#nick wilde x reader

[pomegranatelifethis]

If you have any questions or requests, let me know. I'm bored.

[404creep]

Breaking The Ice (Judd Birch X Jessi Glaser Older! Sister Reader)

Summary: You and Judd have been in school together since elementary school.

This is kind of related to the drabble I put out a long time ago. Lots of people have been reading that and asking for new Judd content so I figured I’d pause of my Simon Riley series to write this. Hope ya’ll like it. May do a second part from Judd’s perspective and then a third chapter showing them actually getting together if this gets enough interaction. As always if you see any errors….no you didn’t.

If she was being honest with herself (and she really did try to be, more often than not) she hadn’t noticed Judd Birch at first.

Back in elementary school, he was background noise. Just another name on the attendance sheet, another kid kicking gravel at recess. Maybe she could’ve picked his face out of a lineup if she squinted, but probably not. He wasn’t loud, but he wasn’t exactly shy either. He didn’t blend in so much as linger around the edges, watching with that half-lidded stare that made him look way too tired for a third grader. Like he was already over it. Like he was clocking every detail and filing it away somewhere private.

And she hadn’t noticed him noticing her.

Not until middle school, anyway. That’s when he started showing up.

He’d gotten tall. Fast. In that awkward, almost unsettling way boys do, like his limbs were rebelling against the concept of symmetry. There was something off about him: sharp angles, quiet intensity, a kind of stillness that didn’t match the usual chaos of the Birch household. His eyes lingered too long. Not creepy. Just… focused. Like he was studying people. Measuring them.

She didn’t like how often she caught him looking.

When Jessi said she was hanging out with Judd’s little brother, Nick, she’d braced for weird. It had to run in the family, right?

But Nick was… different.

Nick was a completely different beast. Loud, messy, always in motion. He talked with his whole body. He wanted to be liked. Judd didn’t seem to care if anyone liked him at all. If Nick was the show, Judd was the curtain. The frame. There, but apart. Not unwelcome. Just… separate.

It was kind of wild how the Birch family didn’t try to fix him. They didn’t ignore him, either. He wasn’t the black sheep, he was just a part of the herd that did his own thing. Like maybe being weird wasn’t something to outgrow. Just something to be nurtured. Even if no one really understood it.

Then came freshman year. Biology class.

They got paired up. Not by choice. She still remembered how he looked at her when their names were called: like he already knew it was going to happen. Like the universe was playing along with something only he could see.

He loved dissections. Frogs, fetal pigs, anything with guts. His eyes lit up in this completely unhinged way, and it was honestly a little terrifying. So she took over the paperwork. It was better than having him hover while she tried not to stab herself with a scalpel.

And weirdly? It worked. They worked. Efficient. Surprisingly chill. He didn’t talk much, but when he did, it caught her off guard. Sharp thoughts, quiet voice, that same too-long stare.

She never knew what to say back. But she wanted to.

By sophomore year, he was gone. Different classes. Different hallways. That thing they had (whatever it was) just kind of faded.

Until she started driving.

She’d just gotten her license, and that came with the responsibility of driving her sister around. Which meant dropping her off and picking her up from the Birch house. Most of the time she sat in the car, engine running, scrolling on her phone or staring out the windshield. But sometimes (too many times for it to be random) Judd came outside instead.

And he never said hi like a normal person.

One day it was, “I’m training raccoons to freak out Nick.” Another time he asked if she wanted drugs, deadpan, like it was a casual Tuesday hobby.

She always laughed. Because he was ridiculous. Because it felt like he wanted her to laugh. Because deep down, she kind of liked how absurd it all was. Like he was throwing her a test, just to see if she’d flinch.

It wasn’t flirting. Not really.

But it wasn’t nothing either.

It was… weirdly electric. Like every conversation was a sequel to one they’d never actually had. He’d stand there, blue dyed hair and deadpanned eyes, looking like the rules didn’t apply to him. And she’d cross her arms and pretend not to care. Pretend she wasn’t waiting for whatever he’d say next.

Maybe it didn’t mean anything.

But sometimes he looked at her like it did. Like she was supposed to understand something he hadn’t said out loud yet.

And she hated how much she wanted to.

Then there was that Friday. Late October. Cold air, crunchy leaves, the kind of day that made everything feel just a little closer, a little slower. Jessi was taking forever inside, probably still talking. Judd stepped out onto the porch.

No greeting. Just, “I’ve been designing suits for the raccoons. Little vests. One of them’s getting a bow tie.”

She blinked. Let it sit for a beat. Then said, “Are they unionized yet, or are you still exploiting their labor?”

He lit up.

Not just in his eyes. His whole face. Like something switched on inside him.

And then he smiled.

A real one.

Not a smirk. Not a twitch of the mouth. A full, open, stupidly soft smile. Or at least as soft as Judd Birch could smile.

“Working on a healthcare plan,” he said. “But they’re terrible at filling out paperwork.”

It was ridiculous. Absolutely unhinged. Probably the weirdest conversation she’d ever had.

And she grinned the whole drive home, Jessi was too busy on her phone to notice.

[aurorarorynn4]

Someone begged to write for Nick Wilde writing. Here it is

🔥 Nick Wilde Smutty/Flirty Headcanons 🔥

(with emotional depth, banter, and just the right amount of steam)

1. The King of Tease Nick lives for drawing things out. He’ll whisper something devilish in your ear in public, his breath brushing your skin — but won’t do anything about it until hours later. It’s the build-up that gets him off almost as much as the act itself.

“What’s the matter, sweetheart? You look a little... distracted. Is it because I said I’d show you what this tongue can do when we’re alone?”

2. Soft Dom Energy He’s got control, but never force. He’ll pin your wrists gently, murmur praise like it’s a secret, and ask permission even when he already knows the answer. His version of dominance is all about making you feel like you’re the only person in the universe.

“Say the word, and I’ll stop. Otherwise… I’ve got a few ideas.”

3. Aftercare King Nick may crack jokes during the act, but after? He’s wrapped around you like a security blanket, stroking your hair, whispering compliments, making sure you're okay. The sarcasm drops, and the real Nick comes out — vulnerable, tender, utterly devoted.

“You good, sweetheart? C’mere. Let me hold you for a bit. Just you and me now.”

4. He’s All About the Banter Foreplay for him starts hours before you’re in bed. Think witty arguments, playful bickering, stolen glances, double entendres. He loves when you challenge him — it makes the eventual surrender all the sweeter.

You: “You’re impossible.” Nick (smirking): “Mmhm. But admit it — you like it when I win.”

5. Public Danger, Private Devotion He flirts shamelessly in public: a paw on your lower back, little whispers that make your face burn. But behind closed doors, he’s all yours — no act, no mask. He tells you how much he needs you, how no one else sees him like you do.

“You make me feel like I’m worth something. Don’t let go, okay?”

6. Secretly Obsessed With Your Pleasure Nick gets off on getting you off. The sly grin when he figures out exactly what makes you gasp? Yeah. He files it away like a treasure map. He’ll act cocky about it, but deep down, it’s because making you lose control makes him feel powerful — and loved.

[colmiillo]

People find Nick from Zootopia hot and nobody bats an eye. But when I say I find Spirit hot? Society!! Society calls me weird!!

[snow-way-out]

Yan!Nick Wilde x Bunny!Reader

Words: 2.2k

Tw: Kidnapping, stalking, obsessive/possessive behavior, isolation, soft yandere

[A/n: this is so delusional...but ugh his personality makes for such a fun yan 🤭]

You weren't exactly paranoid per se, but you were experienced with more manipulative types, whether it were seedy salesmen on street corners or exploitative corporate ads, you've almost seen it all, making you slightly suspicious of, well, almost everything.

At the same time, growing up in Zootopia and its more diverse neighborhoods made you of the more open minded kind. You didn't rely on stereotypes like many of your relatives, and you gained the skill of being able to hold off on making judgements of others before they open their mouths.

In other words, you'd like to think of yourself as an analytical type.

So when you met him during a stroll with your cousin from Bunnyburrow, you were neither scared nor charmed. He must have felt it'd be an easy con, what with you two being "naive" rabbits—trying to hit your more emotional sides—and while your cousin was actually getting charmed, you were able to see through it all, rolling your eyes and quickly pulling her away, reading him for filth.

This really got to him.

He grumbled about you all night to Finnick, who tried not to bang his head on the dashboard—until Nick ignored the demand for him to shut up for a fifth time, in which the Fennec fox kicked the taller out of his van with a few colorful words to go with it.

Sooner or later, Nick happens to see you again. Anyone else and he'd try to stay out of sight, but something about you reallyyyyyy bothered him.

He eventually starts to follow you around, annoying you, teasing you, calling you pet names to get under your skin.

You went from wary of him to being annoyed quickly.

He'd often use you as furniture, leaning an elbow on the top of your head, your attempts to get him off of you not deterring him at all.

To him, it sometimes felt like you could see through him.

As if you knew what he'd gone through, as if you got him.

It should have infuriated him.

But you didn't pity him, didn't give him saccharine platitudes.

You never called him “sly fox” or “vicious predator”.

You were a rabbit who didn't treat him like a shifty fox, you treated him like a shifty con man, exactly what he was.

And in a twisted way, he couldn't get enough of it.

He was so lonely, his connections were mostly partners for his schemes or “i owe you one"s.

Now that he found someone who saw through him, who was unfazed by the convictions of the society around them that he's dangerous from birth, who, in his mind, was actually the same as him—a cosmopolitan creature so used to scrambling away from being trampled, jaded by the city—he was enamored. He couldn't lose sight of you…he couldn't lose you.

And he wouldn't let you go.

If he was following you around too much before, he was practically glued to your hips now.

The pet names, “sweetheart”, “darling”, “honey”, started becoming less and less ironic and more genuine, dripping with pure sugar every time he called you by them.

An elbow on your head turned into an arm around your shoulder, pulling you tight against him, laughing in your ears at his own jokes,

Into a paw on your waist,

Into claws lightly swiping down your ears,

Into hunching over you, letting his shadow completely engulf you, so your vision was full of him.

You went from annoyed to…uncomfortable.

You'd swat his hands away, tell him to stop calling you that, that he should go get some friends, to leave you alone.

It was really to no avail, he'd take any opportunity to touch you.

Your personal space was apparently his too, just another one of his swindles.

