#don john

@scarlettspectra sorry I couldn’t answer your ask directly but tumblr messes with the format of the moodboard if it’s posted in a direct response to an ask idk why 😭

Knight!Jack who was once your childhood best friend, a stable boy with ambitions of one day becoming a valiant knight.

You would sneak out of your etiquette lessons to run around the meadows with Jack, rolling down hills, climbing trees and wading through narrow streams, leaving your satin gowns covered in grass and mud stains.

But as you grew, your duties increased, leaving you with precious little time to yourself and soon Jack could be no longer found at the stables, he was training with the other knights, determined to prove himself worthy of serving and protecting the kingdom… and you.

He earned the honour of becoming your personal guard and from dawn til dusk he was by your side, always ready to shield and protect you from whatever dangers might come your way.

When the time came for you to journey to Messina for your official engagement to don John, Jack reminded by your side to continue his duty as your personal guard.

Jack was stood right behind you the first time you and don John were introduced, watching closely as the bastard prince took your hand and pressed a kiss to the back of it. He hated that smirk that always seemed to remain on the corner of don John’s lip and the way his eyes glinted with trickery and deceit. He didn’t like him one bit.

Jack trailed close behind while don John took you on a stroll around the palace gardens, though the prince desired to be alone with you. He gave Jack an order to leave but Jack refused, insisting he must be by your side at all times to keep you safe. Don John assured him that should anything happen, he was more than capable of keeping you safe himself and, reluctantly, Jack left with a gently nod of assurance from you. Though he didn’t go far, he made sure you remained within sight, watching as don John plucked at one of the flowers and gave it to you. He tightened his grip on his sword.

Jack didn’t know that you wrote in your diary about your childhood memories of playing with him in the meadows. Most recently you wrote about the time Jack had promised you that when he became a knight, he’d rescue you from your betrothed and you’d both run away together. You still wonder about how serious he was.

Unfortunately, don John got his hands on your diary. After reading it, he knew he had to get Jack out of the picture, he wouldn’t tolerate anyone who made threats of stealing his fiancée from him.

Don John fabricated a lie about a secret troop of invaders planning to attack Messina. As your personal guard, Jack volunteered to join don John on his mission to stop the invaders before they reached the palace.

The night before they left for battle, you met Jack and tied one of your scarves around his armour as a token of affection and good luck and you stole a kiss, praying for his safe return.

Don John, Jack and the knights under don John’s command, galloped off at the break of dawn. Once the troop had traveled a distance from Messina, don John and his knights attacked Jack, who put up a strong fight, realising this had been don John’s intentions the whole time. He tried his best, but don John and his knights fought dirty and Jack was left for dead.

Don John returned to Messina claiming victory, taking delight in informing you that your knight didn’t make it. All you wanted was to run to your chambers and cry, but don John insisted that his fiancée would not be absent while the rest of the kingdom celebrates his victory and ensured you remained by his side the rest of the night.

The following day was your wedding day, it should’ve been the happiest day of your life but you were fighting back tears as your lady’s maids helped you into your wedding gown and weaved flowers into your hair.

Then an intruder dressed in armour burst into your chamber, startling you and your lady’s maids. The knight tried to raise to his feet, but he didn’t have the strength, then you saw your scarf, still securely tied to his armour and you knew it was Jack and immediately rushed to his side.

With blood on his hands, he grasped at your dress staining the white fabric with handprints of deep crimson, as you knelt by his side trying to help him sit up but the weight of his armour made him almost immobile.

You frantically worked to rid him of the stiff and heavy plates of metal that were strapped to him, while he tried desperately to tell you something though his voice was breathy and wheezy, you could barely understand until he stilled your frantic movements by grasping your hands in his and looking you in the eye as he said:

Outskirts of Messina, 1588

A relieved sigh escapes your lips as your toes dip into the refreshing stream near your favorite wildflower fields. Mornings like these were your favorite–the sun peeking over the vast horizon, bathing the earth in a heavenly golden light while the rest of the village was just now waking up.

Being an apprentice to the village's apothecary brings on tedious responsibilities such as completing chores and errands both of the petty and paramount variety. This morning was a paramount errand; you were ordered by your mentor to collect the ingredients for many diverse elixirs and medicines. Every dawn of a festival hosted in Messina called for the usual relief the following sunrise: headaches, hangovers, heartache, indigestion, etcetera. All could be cured by the apothecary.

Petty or paramount duties aside, you still found time to relax and play–whether it was climbing the trees, making floral wreaths, or daydreaming of being rescued by a prince. It was vital to enjoy and utilize the life surrounding you, your role as an apothecary apprentice is proof of that.

