischief made in her eyes. Parr’s own are sparkling. And Anna is smiling with the knowledge already.

She tells them. Because, unlike the Court, where her pretence was given, she doesn’t want to convince them of the same. She wants to tell them. Who she is. Herself, whole and herself.

And there are questions, of course; there always are questions. But they are made in good faith, they are genuine queries, and Anna is there to help her answer, too.

By the end of it all, Anne cocks her head. “Can I ask you a question, Katherine?”

(And it’s serious, she knows: for Anne, so taken to calling her a variety of nicknames, had never really called her by her full name, at all.)

Katherine nods.

“Is that because of them?”

Because of what they’ve done to you?

Katherine muses this, for a moment.

“No,” she finally says. “No, I don’t think so.”

Because. It is undeniable that they’ve... changed her. Despite how much she hates that they have. That she wishes it were not so. They’ve changed her. But not that way.

“I think I’ve always been…” and she tries the words on her lips. Half a smile perks by her mouth. “Ace.”

And they embrace her, there, and then.

(She lets them.)

And, perhaps, it comes to this.

Katherine Howard does not know love.

Not sexual love, at least. But sexual love is not all there is to love. And it does not mean that she is broken, that she is lesser, if she doesn’t want it.

(And… she’s still thinking about romantic love. She isn’t sure, not yet, at least. Perhaps she is aromantic; perhaps she is not. She’s not ruling anything out yet. She’s patient. She’ll wait and see.)

(Yet: the flutter in her chest when she sees Anna, implies, perhaps, something else.)

What Katherine does know, however, is this:

She knows love.

She knows love made with care, with zest, with euphoria.

She knows familial love.

(She knows romantic love.)

And that kind of love is all she wants. That love is what she needs.

(Katherine Howard does not know love; not at first, not all of its forms and its intricacies. But, she thinks. She does, now.)

“How about… I’m the ten amongst these threes?”

“Anne!”

“What? Let Katherine decide if she likes it or not!”

Katherine stifles a laugh in the back of her throat. She looks between an exasperated Anna to a far-too-happily expectant cousin. “I like the irony in me judging you all for your looks.”

“See! She likes it!”

“Only the irony, Anne.” Katherine says, a hint of a smile upon her lips. “I will never not enjoy the fact that the most sexual song is sung by the most asexual person of this group.”

Anne laughs. “Me too, Kat. And we love you for it.”

“Yeah,” Katherine says, and a certain warmth pools in her heart, despite how much her words are sunken in humour. “I know you all do.”

A/N. Hi all!

Thank you so much for reading. I feel like this fic is almost an amalgamation of Breathe For Them and Dance For Them; and I hope you’ve enjoyed it! I really have writing it.

Pertaining historical accuracy, the sequence of events are the same that of Breathe For Them and Dance For Them; obviously, I’ve taken a fair few liberties. A few comments about appearances are anachronistic, and probably what might be improbable was the Royal Court talk about men, since female sexuality was frowned upon. However, court gossip did exist, which is what I’d mostly basing those scenes on.

About Katherine’s sexuality—I headcanon Six!Katherine as ace homoromantic, who feels aesthetic attraction; which interweaves with the Don’t series overall.

I know that it’s been a hot second since I’ve stepped my toes into this fandom, and it’s been so much fun revisiting Katherine after… almost a year. But I hope you guys liked this anyhow!

#six the musical #katherine howard #anna of cleves #ace katherine howard #implied katanna #my fics

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carewyncromwell · 4 years

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A continuation of that POTC AU (previous part here) -- here’s Captain “Carey Weasley” (AKA Carewyn Cromwell), with Captain Orion Amari’s First Mate, the one and only Murphy McNully! This is my first time trying to draw McNully, and uh...DUDE. You make a SICK pirate, mate. <33 His outfit is inspired by Joshamee Gibbs’s (whose role he kind of fills here, alongside Quartermaster Skye), and his chair is inspired by this model used by Sir Thomas Fairfax in the 17th century, which was one of the first self-steering wheeled chairs ever made -- later in the 18th century, a nicer model called the Bath chair was developed and soon became the standard, though it remained only in the hands of the wealthy until the end of the century. (I could see Orion putting in the work to steal one for his buddy, once he catches wind of them, though. XDDD)

McNully’s carving himself a new prosthetic wooden leg, since when Orion’s pirate crew first moved to take over Carewyn’s ship, she cut Murphy’s left wooden leg off with her cutlass while trying to beat the pirates back away from her crew. (McNully lost both legs above the knee, so his wooden prosthetics are made up of two pieces with a metal joint secured together with two leather straps, sort of like this.) Fortunately things have been smoothed over a bit, now that Carewyn and Orion have realized who the other is and Orion has similarly let McNully in on the revelation too. McNully then assumed the responsibility of “watching the prisoner” while Orion, Skye, and some other crew members headed ashore to Tortuga for supplies. It didn’t take long for Carewyn to migrate up to the railing of Orion’s ship so as to get a better look at the infamous and completely filthy pirate haven, and Murphy rolled up beside her so they could talk.