From the short time you knew him, you figured he was a manipulative yet laid back sort, but you eventually got to see how jealous he could get as well.

Anytime a male spoke with you—coworkers passing by you on the street, a networking connection, the mailman—he inserted himself between you two, getting all up in the other's face, using his sharp tongue to humiliate them in such covert fashion. Most would scurry away as you shot them an apologetic look, some might grumble under their breath about you “needing to put a leash on your boyfriend” (the leash part should've prickled him, but being seen as your boyfriend had him at a high, his tail wagging elatedly—meanwhile you would pull at your ears in frustration, you couldn't get anything done because of this stupid fox).

Some of your friendships were starting to become distant, or even strained, now that you had a territorial fox at your tail (he really, really wanted to mark you as his).

You did all you could to avoid him following you to your house and finding out where you live: catching taxis, constantly rejecting his offers to walk you home.

Regardless, he really did know practically everyone in the city, and with some strings pulled, was able to find out not only where you lived, but your birthday, your favorite desserts, the foods you hated, your dreams and fears, any past crushes, just near everything about you.

So it wasn't long before he showed up at all your favorite spots.

Great, now the guy was stalking you.

He figured your apartment was a little shoddy, and in typical Zootopia fashion, the neighborhood left much to be desired—the only thing your small dead end job could get you to afford.

It's not like he had his own apartment, he did live under a bridge, but he was loaded, rich from all his technically legal schemes and tax evasion.

He never really wanted to get a traditional apartment, he didn't need it and he wasn't one for luxuries or the finer things in life—just concerned with making tons of money, enough to be as secure as he could be in his unpredictable line of “work”, plus, he was able to keep a lot of his money if it didn't go to rent or any household bills.

But if he really wanted you guys together as a family, some necessary sacrifices must be made.

In a combo of using his connections, owed favors, and smooth negotiations, he was able to land a swanky cottage for relatively cheap.

And as a plus point for him, it was in the more suburban parts of the city, almost rural with how isolated it was from the rest of the houses nearby.

And with the news picking up on animals suddenly going berserk and attacking others, well it was near perfect timing. He couldn't just leave you, the frail little bunny you were, alone in that apartment of yours, when any of your neighbors could just turn on you, now could he? You needed his protection.

He tried to convince you—pathos, ethos, logos, whatever—to get you to live willingly with him.

You almost laughed in his face, spitting out a, “Who do you think you are?!”

He clicked his tongue, he figured it wouldn't be that easy

But he kept trying, after all, he had enough facilities to take care of you, give you all the things you'd like, and keep you safe from everything nasty in this cruel, cruel animal world.

But you just wouldn't have any of it, threatening him about getting a restraining order if he wouldn't finally leave you alone (which you probably should've done earlier).

He did flinch at that, and stared at you with a hurt face for a few seconds, saying, “Right. See ya then,” before leaving you alone.

You actually sighed in relief then, with the possibility that this was all done and over with. But you lightly scratched at the back of your neck, the instinctual alarm bells in your head still ringing. He seemed way too acquiescent for a guy who was smart enough to get what he wants via many means.

So you didn't ignore your alarm bells.

You tried to get your neighbors to look out for you, but they were largely dismissive; you were just the standard paranoid rabbit in their eyes, thinking everything was a threat.

You tried to avoid being alone or out longer than absolutely necessary (which you were already doing due to the recent violent outbreaks), even investing in a more potent pepper spray (the Fox Repellent sprays your cousin tried to push at you crossed your mind, but you still found those gross, and a generic pepper spray was just as effective).

As hard as you tried, you would eventually need to make a trip out at night to get an errand done.

It was a late night request from work. You tried to refuse but the tone of your insistent boss implied that you better get it done if you wanted to keep your job. So you headed out anyways, weighing your options.

It was gonna be fast and quick, and you were on high alert.

And really, nothing went wrong on the way to get the task done, or the whole time you were completing said task. All the hard parts were done, and you were going to get home without incident if you sped back.

Or at least you thought you were.

Honestly, it should've been poetic, how much more effective he was at chasing you than you were hiding from him. A tale as old as time.

He had cornered you so fast you let out a yelp.

“Wow, the city is falling apart, and you're just casually out at night,” he leaned slightly over you, hands behind his back. He was kinda pissed that you'd rather risk your safety on the streets than take a completely free opportunity to have your needs taken care of…by him.

You took a few steps back, but he'd close any distance between the two of you quickly.

“G-get away from me. I'll call the cops right now, I mean it!”

It made him so sad that you'd just give your soulmate away to the cops, enough to pout, but duty calls—you needed his protection, especially now that he saw how careless you, even with how cautious you usually were, could be.

He just stood up and circled around you, his tail brushing against your legs as he went. He then laid a paw on one shoulder and leaned over the other, his face only inches away from yours. With his face so close, the combination of his night vision and the reflection of the moonlight made his eyes glow unnervingly. It spooked you, so much so you grabbed at the pepper spray on instinct, only to paw at an empty pocket.

To your horror, Nick held the bottle up, before smirking at you. “Looking for this, dollface?” spinning it in his hand and then tossing it up and down in the air.

You tried to lunge for it but he held it back away from you, his grip on your shoulder limiting your range of motion as well. “After all we've been through, you'd really try to use one of these on me, huh?” His smirk turned into a bitter frown, and his words did nothing but make you fear he might retaliate. But the frown left as quickly as it came, and he peered down at you with his usual half lidded grin, tossing the pepper spray behind his shoulder. “Hey, I forgive you, darling, I get it. You're scared, as you should be, I mean, who knows what crazed animal could be just beyond the corner.”

You wanted to scream that such a statement included him, but your words failed you when his free paw lifted your knees up, the grip of his other paw on your shoulder only getting firmer.

Your heart leapt into your throat at the swift motion, and it took a few seconds to register that he just forced you in his arms, already walking the both of you towards a predetermined destination, before you started kicking and screaming, desperately trying to get out of his bridal carry.

But his grip was so strong, stronger than you thought possible for a guy who made a living off of using his brains over any brawn.

You tried making as much noise as you could, trying to alert your neighborhood, trying to get anyone to come out and help.

But no one did.

You even saw one animal draw their curtains closed tight .

The near sheer hopelessness of it all almost made you go limp.

But no, you were not going to make it any easier for him.

You tried to claw and bite at him, anything to break out of his hold. But he just dodged your attacks, lowly chuckling instead. “Hey, leave the biting for later,” he purred.

A cold shiver did not fail to travel down your spine. And it got worse once you realized he was getting closer and closer to a car.

“It's a rental!” He chirped, lightly bouncing you in his arms, “...from a friend! So it was cheap too, not only that but...”

His words became background noise, drowned out by the sound of your heart drumming in your ears.

In just a few feet, was the loss of your freedom.

[disney-imagines]

Hi! May I please request Nick Wilde romantic headcanons for a fem! bunny! S/O who can be a bit naive and clueless at times but is overall good hearted and sweet?

Pt 2 Hi! I was the last ask about Nick Wilde and I forgot to include that the fem! Bunny! S/O is a good family friend with Judy’s family!

Of course! I got a lil carried away but I hope you enjoy!

~After Judy moves to Zootopia, you make sure to stay in contact with her, keeping up to date with how she's doing

~She frequently mentions the constant thorn in her side that is Nick Wilde, a con-man (con-fox?) that's always trying to skirt around the law

~Soon after you make your way to the city to visit Judy, and while the two of you are out, you run into Nick

~You can't help but lose focus as Judy and him exchange their usual quips back and forth, only being able to concentrate on him

~In all the times she's mentioned him she has never talked about just how... cute he was.

~When you come to again you notice both of their eyes on you, Jusy looking at you slightly concerned and Nick with a knowing grin

~After reassuring Judy you're okay, trying to ignore just how hot you felt your face getting

~You find yourself hanging out with him while you're still in the city, your trip back home continually getting pushed farther and farther back

~To your surprise, you find out just how sweet he can be, as he takes you around showing you all his favorite spots, occasionally telling you stories about different cons he did in parts of the city

~I think he finds everything about you adorable, your naiveness was endearing, and to someone who always had to try to find whatever angle everyone was operating from, it was rather refreshing

~He loves loves loves surprising you with random acts of affection, cutting off whatever you're saying with a sudden kiss to the top of your head, or gently grabbing your hand just to see your face and hear the way you lose track of whatever it was you were saying

~Eventually you manage to convince him to come back to Bunnyburrow with you and Judy and introduce him to everyone in town, with both your and Judy's families present

~They start off a little wary of him, but after seeing just how much you care for him and in return, how much he cares for you, they quickly accept him

[plum-coke]

oh 😭

[rosepinks-world]

am I tweaking or are they the same person (I’m not a furry I promise)

[4rticbolt]

See-See Fruit |Masterlist|

Roronoa Zoro x Reader, angst, protectiveness, fluff, uncontrollable feelings, mentions of depression, Reader is an empath, swearing, definitely blood and a teensy bit of torture?? Idk, shit went dark. #alittledisturbing

Summary: In a fight, you take a hit for him that leaves you in your most vulnerable state.

A/N: Sorry for not posting for so long, I apologize. Writer’s block has been tough and I’m struggling with medical issues. Dysautonomia?? Screw that. So I thought I’d write something sweet. Also, I’m still figuring out my writing style so—like, some of my fics are shit and some are not so much, so please bare with me. (I will be re-vamping them, but not right now)

Also thank you for the 84 followers! That means a lot >:)

Atleast 2k; and I’m making one of these for the other Straw Hats, but it’s gonna take me some time and I just needed to get this one out.

•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•

Roronoa Zoro:

Walking through the woods of another refreshing island, you were welcomed with warmth. Sun shone through the trees, overcasting a soft glow on your face. You were luckily accommodated with little wind as you walked beside your swordsman.

The island was overtaken by nature. Vines, much overgrown, wrapped around every corner—while flowers sprouted from every nick n’ cranny.

Much to your surprise, the woods weren’t dense, they were open with mossy patches and thick trees that extended meters high. The wild-life thrived, and you and Zoro spotted many animals.

Though you’d discouraged him from making them a snack,

“Zoro.” You tugged, pulling him behind a fallen trunk. “It’s too cute to die—eat something else!”

He let out a quiet sigh, begrudgingly sitting beside you. “The shitty cook said to grab food, so that’s exactly what I’m doing.”