A muffled grunt came from behind you. Turning your head, you take in the sight of a young man close to your age stumbling and clutching his shoulder. His tall, lean frame is hunched over, the sleeve of his white flowing shirt stained crimson from the gash on his arm.

Pulling your feet from the water, you hurry closer to the injured young man. “Sir, are you alright? Let me help you.”

“I do not require your assistance. I am more than capable of caring for myself–Like I've always done before.” He jerks back, as if offended.

You halt, not wanting to upset the stranger, but your caring heart could not deny much needed help–even despite his protesting. “Please, I insist. Your wound shall get infected without adequate treatment.”

Against propriety, you grab his hand and pull him closer to the river. “At least let me clean and bandage your arm enough to get you to the doctor–”

Looking up at him, you're finally able to see his features. He was handsome with hair the color of raven's wings with equally dark eyes glaring at your own. You blush, not used to the attention from others, especially from this angst-ridden man.

“I will allow this, if only to avoid the satisfaction from my brother besting me and the public shaming from my father.” He conceded begrudgingly, letting you guide him to sit by the river bank.

Being an apprentice, you were not granted ample opportunities to converse freely with others your age. Not wanting to leave an awkward silence, you attempted conversation. 

“May I ask how you acquired this flesh wound?” You start, starting to clean the gash. 

“A sword fight with my brother. Our father pitted us against each other and Don Pedro slashed my arm.” His tone is clipped, obviously not wanting to divulge too much information too soon.

You pause, Don Pedro? I know that name… “Is your father the king–are you a prince?”

“Bastard prince.” He spat out venomously. 

You couldn't curtsy while sitting down and it would have been improper to stand above royalty, so you did the next best thing–you got into the river and looked up at him, curtsying in the shallow waters.

He scoffs, his face showing contempt. “You don't curtsy to bastard princes. Especially not me.”

Getting out of the water, you shrug. “I'm not one for adhering to accepted solemnities, my prince.”

Despite his expression of stoic indifference, you catch a gleam of amusement in his obsidian gaze. You set about dressing his wound with the extra herbal remedies you gathered earlier, taking great care to wrap his muscled bicep. Once you finished tying off the bandage, you helped him stand back up.

The two of you made quite a fascinating portrait: an injured prince with no crown and an unconventional spirited apothecary’s apprentice placed side by side as equals.

“Do you have a name, Prince?” you ask, the both of you now sitting among the wildflowers while your fingers delicately weave together a simple wreath.

“Don John,” he replies, his lithe body relaxed and splayed out among the white, purple, and yellow flowers. “You look to be my remedy for all things. Tell me, apprentice, can you grant me a potion or a solution to make everyone treat me as an equal to my brother?”

You chuckle, looking at his face again and spotting a faint sprinkle of freckles across his nose, gifting him a boyish air to his otherwise surly appearance. “It will peeve you for me to say that I do not have the power nor the desire to give you such an elixir. That is not how apothecaries conduct their profession.”

Gesturing at your surroundings, you continue. “Look at the earth and its flowers. Plants and wildlife have no concept of titles or arbitrary customs. They just are. You cannot let others define who you are. The fact that you exist is enough–just be whatever you wish to be.” You glance down at the completed flower crown, smiling as you plop it on his head. “But if you must require a crown, let this suffice.”

The scowling Don John with a colorful wreath of flowers in his inky dark hair provided a beautifully contrasting image. A fitful of giggles escape your lips as you compliment how dashing the flower prince looked.

Don John wrenches the offending object and tosses it aside, grumbling. “It is I that should be giving you flowers.”

As if to prove his point, he gets up, scouring the field for any flowers he deemed worthy. Luckily, you followed him, because his eyes laid upon a singular flower that stood out brilliantly among the other common flowers. Its bronze colored petals gleamed with traces of golden pollen coating the edges, as if it was the sun metamorphosed into flower form.

Before he stepped any closer, you grabbed the hand reaching for the lustrous bloom. “For the love of God, do not touch that!”

“Whyever not?” He asks, his brow furrowed deeper and his lower lip pouting slightly.

“You mustn’t pick that particular flower,” you say, exasperated. “That is the lover’s death flower.”

“Lover’s death flower?” he asked.

“That flower has pollen that acts as a gravely potent aphrodisiac. The pollen is a key ingredient in love potions, but only a miniscule amount due to how powerful it is. If someone comes in direct contact with the pollen, a tremendous wave of desire overcomes them and if left untreated, they will succumb to the flower’s effects.” You explain, desperately trying to dissuade him from entertaining getting closer to the enticing flower.