“It’s funny, really,” McNully said with a wry smile. “It was me what suggested we try capturing you next.”

Carewyn glanced at Orion’s First Mate in surprise.

“There’d been a lot of talk about Carey Weasley, the youngest Captain in the entire British Navy, and the respect he’d garnered from the crown for his heroism fighting the Spanish,” McNully explained. “I reckoned capturing someone that well known would be a real blow to the Navy, and by extension, Cutler Beckett and his Company. Your capture on its own would likely hurt their morale by a good 35%.”

McNully’s expression then turned more thoughtful.

“...I almost regret it now, considering you seem to be a decent sort -- and I can’t reckon this whole thing will reflect too well on you. There’s a 42.5% chance you won’t advance in rank much further, and worse, a 15% chance you’ll be actively demoted, if they catch wind you surrendered without a fight...even if it was to save your crew, which was objectively a very noble thing to do.”

He smiled a bit guiltily. Carewyn offered him a small smile in return.

“If you hadn’t suggested going after me, though, I wouldn’t have ended up here and found out Orion was alive,” she pointed out reassuringly.

McNully smiled a little more fully. “True!”

He looked out at the horizon briefly, as if checking to see if the jollyboat was returning. Then he returned his focus to Carewyn.

“You know, though...there might be a way for us to use our new truce strategically, so that we both make it out ahead.”

Carewyn turned around, leaning her back against the railing and crossing her arms.

“Oh?”

McNully’s smile spread into more of a smirk. “You’re a well-respected officer of the Navy...and yet you’re no friend of the East India Trading Company and, more importantly, you don’t want Orion or any of us to die. We’re pirates, but our Captain is fond of you, and quite frankly, we could do with some allies, in the face of everyone trying to kill us. So here’s what I propose -- we let you escape. We sail through waters the Navy’s going to passing through, supposedly to go pick up medicine we couldn’t find on Tortuga -- and while we’re engaged in sea battle, you bust out of the brig, help the British soldiers ‘fight us off,’ and then swing over to their ship. We then retreat because we lost our ‘cargo’ -- namely, you -- and we can tell we’re losing. We keep the Navy ship from following us...but they still get one of their greatest heroes back, crashing onto the scene in a blaze of glory. If we play our cards right, I reckon there’s a 48.3% chance you might even get a promotion when all’s said and done...that is, if you think you can manage escaping the brig on your own.”

Carewyn gave a light scoff, her lips spreading into a small smirk of her own.

“Yours wouldn’t be the first one I’ve escaped. You should probably lock me in irons, for good measure -- it’ll be more convincing that I escaped, if I still have one on my wrist when I make it up on deck.”

The plan went into effect once Orion and the others returned to the Artemis and they set sail away from Tortuga. Although Carewyn had expressed confidence in her ability to escape the brig, it didn’t startle and impress Orion any less to see Carewyn up on deck after having been locked in a secure cell with both of her hands locked together in the heaviest shackles they had. She even ended up using the shackle on her wrist as a weapon, knocking out three of his men with it before she reached Orion at the ship’s railing.

Orion couldn’t help but think he’d never feel such vivication again as he did in that intense, wonderful sword fight they had upon the deck of the Artemis, parrying and slashing their swords at each other as they migrated up to the helm, leapt up into the rigging, and balanced on the edge of the Artemis’s railing before Carewyn finally got close enough that she could leap over to the HMS Dauntless.

Orion slammed his sword up against hers, pressing Carewyn back against the ropes. Although to most any clueless observer, it looked like they were still hotly engaged in battle, Orion’s voice was very soft when he spoke.

“This is your chance,” he murmured.

“Yes,” said Carewyn.

Orion’s free hand had grabbed onto the ropes to stabilize himself over her as their chests touched. His heart rate quickened, even as he kept his dark eyes squarely on hers.

Now that the moment had come for them to part, the little time they’d been able to share seemed far, far too brief...

Carewyn’s own blue eyes rippled solemnly.

“Be safe, Orion.”

And without taking another moment to breathe, she brought up her foot and kicked him full on in the stomach. The blow threw him off her with a grunt, and she leapt up into the rigging, grabbed a loose piece of rope, and swung over to the deck of the Dauntless.