“And? Since when do you listen to him?” you whispered, tightening your grip on his haramaki. You kept him close, un-trusting that he wouldn’t turn that cute little deer you saw, into a kabob.

You quietly glared, holding his gaze.

This wasn’t a competition he was gonna win.

He still tried, he really did, but it was a lost cause. He couldn’t beat you on this, and his expression finally cracked. He caved, turning away.

“You can’t save everything, it’s life,“ he grumbled.

“Maybe not, but if I can do something about it I will.”

Curse that stupid look.

Zoro ran a hand down his face, rubbing the bridge of his nose, before looking over his shoulder. He peeked through a disfigured branch to watch the animal tend to some grass.

He hated to admit it, but you were right.

It was kinda cute.

Zoro felt you shift beside him, and he paused looking back. You moved halfway into his lap, resting your knee between his own as you used him as a pillow. He smirked, a little confused by your sudden closeness—but he didn’t complain.

He grabbed your waist, leaning closer.

“What are you—ach-“

You pushed his face away, focusing your attention to the deer and its apparent mother came from a bush. It was at-least three times the size of it’s baby, with a black and bushy white tail.

“Zoro, look!” You smiled, turning his head.

In a soft curse, he muttered your name, grabbing your wrists. He saw the deer, but it was at an awkward angle and he let out a muffled noise of distress. He huffed an annoyed, “woman,” pulling your hands away, but you were far too excited.

“Zoro—“

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” he mumbled, watching you. His eyes followed to your smile, and your fidgety fingers, and he couldn’t help but stare. Zoro took in your sweet features, slowing his hands back to your waist, closing his eyes to relish the moment.

Your swordsman for once relaxed, and you seemed to too, sinking closer. “You still gonna kill it?”

“No, I’ll find something else.” he replied, leaning back.

You hummed in satisfaction, resting your chin on his shoulder as you watched the two deer trail off, enjoying the cozy moment.

It was all perfect.

Until it wasn’t.

A crashed echoed behind you, and Zoro instinctively moved. He pulled you down, using the trunk you’d pestered him for as a shelter, avoiding a narrow blow.

A strange streak of black and blue zapped above you, exploding nearby stone—crippling it to rubble. You went to speak, but Zoro was already reaching for his swords, standing to glare the person down.

“Oi! What the hell was that for!” he snapped, covering you. His sword stretched, flickering to the side to cover your face, glinting just barely in the sun.

You couldn’t believe this was happening.

Soooo—much, for that peaceful moment.

“Yeah—what the fuck gives?” You muttered, grabbing your weapon. “Who are you?” you called, moving to your feet, sidestepping Zoro’s protection.

Silence only emitted, and the masked man remained eerily quiet. He shifted forward, but Zoro’s sword raised and he paused.

“That’s not of your concern.” The man’s voice was smooth, but he seemed transfixed on something—though, you couldn’t tell what.

“The hell it is, you almost hit us!” Zoro pulled his third sword out, placing it in his mouth.

He wasn’t messing around.

“I was aiming for the deer.”

“Bullshit!” You both chimed, and the stranger casually shrugged his shoulder.

He seemed… bland? And you didn’t like that. Neither did Zoro. Because, that meant he was hiding something, and that something could easily give him the upper hand.

Without hesitation, Zoro moved. He wasn’t putting up with this bastard’s bullshit. It was fucking obvious that he aiming for you.

“Ushi Bari,” he spoke, sending a strong attack with his first two swords, then swinging in with his third. The man staggered, defensively blocking Zoro’s weapons with his own.

The dueling blow was close, and he was strong, but he wasn’t stronger.

“Be careful!” You yelled, watching from afar. You watched them exchange blows, feeling useless for not helping—but you knew Zoro could handle it alone.

It was clear he wanted to when he’d just zoomed off, but you couldn’t blame him. He was looking out for you, he always had, and—besides, when he got stubborn like this, he was stubborn.

You sighed, shifting your sword in your hold.

You weren’t fighting, but you could analyze.

This dude obviously had a devil fruit, but of what? He turned trees to mush, and rock to rubble—maybe an acidic specialty? No, that wouldn’t make sense, that’d be a paramecia type, and Zoro had already nicked him.

Searching for an answer, you watched his hands glow with the same blue he’d blasted at you and Zoro from before.

“Zoro get back! He’s gonna use—“ A shockwave of energy followed, but your lover dodged, letting it fly through a row of trees. The unsettled land smudged to the ground, pulsing softly with blues.

“Thanks for the warning.” he huffed, shifting his blade in his mouth.

“Yeah, of course—but watch his hands.” you took a step forward, keeping an eye.

However, the stranger suddenly turned to you, and something uneasy settled in your stomach.

Why were your eyes watering?

Zoro’s eyes narrowed, and he watched you carefully. He looked to the man, following back to you, and questions racked in his mind. Feelings of concern and discomfort twinged, what was he doing?

“I’ll get your bounty first.”

Your eyes widened.

A bounty hunter?

Masses of black charged towards you, and Zoro shouted your name. Your ears rang, and a stillness blinded you. Something settled heavy in your chest, and you just—barely, dodged it.

Debri flew overhead and Zoro called your name again, but you didn’t answer. You were shakily kneeled, struggling to get up.

His attack had clearly affected you—and Zoro was done. He took the initiative to finish this fight before shit went further South.

“Oi, your fights with me!”

•~•~•~•

The forest was ruined now.

Long smoldering sword marks, and devil fruit abilities were etched into the island. Dust rose, and the bounty hunter was still taking Zoro head on. He was using his unkown abilities to his advantage, sending blasts that Zoro had to dodge, because he didn’t know what it’d do if it hit him.

It’d just barely grazed you and you were already fatigued, you looked off—even different. Your eyes were weakly glazed, and your movements were slowed, but you were still you. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but in a way you looked sad, and he hated it. He didn’t know what that bastard did—but he’d put a stop to it. No matter what.

Zoro was filled with determination, but the bounty hunter played dirty. He dangerously sent another attacked towards you before a blistering one to him—and he had to dodge.

“Watch out!”

This was getting ridiculous.

Frustrated and angry—Zoro finally charged.

He found an opening, and he took it.

“Ashura!”

A three headed, six silhouetted figure, appeared behind him. Nine swords lifted, and they came down with a devastating blow, sending your attacker feet in the ground.

He slammed through torn mossy floor, crunching further into the earth—rendering unresponsive. Dust masked your line of vision, but you could faintly make out Zoro who’d been standing somewhat close.

A wobbly smile crossed your face, and you let out a relieved sigh.

He’d won.

“Zoro, you okay?” You rasped, coughing as grime flew into your face. A hand came to your chest, and you shut your eyes to struggle with the burn of the dust. The heaviness that pressured your chest from before, suddenly ached, sending a cold sharp wave throughout your body.

A lightheaded feeling surfaced, and anxiety quickly spread. “Zoro—?”

“I’m here,” he said, gently grabbing your shoulder. “You hurt?”

You shakily shook your head, “No, I’m fine.”

“You?” you muttered, looking him over.

He didn’t seem too bad, but it was clear he had a few spots. Though, you weren’t really any better, you looked exhausted. Your clothes were dirtied, and your cheeks and limbs were scraped from flying scrap.

You were a mess, and you still looked…sad.

Zoro didn’t know how else to describe it, your eyes were soft, as if they were on the verge of tears. It settled an unresolved anger, and he wasn’t sure how to help.

The bastard’s power had affected you one way or another, but he didn’t comment on it. He wouldn’t until you did, because he trusted you to speak up and say something.

“I’ll live.” he replied, stepping closer. His eyes flickered to your torn shirt, and he caught the tremble in your fist as it was placed your heart.

His eyes narrowed.

Was it getting worse?

Zoro rumbled your name, but you didn’t respond.

Your eyes had locked over his shoulder, to the onset black light, flickering in the dust.

He wasn’t down?

A whirring sound hummed across the forest, and on instinct—you acted.

Zoro was a big man, he always had been, but adrenaline made you stronger, even in your weakened state. He sucked in a breath as you pushed him, and in slow mow—it happened.

He was sent back, bracing fallen woodland with you in his arms. Zoro’s mind screamed at him to do something, but he couldn’t. Shock coursed through his veins, and he tightened his grip on you.

He felt wood splinter into his back, but nothing hurt as much as the thought of you sacrificing yourself for him. His consciousness flickered dark, but panic must’ve brought him back, because you were unresponsive in his arms.

He didn’t know how long he’d been out—but it didn’t matter. All the mattered was you.

You’d expect it to happen in a flash, but the trees and leaves were still falling. Everything was going so slow in time. It felt unreal.

Zoro weakly called your name, looking you over—expecting the worst, but you were the same. There wasn’t a blistering mark, or anything? You were just out.

“Fuck, hey, come on,” he shifted you up, kneeling with you close. His voice broke, and it cracked with fear as he cradled your body. Calloused hands found your face and he muttered your name, again, desperately.

Why weren’t you waking up?

A sick laugh echoed from the distance, and he tensed. Realization settled across him, and it was deadly.

Him.

Zoro set you down as if you were glass, brushing any leaves that had fallen on your face.

He was beyond raged.

“Couldn’t dodge that one, could you?”

“Fuck you! What’d you do?” Zoro snapped, standing up. He grabbed his sword, already stalking forward.

And the bastard just smiled.

The fuck did that mean?

Zoro aimed the sword to his throat, but strangely, he didn’t fight back. A whimper sounded close him, and he froze. It wasn’t from the bounty hunter.

Zoro almost dropped his sword.

He quickly breathed your name turning around—though his heart twisted.

You were crying. Hard.

He couldn’t see your face, but your shoulders trembled, and he knew. You were curled on your side, burying yourself in the crook of your arm, sobbing. He fucking forgot where he was, and what he was doing. He felt crushed.

Why were you crying? Were you hurt? You had to be. But you said you were fine?

Zoro was yet again frozen, he’d never felt this fear before. This excruciating guilt, the kind that made your body ache. He’d never hesitated this much in his life—and maybe this was the reason you were hear now.

He couldn’t believe he let this happen. Not to you. Not to anyone. Seconds passed, and he finally brought himself back. Your nails dug into your chest, and another sob broke the silence.

His heart couldn’t take it.

“What, did. You. Do.” Zoro growled, stepping forward.