“What is the treatment to cure this deadly desire?” he asks, an eyebrow raised.

This question causes a prominent blush to grace your cheeks. “Well, umm–the only known cure is to engage in hopefully consensual love making…and once the affected gains their height of pleasure, the pollen’s influence will subside.” You look away, not able to meet his penetrating stare. “Forgive me, Don John, for speaking about such vulgarities–”

Your apology is interrupted by his hand gently taking your chin and tilting your head up to meet those bottomless pools of black ice again. “You need not apologize, apprentice. I shall keep that information in mind should I ever encounter the lover’s death again.”

Ten Years Later

In your twenty-fifth year of life, you had been running Messina's apothecary since your mentor retired. For the past five years, you provided the surrounding villages with cures to their varying ailments. 

Tonight was a rather unique night, you volunteered to travel to the southernmost neighboring village to assist the healers during the Summer's Twilight Festival, a festival celebrating the end of the Summer months and the dawning of Autumn. And of course, you must gather the main ingredients for the medicines you'll be handing out with the healers.

During your trek to the wildflower fields, your mind cannot help but wonder about the young boy–no, man–that you befriended all those years ago. In the past ten years, you only saw Don John a handful of times. Mostly brief glances that would linger on your body even after turning away. The Messina Masquerade was no exception, despite the full face masks, you could immediately tell which creature-like visage possessed the distinctive eyes that were so cold, not even the sun could bless them with the inviting warmth and shine granted to other fellow human beings. You left before the masked Don John could propose anything–be it discussion, dance, or dalliance, you did not care. You did not want to see him especially now when you heard about the dastardly villainy he committed towards Don Pedro and dear Hero.

As you reach the wildflower landscape, a peculiar and disquieting feature catches your eye. A patch of flowers with unmistakable bronze petals and painted golden edges with sparkling pollen covering them. You knew this was a consequence of your willful inaction.

Ever since officially taking over the apothecary, you refused to brew love potions. The entire concept of stripping someone of their free will of love was abhorrent to you. During your years of gathering and traveling, the singular lover's death flower spawned more lover’s death. Who knows how powerful the cursed pollen is now that there's several. You shiver, moving to avoid that side of the field.

To distract yourself from the concerning amount of lover's death, your mind wanders back to Don John. A squeezing ache crept up around your heart. This field of multicolored flowers and beauty was the place you first met Don John. Try as you might, the hopeless romantic part of you could not resist the allure of the repelling Don John. Ever since you were both teenagers, you held a quiet affection for the man doomed by birth and circumstances. If everyone could have seen the man instead of the bastard, would Don John have stood a chance at living a more conventional existence? Too many what-ifs for you to ponder, and pondering about what could have been will do you no good anymore. Don John made his decision and your personal feelings toward him must not conflict with your moral convictions.

Speaking of the devil, you hear that heartbreakingly familiar voice. “I knew you were hiding from me, my little apprentice–or should I say apothecary. You have blossomed like these wildflowers into a captivating, wanted lady.”

Spinning around, you come face to face with Don John. The dark prince of no kingdom but his own misery. Still devastatingly beautiful, but bitter resentfulness had long permeated his soul, reflecting back on the world with a vengeance.

“I do not wish to speak with you, Don John,” you turn away from him, wishing you could disappear among the wildlife.

“Pray tell me, why pretty dear lady?” His deep voice was honeyed with excessive flattery.

You shake your head, chancing a glance back in his direction. “Should you not be off causing woe and heartache to some other pitiful wench?”

“That I should,” he saunters closer, his body heat radiating off him like a furnace–a warmth that brings no comfort to you. “But I wish to at long last reunite with the apothecary girl that dressed my wound all those years ago and thank her.”

“I do not need your thanks,” you respond shortly, not wanting to ponder what his definition of thanking her is.

“So cold, my little apothecary,” he circles you like a cat toying with its prey. “I recall you were much more…vivacious. You could rival the sun with your carefree countenance.”

“As you have said, that was years ago. I have changed and you even more so.” You crane your neck to look into his bottomless dark eyes.

“I have not changed at all. I am and will always be a bastard.” He says this with no remorse. You should not be surprised, but a part of you always wished he could break free from what others cruelly labeled him as.

Don John trailed after you as you walked further into the meadow, his fingers brushing the stray flower petals. “I never forgot about you. You were the only one to show me kindness despite being undeserving of it.”

His voice is uncharacteristically soft and genuine. It made butterflies flutter in your stomach despite your effort of suppressing any feelings for him.