Orion cradled his stomach as Skye ran over to help him up.

“Captain -- are you okay?”

A small, fond smile flickered over Orion’s face.

“Yes.”

He then shot to his feet with a much more grim and urgent expression on his face. He had to make this retreat looking convincing, after all.

“All hands, fall back! Fall back!”

Carewyn’s return to Port Royal -- as McNully had predicted -- was full of honors and acclaim, including a promotion to the rank of Commodore. It seemed that her being the only officer who had managed to escape the infamous Captain Orion Amari’s captivity made her a hero in the eyes of the British Empire. Portrait miniatures had been painted of her and sold both on and outside of Port Royal, and soon quite a few ladies were sending love letters and throwing themselves at Carewyn in an attempt to woo her, enthralled with her fame and handsome face. The overabundance of attention greatly amused Carewyn’s surrogate brothers Bill and Charlie, once they’d gotten over the anxiety they’d felt when she returned safe and sound. Percy in particular had taken Carewyn’s capture very hard, given that he’d been her Lieutenant at the time, and had resolved to make sure that no pirate ever felt bold enough to do something like that again.

The most prominent pursuer of Carewyn’s hand, however, was Port Royal’s Governor, Alphard Farrier, who was once again determined to arrange a marriage between her and his daughter, Jules. @cursebreakerfarrier With Carewyn now a well-respected Commodore of the Fleet known for breaking out of a heavily locked pirate brig and facing off against Orion Amari single-handedly, he knew it would be advantageous both to his family and to his own anti-piracy policies to have her in Port Royal permanently as his son-in-law. He even went so far as to have Jules arrive at Carewyn’s promotion ceremony in the fanciest, most fashionable dress he could get shipped in from London, in the hopes that it would catch the young Commodore’s eye. It did -- but not for the reason the Governor had hoped.

“Might I have a moment, Miss Farrier?” said Carewyn, inclining her head and back in a polite bow.

Jules rather quickly took Carewyn’s offered hand and let the new Commodore lead her away from her father. Carewyn didn’t speak again until they were up on the wall of the fort beside the large ship’s bell, looking out to sea -- in other words, when they were well away from everyone else.

“Are you all right?” muttered Carewyn. Her eyebrows had come together in concern.

Jules’s face grew much less lady-like and polite, betraying exhaustion and some irritation.

“...Not...exactly,” she gasped lowly. “But when you’re -- stuck in this kind of...torture chamber...I guess that’s -- appropriate...”

She indicated her chest, which looked quite a bit more restrained than usual, as she fanned herself a bit faster.

Carewyn’s eyes narrowed and she sighed in aggravation. “For goodness sake -- ”

She glanced around. Even if she’d managed to get them away from prying ears, she could still see plenty of people watching them, even if they quickly looked away when they saw she’d noticed them -- no doubt they were trying to discern if there was an engagement in the works.

‘Damn,’ Carewyn swore to herself. ‘I can’t try to loosen anything, while everyone’s gawking...’

“Try to focus on your breathing,” she advised under her breath. “We’ll talk slowly. Bit by bit. That way you can make sure you’re taking deep breaths.”

Jules smiled slightly in gratitude. “...Thanks, Carey.”

Jules, like the Weasleys, knew that Carewyn was really a girl, but couldn’t help but call her that, even when they were in private. She’d figured it out after mentally connecting “Carey Weasley” to a young red-haired peasant girl she used to hear singing in the streets outside her window in the Governor’s mansion in the evenings.

“You were always so far off, so I never got a good look at your face,” Jules had explained with a smile when Carewyn and Bill asked her how she’d figured it out, “but I remembered your hair and how much it sounded like you were smiling, when you were singing. I hear it when you’re talking a lot of the time, too. I don’t hear a lot of people’s smiles like that.”

After that, Jules had become one of Carewyn’s closest friends. It also prompted Bill and Jules to reach out more to each other, which resulted in Bill ending up head over heels in love. Carewyn suspected Jules’s feelings were just as strong as well, but given that Bill was a priest who didn’t even have a full congregation of his own yet and didn’t come from money himself, it was likely he was biding his time to court Jules properly, until he knew he had a chance of convincing her father.

Jules took several deep breaths. Once Carewyn was sure her friend looked a bit more steady on her feet, she folded her arms behind her back in standard Navy posture and spoke again.

“Bill sends his regards.”

Jules’s dark eyes sparked a bit.

“He does?”

She took another two deep breaths before adding, “...Is...that all he said?”