In milliseconds, the bounty hunter was slammed back. He had no time to react, no time to render anything, just time to experience pure, brute—force, with searing pain.

Though his smile never wavered.

It was weird. It was as if this fucker was feeding of your pain? Of your agony? The first emotion ever showed—was joy, by your suffering?

Un-fucking-forgivable.

Zoro’s hands shook, and his sword swung. The man tilted his head back to avoid the blow, and it shredded the trees behind him.

More leaves fell, and he finally answered.

“Anything I think, she feels. She’s living in whatever illusion I created.”

What?

Zoro’s sword hesitated as it was held high.

What could this bastard, possibly think, that could make you like this? To the point of sobbing? Crying?

Shusui slammed into his leg—eliciting a sharp breath.

“Then, Fix it.”

The bounty hunter laughed, though his pain was obvious, “I’d rather die.”

“Trust me you will.” Zoro sneered, twisting the sword. “I said fucking fix it.”

A strangled noises echoed, and he craned his sword up to his hip. The man gasped, squirming back, but it dug deeper. “You stupid pirate—“

“I’m not repeating myself.”

“Fine!” The sword didn’t let up till it was to his side, but he seemed to finally let you go.

Zoro looked back, and your body had finally stilled, growing quiet. He ripped his sword away, swinging it behind him, not bothering to look back at the scene—and he was next to you in a instant.

His sword was sheathed, and he shook you gently.

“____, come on,” he murmured, wiping your tears.

He felt you stir, and a breath of relief escaped him. Zoro hugged you to his chest, holding the back of your head as he breathed you in.

You weakly croaked his name, and he only held you tighter.

“I’m here, you’re okay.” you were brought up, held protectively in his arms.

“I thought you—“

“I know. Just rest.” he said, “I’m taking you back to the ship.”

“Ship?”

Zoro steps slowed, “yeah, the Sunny.”

“No—the, the Sunny’s gone?” you broke, shakily leaning up. His hand shifted to your back, and he held you tighter.

Your voice seemed so broken.

“____, the Sunny’s here.” He looked you over, and you still seemed so shaken. Your eyes were red, brimming with tears—and he couldn’t care less about the snot.

You were hurt, maybe not as much physically—but mentally, the bounty hunter’s power made you shatter. His heart ached, and he remembered the man’s words.

“Anything I think, she feels.”

Anything. He, thought.

Zoro cursed under his breath, and he set you down onto the mossy floor, making you flinch. His hand steadily came to your back, but you only hugged him tighter. It was clear you didn’t want to let go, scared he might disappear—but he wouldn’t.

He’d stay right beside you, but you needed to come back from whatever hell that bastard created.

He needed you here, and he needed you with him.

Zoro carefully crouched in-front of you, and he shifted back to take your face in his hands.

He looked you in the eyes, and it was clear what he was doing. He was giving you the time to breathe, to realize—it was okay.

You sniffled, letting out a shaky breath, and your grasped his shirt.

“Zoro.”

He didn’t respond, and he didn’t offer you pity—but he did offer you his presence. And that was enough.

“It, it wasn’t real was it?” you voiced, looking up to him, and he only shook his head.

He sighed, brushing away your leftover tears.

“No, everyone’s fine. The Sunny’s docked in the cove, and the crew’s safe.” Zoro grabbed your waist, pulling you closer. “They’re probably waiting for us now.”

He gently brought you in his arms, letting you hug him, waiting for you to be ready. He wasn’t urgent, and he wasn’t rushing. He was careful, and patient.

Your arms encircled around his neck, and you buried your face in his shoulder. A few silent moments passed, and you eventually felt ready. “Then, can we go?”

“Yeah, we can go.” he picked you up, shielding the forest with his shoulder as he brought you through. Zoro wasn’t letting you go for a long time, not even in the safety of the Sunny, or in the infirmary where chopper would treat you.

Today was something he experienced for the first time, and never, I mean never—would he let it happen again.

He would work harder, and he would protect you.

[koqabear]

hiii this is for the 2k event, i wanted to ask if u write hybrid!au cause yeonjun dressing up as nick wilde has got me feeling a little delusional. if u don’t completely ignore this but if u do, can i request fox yj and maybe bunny reader?

[2K Masterlist]

"Yeonjun is adamant that you’re a pretty, porcelain doll. You’re more than ready to shatter that idea and show him that you’re stronger than he thinks."

fox hybrid! yeonjun x bunny hybrid! reader // wc: 1.9K // genre: hybrid au, pwp. this is just straight filth im sorry. MDNI.

warnings dom!yeonjun, sub!mc, somnophilia (consensual), oral (f rec.) pet names (bunny, good girl), degrading, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, degrading, kitchen sex, manhandling, dacryphilia, begging, scratching, possessiveness, unprotected sex, breeding kink, creampies, aftercare kinda, girl idk i literally just dissociated when i wrote this i forget how exhausting this all is!!

Notes: the healthcare system is fucked even in fanfiction, you can’t escape. 

Every decision you’ve made throughout your relationship with Yeonjun has led to where you are now:

Face down, ass up, tears in your eyes and words muddled through the drool that spills through your lips. 

You’ve told him countless times that you’re not fragile; that the sweet, docile image he has of bunny hybrids is nothing but a sham, and that you can take anything he offers with a confident stride— and though he simply laughed in endearment and shook his head at your claims, you insisted. You insisted throughout all the sugary sweet times he made love to you, during all the moments where you felt his hands hesitate to hold you, as though he was afraid that putting pressure on your body would be enough to make you shatter. 

The words were tiring to both his and your ears at some point: the petulant whines asking for more, your pathetic attempts to try and take control and change the pace entirely— Yeonjun’s sharp, narrowed eyes that flickered at you in warning was the harshest thing you received from him— but judging by the shivers that flowed down your spine like water, your fluffy tail twitching in attention, you knew that your body only craved for more and your brain wouldn’t settle down until you got your way.

You could say that he warned you. He really did, technically, sitting you down for a serious talk about something you two never really discussed in detail. You watched with wide, slightly confused eyes as he explained to you that his heat was approaching, and that you definitely shouldn’t be around for it— when you perked up to interrupt, he merely shook his head to shut you down and continue his explanation. 

“I usually take medication, but my insurance no longer covers my usual prescription.” he told you, his ginger ears twitching in annoyance from the mere memory, “I’m taking a leave from work for it, and… I want to spend this time alone.”

“It gets intense… I don’t want to hurt you.”

A bruised ego and terribly confrontational personality was truly a god awful combination. Though you suppose it helped you for the better, considering that after a good argument with your ever-so loving and doting boyfriend, he finally gave up. 

You can remember the sight so vividly; his ruffled hair, the fluffy tail that whipped from side to side as he finally slumped back against the couch, out of breath and exhausted— his ears pinned against his head in defeat the moment he took a good look at you, in all your still fired up and energetic glory. 

He knew it was a losing battle the moment you cocked a challenging brow at him, as though begging for him to continue.

The word okay has never sounded better from your boyfriend's mouth. 

••••

That all leads you back to today. It’s been— oh, you really can’t remember. A day? Maybe two? You don’t think it matters at this point, since the only thing that fills your mind now is the feeling of being full, stuffed, and warm. 

Yeonjun gave you a chance to back out the second he opened the door for you. He spoke to you calmly, softly, nervously, watching you hop around his living room and throw your overnight bag on his couch, overjoyed to be taking such a monumental step forward in your relationship. You dismissed every slow, anxious sway of his tail as you ate dinner together, listening intently as he told you about how he’s gotten with his previous partners. 

It was too much for many of them. He gets aggressive. He gets insanely needy, it goes on for hours, even throughout the night. 

You prayed that he didn’t notice the pathetic clench of your thighs and slight arousal as he told you about his details, nodding sweetly when he asked if you were okay with doing the things he mentioned. 

You established a safeword, coddled him the moment you noticed his temperature beginning to rise, and gave him a gentle kiss on the forehead as you murmured your goodnights. 

About six hours passed when you first felt it; you’ve always been a light sleeper, so you were doomed the second your sensitive ears picked up on the sound of restless rustling behind you. You tried your best to ignore it, your drowsy mind eager to go back to sleep, but the white noise of sheets moving around was quickly accompanied by something else— breathy, desperate gasps.

“Bunny…” Yeonjun’s raspy whine was enough to have your ear twitching slightly; more rustling, and suddenly, a scorching heat hovers behind you. “Bunny, need… need you s’bad…”

His hands are heavy on your skin, almost scorching with the way he restlessly makes his way up your shirt, groping at your tits before they slide down your stomach, feeling you up all the way down before they stop at your thighs— without warning, he presses flat against you, a hand snaking beneath your body to wrap around your stomach and pull you flush into him. He was so hard, so needy that the very feeling of your soft ass pressing against him was enough to rip out a broken sob from him.

“Let me fuck you,” he murmured against the shell of your ear, words that slurred together showing that he was also half-awake, probably not too aware of his actions and the way he rutted into you helplessly, “C’mon bunny, lemme use you.” 

Your ass that pressed back into him and the sleepy whine that left you was enough for him.

You can only remember drifting in and out of consciousness that night; the sloppy, wet sounds of skin against skin and desperate grunts was nothing but white noise to you at that point— Yeonjun was glued to you for hours on end, fat cock thrusting harshly into your poor, abused cunt, filled with so much cum that it could only smear onto your inner thighs and his balls, leaving a mess you wouldn’t be able to clean anytime soon. 

When you woke up, you were on your back— your pussy was sore and a whine bubbled up uncontrollably from your throat, hips canting up and against Yeonjun’s face— your hands were shaky as you fisted the sheets, tears pricking your eyes as you listened to Yeonjun’s sweet nothings against your skin, leaving bites and kisses against your thighs as he promised you that he’d be quick, that he just needed to eat your sweet cunt— you’d get cleaned up nicely after. 

Yeonjun was a liar, of course— because none of his sweet promises included his burning desire to fuck you after you came, cleaning you up only to push his cock back in and fuck you right into the mattress; legs pressed against your stomach, wails leaving you as he plunged into you with abandon, frantic hands scratching down his back as you cried from the overstimulation— it only ended with him pressing deeply into you and emptying yet another load into your tired cunt. 

