Here’s An Excerpt From The Middle Of Chapter 1 Of My Fanfic, The Prologue. I Just Couldn’t Resist

Here’s an excerpt from the middle of Chapter 1 of my fanfic, the prologue. I just couldn’t resist sharing Timon being a bad-ass. 🤣

Takes place directly after the end of TLK. Simba has been summoned to the “Council of Kings” by a lion named Maliki, who has asked him to bring witnesses to prove he is truly the lost prince of the Pridelands—but in reality, this council was called so that Maliki could undermine Simba in front of his peers.

Now, with that little short exposition so you know what’s going on, here ya go—and now I’m gonna go hide. 🙈

—

It was the third insult. That’s when Timon’s mouth finally outran his better judgment.

First, Maliki had called him and Pumbaa “the catering.”

Then, he’d tossed out something slick about Simba’s “unusual upbringing.”

But the third one?

“Tell me, King Simba,” Maliki said, easy and amused, “being raised by prey—does that make a lion more open-minded… or just a little less lion?”

The words were gentle. The tone was gentle. But the council reacted like it had heard his claws unsheathe. Even the air seemed to stiffen.

Timon’s eyes flew open.

He didn’t mean to stand. He just did. His legs moved before his brain caught up.

“Okay, that’s it!” he blurted, loud enough to echo. “That’s it, I can’t—I physically cannot sit here one more second listening to his-royal-windiness over there flap his gums like we’re all too stupid to notice the stench behind the sweetness.”

Pumbaa groaned softly beside him, already bracing for impact.

“I came here thinkin’ this was gonna be some formal thing,” Timon continued, his paws gesturing wildly as he gained steam. “Snobbery, politics, maybe a few polite insults. But nooo. Instead, we get that—”

He jabbed a thumb in Maliki’s direction.

“—with the fake niceties and the ‘just here to build unity’ schmooze-fest, all while he’s badmouthing Simba on the sly and baring his teeth like that’s s’posed to impress somebody.”

A ripple passed through the assembled council. Monarchs shifted, traded glances. Maliki still didn’t move.

“Oh, and let’s not forget the delightful little insinuation that we—” Timon pressed on, voice rising, “—me and Pumbaa, that is—are just the appetizers Simba brought to this little banquet of backstabbery.”

“Timon…” Pumbaa whispered under his breath.

“Don’t shush me, Pumbaa,” Timon snapped, not missing a beat. “I’ve been quiet for hours. Do you know what that does to a guy like me?!”

He turned back to the rocky dais and resumed pacing, his paws padding against the stone.

“We’re really doing this, huh?” he said, sweeping his gaze across the crowd. “Simba shows up—Simba, son of Mufasa, rightful king, the guy who literally yanked your kingdoms outta the jaws of ruin—and you all treat him like he just rolled in something unspeakable and dragged it through your den.”

He threw a pointed look toward Simba and Nala.

“He risked his life to take down Scar. Brought the herds back. Gave this land a future again. And now we’re all gonna sit here while Mister Moonsand plays word games about his bloodline like he’s gotta pass some royal sniff test?!”

Timon threw his arms skyward, his whole body vibrating with indignation.

“Oh, and can’t leave out the grand idea of marrying off cubs who can’t even hold their heads up yet. Real forward-thinking, that one. Nothing says diplomacy like matchmaking before they’ve gotten their baby teeth.”

Finally, he turned back to Maliki, eyes blazing.

“And you,” Timon growled, voice dropping to something lethal, “with your silver tongue and your phony-baloney smile. Nice speech, by the way. Real warm. Real fuzzy. Made me wanna gag. Especially the part where you tried to frame Simba as some soft-hearted charity case unfit to lead.”

He stepped forward.

“You see, that’s the thing about plantin’ seeds, pal—you can smile while you do it, you can dress it up in sweet words and slick delivery—but some of us? Some of us can smell when the fruit’s gonna be rotten.”

The silence that followed was thick enough to chew.

Timon folded his arms and flopped back down beside Pumbaa with a pointed huff.

“No offense, Your Loudness,” he added coolly, crossing his leg, “but if this council can’t recognize a king when they see one, maybe the only thing that needs provin’ ‘round here is that your royal thinky-think boxes still work.”

Then, almost as an afterthought, he muttered under his breath:

“Windbag.”

Pumbaa froze. Zazu made a strangled wheeze that might’ve been his soul trying to escape through his beak.