“Well, he did say as an aside that he couldn’t stop thinking about you during service the other day,” said Carewyn with a wry smile. “Apparently the mention of ‘the beauty of Heaven’s angels’ kept bringing your face to his mind.”

Jules’s face flushed. Carewyn chuckled lowly through a closed smile, so as not to cover her mouth with her hand like she might normally -- she knew the gesture appeared rather lady-like.

“It’s a shame your father has such tunnel vision on me,” Carewyn said coolly. “There’s a far better Weasley to select as his son-in-law, were he only to look.”

Jules grimaced.

“I know,” she said. She took a few more deep breaths. “And well...the only reason he is so focused on you...is because you were able to escape Orion Amari.”

“Captain,” Carewyn slipped in before she could stop herself.

When Jules blinked in surprise, Carewyn turned toward the horizon with the most offhand shrug she could manage.

“Captain Orion Amari.”

Sensing Jules’s discerning gaze on her face, Carewyn kept her gaze on the sea. Behind her back, she rubbed her thumbs along her healed palms absently.

“...Carey...” said Jules quietly, “...is something wrong?”

Carewyn swallowed. She hadn’t told anyone else the full story of what had happened -- after Percy had reacted so hostilely toward her being captured, she hadn’t dared tell Bill or Charlie everything while he was present, and she hadn’t yet had the opportunity to talk to either of them alone, with how quickly her promotion ceremony was thrown together.

Her blue eyes flickered over her shoulder at the bystanders behind them. They were far enough away that they wouldn’t be able to hear, even if they were still looking over so avidly...

“...Captain Amari...” she murmured as softly as she could, “...let me escape.”

Jules looked surprised.

“It’s a long story...but we knew each other once. I bandaged him up and hid him from the Navy, when we were young. When he discovered who I was...he and his crew agreed to let me go.”

Jules stared at Carewyn, her dark eyes wide with amazement. Then her gaze softened visibly and she smiled.

“...He must’ve been grateful for what you did for him.”

Carewyn’s blue eyes softened upon the sparkling sea.

“It wasn’t gratitude. Orion...is simply a good man...pirate he may be.”

The memory of him bandaging her hands -- of his rippling dark eyes as they bore into hers -- floated again over her mind.

“I can’t act like I knew, or even thought seriously, that our stars would align again…but even with that…I’d imagined a life much better than this for you.”

“Well,” said Jules with a smile, “it seems like those two things...shouldn’t be mutually exclusive.”

Carewyn turned her gaze back to Jules at last, smiling wryly. “Better not let your father hear you say that.”

Carewyn and Jules talked casually for the next half-hour, with Carewyn taking care to make sure their conversation was spaced out enough that Jules could catch her breath. After a while, it seemed the length of their conversation had attracted the Governor’s attention (no doubt he was getting a bit restless, not being sure if things were going according to plan), and had asked Carewyn to give Jules and him some privacy. And so Carewyn reluctantly left Jules and the Governor alone on top of the wall of the fort.

It could only have been about ten or fifteen minutes when Carewyn was alerted by Governor Farrier’s screams. Jules -- clearly not having been able to catch her breath properly, while in the midst of a quick-paced argument with her father -- had fainted right off the fort’s wall and landed in the water below. Her heart racing with panic, Carewyn led a battalion of soldiers down to the dock below, desperate to reach her friend.

When they arrived, they found Jules choking up water on the deck, her fancy dress discarded, her horrible corset cut off, and three men standing around her. Two of them were red-garbed British soldiers -- the other was a man with dark brown dreadlocks under an emerald green bandana and black kohl around his rippling dark eyes.

Carewyn’s heart leapt into her throat when their eyes met.

It was Orion.

#hphm #hogwarts mystery #murphy mcnully #carewyn cromwell #skye parkin #orion amari #jules farrier #other people's mcs #percy weasley #charlie weasley #my writing #my art #my fanfiction #potc au #au #pirates of the caribbean #well now THIS looks more like the plot of the first movie #though with carey having the medallion not jules and with charlie being the blacksmith not bill...#and of course with carey not actively hating orion the way norrington hates jack... >:3 #there are definitely going to be some differences here #but yeah um mcnully turned out a lot better than I expected??#yes that's a modified snitch tattoo on his arm #kind of like his snitch pin in canon #and it was fun to give him and carewyn some one-on-one time too <3 #honestly I'm sure a lot of the men of port royal were also kind of stuck on carewyn the way the ladies were #but because this is the 18th century in a town that was originally founded by the catholic spanish they wouldn't admit it XD #I see the pirates being a helluva a lot more gay than the regular townsfolk #because honestly what's better than pirates?#gay pirates 8D #LGBTQ pride people

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