The semblance of normalcy that followed after didn’t last very long, either— yeah, getting carried to the shower and having him clean you up and scrub you down was nice, and sitting at the counter as you watched him make a quick breakfast was nice too, a heartwarming glimpse into a domestic future with him— but you were only able to get halfway through your meal before Yeonjun decided that he’d much rather bend you over the kitchen counter and have you there instead— moaning wantonly as he watched your trembling legs fail to keep up, buckling under his pace and forcing him to hold you up with his insane strength— and just when you thought he was getting tired, he simply flipped you on your back and laid you on the counter instead; he always did think you looked really pretty when you were totally fucked out, anyway. 

Maybe that’s when hours started blending together— he was sweet and caring when he needed to be, cleaning you up with a feather-like touch and kisses that warmed your heart— only to give you the whiplash of the century when his pupils dilated and the only thing he honed in on was you. 

You. You you you. 

His ears would press against his head and his tail would flicker dangerously, narrowed, focused eyes meeting your bleary ones with ease; you could only sit there and let him maneuver you however he liked, shivering and falling limp with each time he’d slide his cock into you, as though you finally felt complete. 

You looked so breathtaking to him— under him, over him, whatever position he suddenly found himself needing you in— teary eyes and swollen lips calling his name like a mantra, a prayer, a plea for him to use your body until he got his fill.

There was something so addicting about the way you trembled from the overstimulation, sobbing and writhing yet never saying your safe word. It had Yeonjun fascinated, the guilty part of his mind berating him for trying to see how far he could take things— yet, no matter what he did or what he said, you only seemed to beg for more, like you’d been waiting for this moment for ages.

“Take it, T-take it like a good toy,” Yeonjun hissed, fingers digging into your hips as his cock battered into you ruthlessly. You merely cried and moaned, cotton tail wiggling with every drag against your walls, the soft fur coated with dried cum, “said you could handle it, right? Stupid fucking bunny— nothing but a cumdump for me, hmm?”

Your squeals and chants of yes! Yes yes yes! only spur Yeonjun on even more— his body feels as though it’s on fire, bright hair sticking to his sweaty skin as he merely pushes himself further— you can practically feel his back hover over your own, able to tell that he’s close from his faltering pace and shaky breaths that fan across your skin. 

“Want me to breed you?” he asks, though there’s no need to ask anymore if the previous loads he’s dumped into you are any indication of your answer. Yet he still does, almost like instinct; it’s much more satisfying to hear you beg for it, anyway. 

And you do— your begging is so cute, how could he ever resist? Yeonjun’s nails might break your skin with how tightly he’s holding you, teeth digging into his pouty lip as he pumps himself into you, once, twice, then empties out everything he has to offer— your back arches and your hips move back to try and glue yourself to him, crying out his name in satisfaction as he fills you for the nth time of the night. 

The way you keen out, the sight of your ears that are pinned to your head along with your tail that shivers with satisfaction is like drugs to him; he’s hopelessly addicted to you, to all of you, from your stuffed cunt that continues to suck him in to your soft voice that whimpers out at every sensation you offer him.

Such a good girl, Yeonjun thinks to himself, butterfly kisses spanning along your sweaty skin, your barely conscious form curling into him for more, how did he get so lucky?

Even after he’s given you a moment to rest, laying down with you on top of him, you still cling onto him, sighing in content as you allow him to cockwarm you, already bracing yourself for the moment he feels himself needing you again. And as you both drift into a much needed nap, Yeonjun can only find himself thinking one thing. 

Thank god for you and your argumentative nature.

[rorynn]

SOMEONE PLS WRITE FOR NICK WILDE X READER FICS OR JUST ZOOTOPIA X READER FICS AND MY HEART WILL BE YOURS ,I AM DYING AND EDITS FROM TIKTOK ARE KILLING ME

[pomegranatelifethis]

Please, send me your wishes or spark some ideas my way! Time is slipping through my fingers like whispers of a fading dream... Boredom has curled up beside me like an old friend, and my inbox is as barren as a winter’s branch. It’s so quiet, even the shadows hold their breath. A single word, a fleeting sentence, or even a soft “What’s up?” could stir this stillness. Come on, let’s ignite a spark—share a thought, toss out an idea, and let’s dive into a little chat that dances with possibilities!

[hildergard]

A GENTLE HAND ★ AEMOND TARGARYEN

SUMMARY | "Gentle Hand," Mylenda insists on calling you, and perhaps that is what you are destined to be, perhaps that is what Prince Aemond needs.

PAIRING | Aemond Targaryen x Maid!Reader

TAGS | Mention of sexual assault and abuse, mommy issues, angst and light fluff.

WORDCOUNT | 10k

NOTE | This is my first fanfiction on this website. Ewan Mitchell plays such a fascinating Aemond that I had to write this. I hope it's any good. Tell me if I should write a part 2! <333

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!

The roebuck’s blood turned your fingers sticky and the knife handle slippery. 

Brought by the royal hunters that very morning, the poor creature now lay on the counter of the Red Keep’s kitchens between the dismembered rabbits and the plucked ducks. It had only taken you a few cuts to skin the beast⏤practice makes perfect. 

The flesh was now raw and spilling its bloody perfume. You grabbed a thyme leaf from one of the bouquets garnis picked for the mutton stew and pressed it against your nose to soothe your nostrils, assailed by the disturbing scent of game⏤a full-bodied mixture of earth and wildness. Above this acrid aroma, death distilled its powerful bouquet and turned your stomach. It had been years since you entered the service of the Crown and yet the disgust never vanished. 

"She's coming," a small voice yelped from the kitchen entrance. 

A murmur passed through the crowd of maids. All around you, they hurried their movements. Two tables away, Cass grimaced and hurriedly threw the pieces of mutton into a large pot before drowning them in wine. You met Dacey's panicked gaze as she hastened to peel potatoes. The blade of the knife slipped and nicked at her palm, but she had no time to care or feel. 

Nothing mattered when Mylenda was around. 

You straightened up and slipped the thyme leaf into your apron pocket. Your knife took no time to sever the roebuck’s tendons, spread the muscles, scrape the bones and, finally, dislocate the shoulder with a clean cut. The second limb followed immediately afterwards. 

Heavy footsteps echoed through the kitchen and rattled the pans. The strong, greasy smell of venison, which had been bothering you all morning, disappeared at this familiar noise. Your fingers tightened around the handle of your knife as you stuck it in a leg. 

One piece of meat wasted and your head would be chopped off. 

"Is that venison ready, girl?" the matron’s voice grated against your eardrum. "It shouldn’t take you hours to cut up a poor carcass. I taught you better. Has my absence made you lazy? You know what happens to slackers."

You shook your head. 

"Sorry, ma’am."

She grabbed your hand. The knife fell with a sharp clang, silencing all movement in the vicinity. Pots and pans, chopping boards and spits were cast aside. Amidst this deathly silence, all eyes fell on you. 

"These are no hard-working hands. No, they're not… Next time I see you, I'd better see blisters on your lazy palm. Such… Such gentle hands in my kitchen," she scoffed, "Even whores get rougher skin jerking off cocks."

You flinched. 

"You better start working harder, got it?"

Terror ran through you. You nodded frantically before wrenching your hand from her grasp and cradling your clenched fist against your heart.

Mylenda muttered something you did not care to hear, your ears deaf to anything but the frantic pounding of your heart against your temples. You looked down and immediately came across the beast's eyes, sitting in a clay bowl and reminiscent of the pile of gooseberries that would be used as a sauce for the chops. You could almost taste the delicious berries on the tip of your tongue. 

Your stomach rumbled. 

If the old woman heard it, she said nothing, too busy assessing your work. 

"The cut could be cleaner," she criticised, "but I don't suppose the royals will mind when the meat crumbles into the stew. You're lucky we're not roasting it. You’re as tactful as a headsman, girl. You’re not cutting off a thief’s neck but the King's dinner. You better fix that."

"Yes, ma’am."

Your gaze fell even lower, to the hide piled up in a jumble on the floor. You were hoping to make a coat out of it this evening, in the privacy of your little bedroom. The air was getting colder and colder and your cotton dress would soon no longer suffice. Gilliane, like a true Northerner, kept saying that winter was coming. 

Whatever that meant.

You kicked the skin under the table and prayed to the Seven Gods that Mylenda would not see it.

"Once you've finished cutting it up, you’ll make a terrine from the legs and shoulders," she ordered. "The Hand loves it. And don't forget to cook the guts. I ain’t letting a plump liver like that go to waste. Must’ve been a brave beast, that one," the matron said as she struck the bloody organ with pride. "A persillade should do. The mutton stew will be the main course."

You nodded and swallowed down your bile. The rancid scent of the old woman rivaled with the earthy exhalations of the venison. 

"Back to work, girl."

With these words, Mylenda left to go and torment Cass, who was struggling to cook the mutton. Bubbling wine stained the sides of the copper pot and evaporated on the flame. 

"Gi' me that. I'll carve it up for ya."

Someone snatched the knife out of your hand. You lifted your head and found Gilliane beside you, her gaze riveted on the matron who had turned crimson from screaming at poor Cass. 

"Gentle hands... Gentle hands... I’ll tell her what I think of her hands. I'd love to see them so-called palms wrinkled wi' effort. I've never seen her hold no knife since I arrived," she mumbled. 

Her defence warmed your heart. 

"Tek care o' them offal ‘fore the old cow decides to serve yer kidneys wi' mustard instead," she whispered. "She'd get a kick outta that, that madwoman." 

"Do you think she can smile?" you asked. 

"Gods, no," she scoffed. "She was born wi' pursed lips and that ugly wrinkle between her eyebrows."

You both laugh before returning to your tasks. Gilliane was busy carving up the rest of the venison so you concentrated on the liver and the parsley. The smell of garlic and herbs wafted out of the mortar in front of you and made your mouth water as you added a pinch of salt and a spoonful of oil. 

For a second, you dreamt of being a lady and imagined tasting these exquisitely flavoured dishes. The soup⏤more water than broth⏤and the stale bread you were entitled to once the service was over were intended to feed you, not to please. This right was reserved for people of good breeding. 

In the corner of your eye, you saw Mylenda stopped to face Hendry, a little boy of just thirteen who had joined you a month earlier. It wasn't unusual for people to sell their children in exchange for a new cart or some meat. Sometimes, mothers would lay their babies outside the gates of the Keep and pray that the place would blossom into a better life. From here, you could see the boy's pale complexion and shaking shoulders. The plate he was cleaning was dangerously close to falling. You prayed to the Gods to spare this child from the wrath of the woman next to him. 