“It would please me greatly if I knew that I occupied your thoughts, and your heart, as much as you do mine.” He curls a lock of your hair around his long index finger, fondness evident in his tone. 

You take a deep breath, preparing yourself. “There was once a time I most certainly could confirm you occupy my heart, Don John. Now that is not the case.”

His permanently furrowed brow deepened. “Tell me why.”

You set down your basket and step closer to him, his firm chest brushing against yours. “I knew since the day I met you that everything in your life was stacked against you. You were in a privileged setting with no reward due to circumstances beyond your control. I pitied you. Now knowing about your actions against your brother and having a hand in the innocent Hero’s demise, my pity has evaporated.”

A crack in Don John’s armor formed. His eyes flared when he grabbed your hand quite harshly, his fingers tight and unyielding as they enveloped yours. “I ask for so little. In a world that shuns me, my only wish is for the one kind soul to share the rest of my wretched life with me.”

You hastily pull your hand away as if his touch burned you. “Instead of proving the world wrong and utilizing your privilege for good, you dove recklessly into villainy and despicableness. That I cannot abide by.”

A chilling laugh bursts from his lips. “I delight in the tribulation of those who cast me off. Deeming me unworthy from birth without ever getting the opportunity for me to make them abhor me. Your virtuousness means little to me. I do not care what superiority of merit you wish to bestow upon me. Let me be who I am and seek not to alter me.”

Don John grabs your chin forcefully, continuing. “Just be with me. Let us run away and live together. Accept me. Love me. Be my wife, my partner, my friend, anything as long as you are mine.”

His other hand cups your face and he pulls you in for a tender kiss. Your eyes flicker closed as your traitor heart soars from his profession and display of love. The deepest, most secret dream you ever had of Don John giving you your first kiss was now real and it was overwhelming.

He is not the Don John you thought he could be.

With a mournful sob, you push him away. Wiping stray tears from your eyes as you grievously confess. “I once envisioned a life with you, away from titles and scandal. Away from those that dictate who you are without allowing you to grow into something more. I loved you, Don John! Now I see that it merely is not possible. For you have given yourself permission to wallow in your own sorrow like a pig in filth. You sicken me, and I wish to be parted from you.”

Like a candle snuffed out, any vestige of light in his eyes has vanished. He grasps your shoulders in an ironclad grip, his words haunting. “I am afraid, my beautiful bride, that wish shall never be granted.”

His last words seal your fate. “You will be mine.”

With his alarming strength, he hurls both you and himself down the meadow’s hill. You tumble briefly, thankful that you both seemed uninjured–until the next sight makes your breathing stop.

The flowers are golden brown. Don John is hunched over your body with streaks of bronzy pollen across his face, neck, and clothes.

No, no, no! You try clawing away from him, fighting for your life to get to the river that was just a few feet away. If you could just wash the pollen off, maybe you will be fine.

But Don John pushes you down against the ground, causing more clouds of pollen to float in the air like pixie dust. He clambers over you, a wicked smile shaping his face. “You say these flowers will kill us? Be my remedy, then.”

You immediately notice his eyes darkening even further, his pupils are blown wide, almost eclipsing the irises. The pollen is taking effect in him, and you will not be far behind. 

Instantaneously, the unmistakable sensation of tingles travel over your body from head to toe. Feeling like your body was being put to sleep and stimulated rendered your mind in a soft daze. Your skin was hot and your clothes felt tight and scratchy.

Don John's lips crash against yours, teeth clacking while his serpentine tongue slithers in and explores your mouth. The traces of pollen taste like lavender and cinnamon–you want to lick it off him.

Dizziness fogged your brain, trembling fingers sank into his broad shoulders, anchoring you to him. A deep sigh rumbles through his chest, causing heat to travel straight to your core. His demanding lips suffocate; his kiss could steal your breath if he did not release you soon.

He finally gives your air back and sits up again, still straddled on top of you. “For you, my love, I would be willing to risk death to grant you a thousand little ones.”*

Long dexterous fingers fumbled with the laces of his white poet shirt before letting out a frustrated growl and tearing it off like a wild beast. Don John’s naked torso was now on full display–a sheen of sweat coats his tanned skin, mixing with the glowing flecks of gold, emphasizing the fine muscles along his shoulders, chest, and abdomen. A vision of ethereal beauty gracing you with his divine being.

Snap out of it now! The last logical thought screams out before you feel his grip on the top of your lacy bodice.

“Be my remedy.” He commands before ripping your bodice with a frenzy bordering on animalistic.