A few lions blinked, stunned. No one moved. The silence dropped like a boulder—heavy, suffocating, the kind that presses on your eardrums and makes you forget how to breathe.

And then Maliki turned.

Slow. Smooth. No rush.

Something in the room shifted. No one dared to breathe.

Just for a moment—so brief it could’ve been missed—his eyes flicked dead. Flat. Almost as if the light in his eyes had been snuffed out. Like the sun had slipped behind a cloud, and the warmth left with it.

But then, in an instant, it was back. The brightness. The charm. The smile.

He laughed. A low, easy, delighted laugh.

“Hey…” Maliki said, shaking his head, eyes gleaming. “I like this one.”

The sound of it—so easy, so amused—should have put everyone at ease.

It didn’t.

He gave a languid motion of the paw toward the other monarchs—neither a salute nor a wave, but something in between, calculated and unsettling.

“Someone give this meerkat a title,” he said cheerfully. “I could use five of him on my council. Keeps us lions humble, huh?”

Nobody laughed.

Or rather—they didn’t dare.

“He’s funny, right?” Maliki said, eyes twinkling. “Fast-paced, quick-witted. Just a little fidgety. Always talking. That’s not confidence though.”

He came to a stop in front of Timon, chuckling warmly. Not looming, but present, smiling at him like an old friend, but with eyes that gleamed too warmly to be safe.

“Nah, that’s a scared little heart under there.”

Maliki looked down at Timon. Really looked. As if seeing him for the first time.

“What was your name again, little guy?” he asked, his tone as smooth as river rock. “Gotta know who I’m recruiting.”

Timon hesitated. The edges of his prior boldness curled slightly inward, the adrenaline wearing off. 

“…Timon,” he said at last, his voice shaking just slightly. “Just… Timon. And I ain’t up for grabs.”

Maliki smiled like he’d been handed something precious.

“Timon,” he echoed, smiling like he already knew him. “Of course. We’re going to get along just fine.”

Timon sat there, blinking, his pulse hammering in his ears.

Maliki leaned in just slightly.

“You know,” he said pleasantly, “you’re louder than you look. All that fire in such a little frame. Makes you wonder where it’s all coming from.”

He tilted his head, studying Timon with an unsettling kindness. “And that little heart of yours?”

He let out a soft, almost playful chuckle. “You’ve got a real rhythm going. Ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum…”

He tapped his own chest with a single claw, gently. “Started drumming the second you stood up. Poor thing—probably didn’t expect to be working this hard today, huh?”

Timon didn’t respond. He sat frozen, eyes locked on Maliki’s too-bright grin.

Leaning in further, his voice dropped to a near-whisper, silky and disturbingly intimate.

“I can hear it, you know—the quiver in your pulse, the way you try not to choke on your own words.”

He paused, letting the silence stretch as Timon’s eyes betrayed a flicker of uncertainty.

“And I always hear the heartbeat,” Maliki murmured. “It’s my favorite part.”

Then, with a smile that was both tender and predatory, he added, “And yours… it’s trembling.”

He reached out, tapping his claws lightly against Timon’s chest, exactly over the thundering heart.

“That’s not just passion, little one—that’s fear. And I… I like fear. Keeps things… honest.”

Timon sat there, blinking, his pulse thrumming, and for a moment, the words he’d been ready to unleash were caught in his throat.

And then, just like that, Maliki withdrew as if nothing extraordinary had happened—whistling softly as he turned back to the dais, his tail swishing behind him in lazy amusement. As if he hadn’t left every living soul in that meeting rattled to the core.

Almost like he hadn’t just peeled Timon open with a smile and found something inside worth keeping. Timon stared at the lion’s back, his pulse still hammering somewhere in his throat.

That unnerving smile. The way he’d said his name. Like he was intent on remembering it.

 Like it belonged to him, now.

He swallowed, his throat bobbing. He sat there totally rigid, his ears still ringing. 

Pumbaa leaned in, eyes wide with concern.

“You okay, buddy?” he whispered.

Timon’s response was a silent, shuddering breath—a revelation that not even his own sardonic armor could fully protect him from Maliki’s invasion of his very being.

The adrenaline was all gone, now, drained from him like someone had poked a hole in his belly.

Whatever had just happened… That hadn’t been a compliment.

It had been a mark.

And Timon? Timon had no idea what he’d just been marked for.