"The King's dinner my arse..." you grumbled as you started to dice the liver. "She doesn't give a damn about doing His Majesty a favour as long as she can torture us."

"What's worse is she doesn't realise that she doesn't need t'beat us. Just a whiff of her rotten breath and believe me, even the worst brigand would fall to their kn–"

Oswell Pyne stormed into the kitchen, his fist wrapped around the arm of a weeping Prudence. 

You dropped the pestle at the sight of her swollen face. Her milky complexion faded into a mass of frightening bruises. The purple and blue weren't enough to hide the drops of blood beading at her temple and the edges of her lips. 

What had this poor girl fallen into? 

You immediately abandoned your post⏤to hell with the damn parsley⏤and tried to make your way through the other servants who had gathered at the entrance to the kitchens, just as eager to find out more. Gilliane insulted two or three of them, who immediately moved aside for fear of poking the Nordic woman and having to face her coarse tongue. 

"Steward Oswell," Mylenda stammered. "To what do I owe your visit? You don't normally drop in until dinnertime, which, if I'm not mistaken, doesn't start for another two hours."

She turned to the maid, whose sobs had worsened at the sight of the old hag. Her headdress had been ripped off and her blonde hair was falling in knots over her tiny shoulders. 

"Prudence, what have you done, girl?" she asked dryly. "Oh, sir... I hope she didn't cause you no trouble. My girls usually know how to behave."

"Well, it seems Prudence here has seen fit to answer back to His Majesty."

The whole kitchen fell in an uproar.

Mylenda, who ruled with an iron fist over the henhouse of the Red Keep’s maids, harped on to you all day long about the importance of keeping quiet. You still remembered your first day in the service of the Crown and the words she had screamed… 

"Maids can gossip all they like in the kitchens, Gods know stirring a stew for two hours can put even the most seasoned of maids to sleep, but if I catch any of you uttering a single word outside these walls, they will be punished. The Lords don't need to be reminded that we exist. As soon as you stop smelling the kitchens, you shut up."

Shivers ran down your spine. 

"Obviously," the steward continued, heedless of the chaos his words had unleashed, "Prudence didn't care about the repercussions such disastrous behaviour might have on the maids. Or on Mylenda herself. Am I right, girl? Own up your mistake."

He shook Prudence's arm and she let him, her chin trembling. You wanted to slap that horrible man, to make him swallow his arrogant smile, but what could you do but stand by and watch this horrifying spectacle? 

Next to you, Gilliane cursed against the matron and the steward. Her insults were drowned out by the whispers of the other maids. Cass, her apron still stained with wine, was turned towards Ellyn, the baker. Even Hendry had leaned over to Dacey and was whispering something in his ear. 

"Quiet, girls!" Mylenda shouted before turning back to Prudence. "Well, what are you waiting for? Speak up! For Gods’ sake, what's got into you?!"

"He... He tried to... To... I didn't want to... My father... he would have... No... I couldn't..."

Your heart fell into your stomach. Of course. You closed your eyes and breathed in to try and silence the flicker of indignation blossoming inside. The hubbub around you increased. Several girls gasped. A few had the courage to protest. Next to you, Gilliane grunted and clenched her fist. 

How many more maids would have to suffer the same fate before someone took action? How many young girls would have to be broken, their prospects dripping down their aching thighs, because of the animal urges of one and the same man? 

"And that gives you the right to answer back to the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms?" the steward growled. "You fool!"

The memory of Dyana still haunted the kitchens. No one dared mention her name for fear of invoking her tormentor, whom the aromas of poppy and dirty gold could not mask. How naive you had been to think this had been enough to keep him out… The executioner had invited himself into your ranks and was sowing his eternal seeds of destruction. Again and again and again. 

Such was the luck of Targaryens and their royal blood while the small folk picked up the pieces and healed the wounds. Spoilt blood flowed and flowed and flowed without a care in the world. Who would stop the bleeding? Were we destined to die, our empty bodies turned towards the gold-covered hands that held the knife? 

"I understand Prudence was to be one of the cupbearers at tonight's dinner. You can understand why the King would be... offended if he had to endure the sight of that... that seductress while he ate his meal. Would he not?"

Ashamed, the old woman grumbled under her breath, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. Mylenda only cared about her reputation. She forgot that, like all of you, she was nothing. You frowned, disgusted by this dishonourable but not in the least surprising display. 

"Of course, sir! Come here, girl!" Mylenda barked at Prudence before grabbing her hair and pulling her forward. "I'll show you what I do to maids who dare to talk back! You'll be sorry you didn't let the King get his way!"

Next to you, Gilliane took a step forward, ready to fight, but you held her back before she too sealed her fate. You had seen what happened to girls who dared to speak out and you didn't want to see your friend beaten to death by a stick. 

Mylenda's crazed gaze swept across the assembly before coming to rest on you. She pointed at you with her bony finger. 

"You! Gentle Hand! You'll be the cupbearer in Prudence’s stead. I hope you fill glasses better than you cut meat. I will not be humiliated any further by one of my maids. You will behave yourself and do me honour. Got it?"

You paled and glanced around in panic, but the other maids lowered their heads, happy not to have been chosen. Nobody wanted to be the cupbearer. Not since the coronation. Standing for hours enduring King Aegon's indecent babblings, his lips loosened by the acrid taste of wine, was an ordeal you all sought to avoid. Until now, you had managed to escape it, eternally hidden behind the steaming pots. 

The Gods had now taken away your chance and were throwing you into the dragon pit.   

You stammered incomprehensible words, pointing to the pieces of liver ready to be cooked, but Mylenda would have none of it and glared at you until you bowed your head and admitted defeat. 

Oswell stood next to the matron, staring at you with his nose turned up⏤like watching an insect, you realised. He finally nodded and left the kitchen, slamming the door behind him. 

His departure set off a firestorm. Gilliane turned sharply towards you, her grey eyes ablaze with rage. 

"One day, I’ll gut him like a pig," she spat. "Mylenda. Oswell. They're rats, all of 'em."

You watched as the others busied themselves around Prudence. Cass wrapped a cloth around her shoulders and led her to a chair. Ellyn handed her a loaf of bread and forced her to eat before bringing a glass of water to her bruised lips. 

"Poor girl," Gilliane continued but you were listening with a distracted ear. "She's far too good to work here. I'll pray t'the Old Gods for her tonight. Maybe they'll hear me and get her outta this hell ‘for the old cow gets the better of her."

The Northerner shook her head and, at last, looked at you, her eyes moistened with concern. She leaned towards you and asked if you were all right. Words fell short on the tip of your tongue, troubled by the sight of a destroyed Prudence and the evening ahead of you. Your chores consisted of cooking and washing cloths, nothing that would justify being in the company of the royal family.  

You shrugged. 

"If ya want, I can ask Mylenda to swap us," Gilliane suggested. "I don't want ya to have anything to do wi' him. Not after all that mess," she nodded at Prudence. 

Henry was clumsily dressing up her wounds. 

You shook your head. 

"No. It'll only get you in trouble with the old cow. I'll go. It's just serving wine, isn't it? It can't be that bad."

"I guess," Gilliane conceded. 

You knew very well that your friend wanted to protest. You could see her plea right at the edge of her lips, but you went back to your post and your persillade before she could tell it. Protesting wouldn't change anything, so you might as well get used to the idea and put up with it. You deliberately ignored the shiver of terror that ran down your spine at the thought of the King and grabbed a new sprig of parsley, chopped it roughly before adding it to the mortar. 

Mylenda appeared beside you as you grabbed the pestle. 

"What are you still doing here, girl? Didn't you hear me? Go and look after the wine. We still have to add the honey and decant it. And for Gods’ sake, change that bloody apron! Spare the royal family the sight of these hideous rags! Ahem. Right, then. Now, where was I? Henry, polish these bloody chalices!"

The old matriarch left you alone, arms flailing away. 

Contrary to popular belief, the wine cellars were not next to the kitchens. You had to venture even further down to find the huge and cold rooms. You were already missing the lively melody of the kitchens before leaving them. 

"We probably won't see each other again before dinner, so... Stay away from t’King," Gilliane whispered to you before pursing her lips. Her hand squeezed your shoulder painfully. "If anything happens, anything, tell me and I'll take care of it–" 

"Don't you worry about me," you put an end to her budding act of betrayal. 

She nodded, frowning and her gaze determined. It was hard to believe that this fiery fury had been bred by the icy winds of Longtown. 

"Can you do something for me?" 

"Anything," she replied immediately. 

"Hide the roebuck skin." 

Gilliane smiled and winked at you. 

"As long as ya leave me some to mend me cloak."

"Deal."

You gave her a thin smile and abandoned the venison and parsley, your knife and mortar for barrels and crushed grapes. When you reached the caves, a cellarer was stirring wine in a gigantic pot. Beside him, another was pouring honey into the red bath. They were probably making the hypocras the King was so fond of. 

"I... Mylenda sent me. I'm the cupbearer... For tonight’s… dinner..?" 

The pourer interrupted your poor explanation and nodded towards the corner of the room. 

"Make yourself useful and fill those jugs up, girl."

The two hours passed quicker than you had wished and soon you found yourself with your back against the wall, your arms already tired from carrying the jug of wine you had filled yourself. 

You thought back to Mylenda and lowered your head a little more. Her orders, engraved in your skull, haunted you. You could almost feel the old woman's bony fingers wrap around your chin and yank it down. The labyrinthine floors of the Keep were not enough to blur the threat of the old woman. Even when she wasn't there, she forced you to keep your head down, your eyes glued to the floor and, above all, your mouth shut⏤if you dared utter a single word, you'd suffer her fury and her fist. 

You remembered Prudence's swollen face and shivered. Aegon Targaryen may have cast the first stone in her doll's face, but you had no doubt that the matron would throw all the others and beat her to the bone. You tightened your grip on the jug's handle and prayed to the Gods to spare you from the same fate.  

With a distracted ear, you listened to the Dowager Queen, Alicent Hightower, speak in a soft voice, but her words faded under the suffocating presence of the King. He stood close enough to you so that you could hear every gulp of wine drunk, every mouthful chewed open. He spat out your persillade and stained the white tablecloth with vulgar words, obviously caring little for decorum. 