Tossing aside the ruined bodice, he lowers his head and nuzzles between your neck and shoulder. His facial hair tickles while his lips kiss and nibble every surface of your skin they could find. You feel his teeth at the collar of your dress, biting firmly and pulling the material down to expose a breast to the elements.

Latching onto your nipple, he suckles eagerly, a soft moan escaping your lips as he cups the other breast. Once he was satisfied, he revealed the other breast and gave it the same treatment.

“You are blessed,” he murmurs against the peaked nipple. “Your body was made for worship.”

You feel your skirts rucked up, Don John disappearing from your sight. Whimpering at the loss of his warmth, you move to look down and see what he’s doing but you are stopped by his large hand pressing you back onto the ground.

“Angels do not lower themselves for worship,” he whispers before slipping one of your shoes off.

A shiver travels up your body at the caress of his supple lips against your foot. His fingers pulling down your stockings and kissing every centimeter of skin revealed to him. When his kissing trail reaches under your skirts and against your inner thigh, he stops, pulling back and teasing you by repeating his actions with your other leg. You are almost whining for relief, but this is Don John. The man does not grant mercy or relief.

He hikes your skirts up even more, reaching the apex of your thighs once more. Exhaling breathlessly, he rests his head against your heat reverently.

“Your sweet cunt alone could cure me. Now give it to me!” His mouth is on you sucking at your entrance like a starving man. His silver tongue is not just gifted in deceitfulness. The practiced muscle has you shaking and moaning wantonly, his strong arms holding you down and open for his feast.

You soon release a cry of ecstasy, back arching and making your pleasure known to all the wildlife caring to witness.

“You have the face of an angel and the moanings of a harlot–A ruined spirit I would earnestly get on my knees for,” he buries his head back between your legs before you could recover from your orgasm.

He keeps you in perpetual bliss, the effects of the pollen amplifying the tingles and feverish sensations his touch elicits. When he is done writing praises for you with his mouth, he lifts his head–soft lips and facial hair glistening with your essence. 

Kisses and bites ascend your body as he replaces his mouth with his fingers. You whimper when his finger breeches your entrance, stretching you. Then he adds a second finger, your eyebrows knitted together at the deeper intrusion. He coos and whispers sweet nothings, grazing your cheek with featherlight pecks.

“A good husband prepares his bride before ravishing her,” A good husband, not a good man…He curls his fingers and you fall into ecstasy all over again. 

By his mouth, by his fingers, and only one aspect left to bring you pleasure. He unbuckles his belt and discards his black leather trousers, leaving him as naked as Adam and Eve. If he was handsome fully clothed, he was disarmingly statuesque like a Greek God when naked. You tremble, suddenly comprehending that he was about to be inside you.

Parting your legs when wider, he settles himself comfortably on top of you, eyes burning with hunger. With a harsh grip on your hips, he notches the blunted tip of his member against your core before sinking slowly, agonizingly inside you.

You whine when Don John fills you up completely, your first time evident but desire and lust softens the ache of his invasion. He hisses, feeling your tight heat embrace him.

“You are the first maiden I ever had. Nothing will ever come closer.” his voice rasps, holding back from plundering you mercilessly. 

He slowly pulls out, the tip of his cock almost leaving you before slamming back inside roughly. Twigs and drying grass scratch your back but you are too entranced to care. You will worry about bruises and grass stains tomorrow. 

“I have been patient, my love,” he bites the sensitive spot in the crook of your neck. “You are mine now, whether you like it or not.”

He places your legs over his shoulders and pushes even deeper than you thought possible. He was not just penetrating your body, he was touching your soul with every inch of his manhood.

Your scream sounded almost pained, Don John's excessive loving kept you overstimulated. Seeing you in such a debauched state at long last gives way to his own release.

His movements become sloppy, hips stuttering as he fills your ears with curses you never thought could be made. When he comes undone, he stills himself. Slowly opening your eyes, you see he is in a state of pure euphoria. Lips parted, eyes closed tight, a soft whimper leaving him. As if the very act of making love to you was a religious experience for him. 

Don John was kind enough to carry you away from the infernal golden brown flowers once he could feel the pollen’s influence dwindle. Gently setting you in the cool stream of the river, he set about cleaning off the streaks of flowers, pollen, and his own spend.

“Perhaps I should collect my own supply of this magical aphrodisiac. You will never deny me ever again.” He whispers before giving you a long, possessive kiss.

*The little death, or la petite mort, was a term commonly used during the 16th century and onwards to represent a brief loss of consciousness typically during an orgasm.