The perks of being King, you supposed.  

Your mind wandered away from Kings and Queens to the hide under the worktop. Had Gilliane taken it away or was it still lying on the sticky kitchen floor? Would you keep the hair or turn it into a leather coat, less warm but more durable? After what Mylenda had called the "deer disaster", she wouldn't let you butcher any more animals. No more skins for you. You'd have to buy fabric, but the few silver stags you were given every month wouldn't be enough. 

Despite the plump little purse hidden under your straw mattress, you refused to dip your hand into it. The Crown housed you and fed you; clothes were a mere futility when the Keep provided you with a red dress and a white apron to wear. So why spend your fortune, meagre though it may be, on coquettish whims? No. The purse would remain hidden until you left the Keep. 

Leather it is, you thought. 

"Girl. Wine."

You startled and hastily filled the glass the Hand held out to you. Otto Hightower glanced at you for a moment but said nothing. He took a sip and turned to continue his conversation with his grandson, Prince Aemond. You sighed, relieved when his attention left you. A small voice in your head, however, whispered to you that he would definitely mention this incident to Oswell, and if not to the steward, to Melynda herself. 

You gulped and absent-mindedly wiped the drop of wine from the jug.  

As you moved to regain your place by the wall, your eye drifted to the venison terrine in front of the Hand, left untouched. You frowned. The fruit and cheese had long since filled the plates and foretold the end of dinner. A bitter taste poisoned your mouth and tugged its corners down. They were happily wasting the food while, under their feet, maids would fight to trim the bones of their leftovers, like vile carrion-eaters around a leprous corpse. 

The nobles boasted of their noble education and mastery of good manners, but these vanished in the indecency of their existence. 

A pale hand burst in front of your eyes and stopped under your nose to present you with an empty cup. Without a word, you poured the King another drink and kept your head down. His insistent gaze burned the side of your face and moved lower, stopping on your heaving chest. The hair on the back of your neck stood on end and the handle of the jug pressed painfully into your sweaty palm.  

You pig. 

You looked around for a way out and found no better distraction than the Prince Aemond. Your gaze immediately fell on his eye patch. You were standing on his blind side, you realised. The thought reassured you. For the first time, you could observe the members of the royal family as you pleased. 

Unlike his brother, the second son of the late King Viserys did not take pleasure in fondling servant girls. He spent his urges studying the texts and holding the blade when he wasn't off murdering his nephews⏤for the war that emptied your stomachs and purses had blossomed at the hand of Aemond Targaryen. 

Your eyes fell on his clenched fist, his angular jaw and his famous leather eye patch. 

Yes, you could easily picture him a as murderer.  

You left your thoughts for a moment to serve the Dowager Queen again, noticing that there was nothing left of the parsleyed liver that had filled her plate⏤a flash of satisfaction shook you⏤but your gaze quickly returned to the statuesque figure of the Prince. 

You frowned. 

A crack split the fascinating sight. His hand was gripping his glass so tightly that his knuckles were turning white, but even this strong grip couldn't mask the tremors shaking his fingers. The veins in his wrist gushed against the pale skin and seemed to be screaming out a pain that no one could hear but you: the King had started singing, the Dowager Queen was biting her nails and the Hand seemed about to insult his Grace. 

Other details suddenly jumped out at you, as the din next to you worsened: his eyebrows furrowed, his other hand gripping the edge of the table, his vacant purple eye. He wasn't even answering Otto Hightower any more, just nodding absently. 

Prince Aemond soon had enough of his brother's ditty and stood up. The chair legs creaked against the floor and made you wince, but you lowered your head and pursed your lips. He greeted his family in a curt voice before leaving, his head held high, a far cry from the spectacle of weakness you had just witnessed. 

"My glass isn't going to fill itself, girl. More wine. And don't be stingy. To the brim. I'm thirsty."

You watched in silence as the red liquid crashed into the golden glass. A fine foam rose to the surface, the syrupy aromas of the spiced wine oozing out of it. For a second, you indulged yourself in the divine fragrance and its sweetness, which almost made you forget the King's perverse eyes. 

Aelinor stepped forward and cleared the Prince's place setting. She took the empty plate, then the glass, and soon it was as if Aemond Targaryen had never dined here. Only a round of wine, where his glass had been placed, was proof of his presence. 

He had never asked for a refill, you realised.  

For some reason, the vision of Prince Aemond stayed with you for days. 

A new servant, Gretchel Stone⏤a bastard of the Vale⏤had been hired to replace Prudence as cupbearer and waitress. The blonde girl had disappeared from the Keep three days after what the maid now called 'The Accident'. Wherever she was, you prayed for her good fortune and health. The law of the Lords was merciless⏤they played games and let the Small Folk suffer the consequences of their actions. 

If Prudence's departure had saddened you deeply, Gretchel's arrival had freed you from your duty as cupbearer. You were elated to be back in the kitchens and the laundry. The mere memory of the King's gaze still sent shivers down your spine. It stuck to your skin despite the hours you spent in the bath, rubbing and rubbing and rubbing. Your flesh, however raw, couldn't shed the terror. 

The hour of the Nightingale enveloped the Keep in an unrivalled softness. You enjoyed this in-between moment, when the night clung to the fragments of moon that still remained and left the few early risers to enjoy the quiet that the sun would take away. 

The journey to the Great Sept was quick and untroubled. The few drunkards sprawled out on the ground in their own filth were fast asleep and the laborers already working had no use for you. Wrapped up in Gilliane’s cloak, your friend still asleep, you hurried on⏤soon, the Red Keep would awaken and duty would crush you.

When you finally passed through the monument's great doors, septas were silently cleaning the wax from yesterday’s burnt-out candles. 

You passed them and knelt before the wall of the Crone, letting your gaze drift over her wrinkled statue and the murals carved in her honour before taking a splint and lighting a candle. You clasped your hands together and closed your eyes. 

"Dear Crone," you whispered, "You who have seen so many lives and so many fates, grant me clairvoyance and discernment, for the future seems full of trials. Give me patience in my struggle and the strength to act with justice and compassion. Enlighten my steps and bless me with your mercy." 

A bruised, stoic face appeared before your eyes, but you stood up before your thoughts drifted into those dangerous waters. 

Lowly people need not concern themselves with the affairs of a Prince, an unknown voice said firmly.

When you returned to the Keep, it had come alive, bustling with hurry and duty. The kitchens were busy preparing meals for the Lords as other maids were coming and going, their arms drowned in clean and dirty linen. When Mylenda saw you, she threw a white pile into your arms and ordered you to change Prince Aemond's bedding. 

 "Gwenys, the poor girl, is ill," the matriarch explained. "The flu, no doubt. Bloody business. I'll be damned if the Prince catches it. He breaks his fast an hour after dawn. Any minute now, in fact. Make haste, Gentle Hand! And don't let anyone see you."

You stammered your obedience and hurried to Maegor's Citadel. The huge closed doors sent shivers down your spine. They separated you from the power of the World and its cruelty. The blood of the dragon slumbered in these quarters and you would not be the one to poke the sleeping beast. Your gaze fell on the King's chambers ⏤had an innocent soul once again fallen to his cruelty last night?⏤but you lowered your head and continued on your way. 

You knocked on the door⏤your knuckles hitting the carved wood painfully ⏤but nobody answered. Your shoulders relaxed and your breathing calmed. The heavy door would not budge as you tried to push it open. Where were the Kingsguards? You threw your entire weight against the wood and when it finally did open, a thick layer of sweat was soaking your back. 

Your eyes quickly swept over the Prince's quarters, drowned in the distinct opulence of royalty. In one corner, a bookcase was overflowing with ancient tomes and the smell of parchment filled the room. On the walls, murals glorifying House Targaryen caught your eye, but you forced yourself to keep your chin down, your mouth shut, and moved towards the bed, ignoring its warm and cosy appearance, a far cry from your straw mattress. 

The four-poster bed alone was bigger than the small room you shared with Gilliane. Its tastefully embroidered green and black curtains caught your eye, but you resisted the urge to touch them. 

Your arms went to work on their own and fell into familiar gestures. 

You pulled off the worn sheets⏤trying not to think about the fluids trapped in them⏤rolled them into a ball and let them fall to the floor before taking the new ones and draping them over the feather-filled mattress. At last, you fluffed the cushions, releasing a musky and unmistakably masculine scent in the air. It floated in your nostrils. Your heart raced and your cheeks flushed. A little voice⏤sounding strangely like Mylenda’s⏤discouraged you from giving in to temptation, but the perfume numbed your senses and your reason. 

Your trembling hand grasped the cloth and brought it to your face... Already, the scent caressed your cheeks. You gasped, your lips parted, ready to taste this intoxicating bouquet... 

The door slammed. 

The cushion fell from your hand. 

You scrambled to your feet, almost tripping over the pile of dirty sheets on the floor. 

The look on Prince Aemond's face made your blood run cold. 

"Out."

Head down, you picked up the linens and left, taking care not to approach the Prince, who was visibly enraged. As you passed him, his gasping breath caught in your eardrum. You risked a glance in his direction and glimpsed at his clenched fist. 

Just like at dinner.  

The doors closed behind you with a slam that startled you. You had just enough time to hear a grunt and see the Prince's silhouette collapse to the floor. You paled and opened your mouth, ready to offer help, but Mylenda's threats came back to haunt you. You lowered your chin and disappeared around the corner of the corridor, determined to turn a deaf ear to the Prince's groans of pain.

Surely he would have ordered you to stay or fetch a Maester if he felt the need. His silence said it all, didn't it? A creature as proud as Aemond Targaryen probably wanted to be left alone to brood over the illness that was tormenting him. Perhaps Gwenys flu had affected more people than Mylenda thought. 

Yes, that must be it. 

Gwenys' ailment had turned out to be much more than the flu. Blood flux, a nasty ordeal… Oswell and Mylenda had tried to keep the matter quiet so as not to alert the Lords and give them more reason to hate the servants they were condemned to brush shoulders with. Several maids were dismissed from their duties to stop the spread of the disease⏤better letting it grow in Flea Bottom than the Keep, the steward had said⏤and their tasks had fallen on the already stooping shoulders of the remaining workers. 

Busy changing the Prince's sheets at dawn and working in the kitchens during the rest of the day, it had become difficult to find time to pray to the Crone and the Mother in the Great Sept. This new schedule left you exhausted and irritated. Gilliane sometimes had to wake you up⏤something that would have been unthinkable just two weeks earlier. You were finding it hard to mourn the Hour of the Nightingale and the peace and quiet that Mylenda had forced you to give up. Now you had to pray in your room late at night, with the smell of cooking and soap still clinging to your skin. 

But the Gods turned a deaf ear to your pleas and left you to face alone the guilt that grew in your heart each time you abandoned the Prince to his painful fate. 

Your mornings were structured around a heavy sense of déjà vu. No matter how late you changed the Prince's linens, he would always appear and order you to leave with a booming voice before collapsing in a tornado of pain that, strangely enough, broke your heart. 

"I don't know what's wrong with him," you shrugged. But I'm sure... I mean… It can't be the blood flux," you dared to whisper the forbidden word. "His sheets are always clean. I've never found any blood or vomit or... or anything. No... It must be some other affliction. For it to happen every day... Maybe it's his spirit? With all this talk of war... Oh, it's terrible. And strange. I can't stop thinking about it. Perhaps I should speak to the Maester..."

You stirred the contents of the pot absent-mindedly. As you had predicted, Melynda no longer trusted you to cut the meat and had assigned you to the sauces, much to your delight⏤the dreadful scent of fresh had been replaced by bouquets of redcurrant, wine and mustard. 

Next to you, Gilliane cut a rabbit’s head in one clean stroke. 

« Dozens of masters would travel from the Citadel just to treat him. It's not yer job to worry about him. He doesn't deserve it and it’ll only get ya into trouble. Maybe it's a ploy to bed ya. ‘Ve heard he spends lotta nights in the Street of Silk."

"Hmm... I doubt that's it. What's the point of dismissing me, then? If it was a ploy to... to do that… wouldn't it be easier to let me help him? I don't think the Prince is like his brother. No... He seems genuinely unwell."

"Generations of incest do that to ya," your friend scoffed. "It's about time the Gods punished 'em for their sins... These Greens are rotten to the core and you'd do well to remember that. These... These usurpers are–" 

"More cutting and less talking, girls. The Crown pays you to fill stomachs, not to gossip like wenches. If working is such a bother, I'll be happy to replace you with obedient young ladies. Hundreds of them dream of your position in Flea Bottom." 

"Yes, ma'am," you replied in unison. 

Gilliane waited until Mylenda had gone before turning back to you, the bloody tip of her knife pointed towards you. 

"Don't waste your prayers on that kinslayer. And keep away from him, d’ya hear me? There's something evil about that boy, I know it."

You nodded silently and stopped your thoughts from drifting to the Targaryen man. Perhaps Gilliane was right. A prince's business was none of your concern and it would be foolish to think otherwise. 

Yes, you would do your chores quietly and let the lords play their game and fight their demons alone. 

Prince Maelor's flushed and  tearful face refused to leave your mind as you took his dirty linens to the laundry. You did not normally look after the King's heirs⏤Queen Helaena preferred to entrust this task to her trusted servants since that night⏤but a panicked Jenny had stormed into the corridor of Maegor's Citadel, a crying Jaehaera in her arms, as you went to the Prince's room. You had not hesitated to volunteered to take the soiled sheets to be washed; on the contrary, you welcomed the distraction with open arms⏤everything was good to postpone the duty that awaited you. 

The smell of urine emanating from the sheets in your arms made you wince and quicken your pace, but your heart wept for this little toddler whom life had not spared. The King's last child had been prone to accidents since the barbaric assassination of Prince Jaehaerys⏤no doubt the traumatic death of his brother had upset him, as it had all the inhabitants of the Keep. 

Once the sheets had been dropped off, you turned around and retraced your steps until you arrived in front of Prince Aemond's room. You swore under your breath as noises pierced the wood. The sun, already high in the sky, was taunting you. Your little diversions had only delayed your duty, not erased it despite your prayers, and now you had to change the Prince's bedding with the man in the room. 

Maybe he would not care to hold it against you... After all, he told you to leave every day, whether his linens were changed or not. You turned on your heels and were about to head for the kitchens and Gilliane, but a scream stopped you in your tracks. 

A second followed, then a third. You glanced around, hoping to see a Royal Guard burst around the corner, but no white cloak appeared. The corridors remained empty and the Prince's screams continued to ricochet off the alcoves and ceiling mouldings with you as the only ear listening. 

Over your shoulder, the door taunted you. It was ajar, you realised. An unusual lack of attention from the Prince. You took a step towards it, keeping your eyes fixed on the small gap. Soon, the Prince's silhouette came into view. 

On the ground, wearing only a shirt and trousers, Aemond Targaryen was shaking like a leaf, a trembling hand pressed against his bruised eye. A new wave of pain must have swept through him as he curled into himself and screamed. 

You rushed to his side. 

"Are you all right, my prince?" you asked breathlessly. Mylenda and her orders be damned. "Would you like me to fetch the Maester?"

Your hand hovered over his shoulder, which twitched with agony, but you did not dare to touch it for fear of retaliation. The Targaryen man raised his head with an almost bestial growl, resembling the dragon on his coat of arms. When he recovered enough to understand who was standing in front of him, his eyebrows furrowed and his complexion flushed with anger. Your heart skipped a beat and fear seeped through your veins in a matter of seconds.

"Get out," he gritted before turning his head⏤no, hiding. 

"My Prince, I fear I must insist. Your eye–"

His eye patch had slipped off and, although it didn't unveil the horror that lay behind it, it did reveal a red and irritated scar. The lower eyelid was now a mass of inflamed skin. You turned your head and saw a bottle of milk of the poppy overturned, its translucent liquid staining the floor. 

"Get out or I'll have your head!"

You jumped. In an impulse you would no doubt regret, your fingers went to his bruised cheek and brushed against the burning skin to feel the damage before you squeaked. The Prince's hand tightened around your wrist and squeezed, squeezed, squeezed, until you yelped and abruptly pulled away. Pain colonised your palm, your fingers you could now barely move, and the bone at the centre of it all. You got up on shaky knees and walked away, leaving the Prince alone with his torments. 

Instead of heading for the kitchens, your legs led you to Maester Orwyle's dark and silent storerooms. No doubt he was busy deciding the fate of the kingdom with the other members of the Small Council. Silently, you slipped through the door and lit a candlestick before examining the shelves filled with ingredients of all kinds, some perhaps older than you. Hundreds of labels jumped out at you, but none caught your eye until the orange of a jar lit up your retina. 

You glanced behind you and were relieved to see the room still empty. Hastily, you uncorked the jar and dipped your hand in. Your fingers brushed against the softness of its contents before closing around it. You repeated the operation once, twice, thrice, until your pockets were overflowing with expensive and precious ingredients. When it came to stealing the powder you needed, you hesitated but ended up finding a small wooden bowl, insignificant enough so that no one would notice it missing. 

Just as you were about to leave, the faint glow of the candle caught on a small metal container and blinded you. You read its familiar inscription before dropping it, too, into your apron and setting off again, praying to the Gods that the Maester didn't notice the missing ingredients, otherwise you'd certainly end up on the scaffold. 

Your footsteps hit the floor of the Keep. The corridors gave way to staircases that revealed the lower floors, hiding your bedroom. Once you were safe, you tossed your loot onto the bed before digging out a mortar and a sticky jar from underneath it. With trembling hands, you dipped a wooden dish into a bucket of clear water normally used for bathing before grabbing the pestle. 

In the mortar, you emptied the bag of green clay and drowned it in the water before stirring. The pain in your wrist redoubled, but you gritted your teeth and persevered. You added the marigold and camomile petals, then the gooey inside of a Dorne plant whose name you didn't know, before adding two large spoonfuls of honey. 

The neck of the metal container hung in the air for a few seconds. Was that wise? You hesitated, thinking back to the bottle spilt in the Prince's room, but gave in to temptation and let three drops fall into the concoction. 

You ran back towards Maegor's Citadel and snuck into the Prince's quarters. He raised his head and his features quickly contorted with rage at your sight. 

"You again! I shall speak to the steward of your–"

You threw the mortar on the floor, along with some bandages, before turning around and slamming the door. Your back slid against its wood until you fell to the floor, gasping for air. 

Seven Hells, what have I done? 

For a week, your nights were spent praying to the Gods to spare you from the Prince's rage. Sleep slipped away in night terrors that always woke you with a start, leaving you paranoid enough to look over your shoulder every few minutes, waiting for the inevitable. A beating by Mylenda, a dismissal by the steward, even a visit from the Royal Guard... but nothing happened. And that somehow made it worse. Perhaps the Prince wanted to deal with you alone. A series of shivers made you waver. He was terrifying, untouchable⏤impunity incarnated. If anyone found out what you'd done... 

No. No one would know, you tried to convince yourself. 

You decided to keep the incident from Gilliane, who wouldn't have understood anyway. No doubt she would even have chastised you for not leaving him to die on the icy floor of the Keep. A staunch supporter of Rhaenyra, she hated the idea of working for the enemy. You had no thought on the subject. Politics did not matter to you as long as you were paid and the Gods let you live. You wouldn't spit on the hand that fed and housed you. 

It was comfort that kept you under the yoke of Mylenda and her petrifying breath, not ideology. 

The dirt on the King's sheets dissipated in the icy water of the washroom. Your purple fingers struggled to wring the fabric. Terrified of having to face the Prince and reap the consequences of your reckless act, you had asked Mylenda to change your chores in the morning. Fortunately, the matron didn't argue too much, sending you away with just a barb about your hands⏤as was her custom⏤before returning to her duties. Washing clothes had never been your forte, but you preferred it to Aemond Targaryen’s presence.

Two more weeks passed without the Prince making his presence felt. He seemed to have disappeared from the Keep. According to the other maids, his appearances at meals were brief and always tense, and some had even seen him lose a duel during his sparring sessions with Criston Cole. 

When you realised that the Prince would not take revenge, your shoulders relaxed and your mind returned to more pleasant thoughts. 

How naive of you to think that Aemond One-Eye would give up. 

He cornered you in a corridor one evening as you were making your way to your room. Your fingers were itching to do something other than stir sauces and wash cloths. The deerskin, hidden under your bed and still intact, was waiting for you. With all this fuss, you had never found the time to make your long-awaited coat, a decision you bitterly regretted⏤the cold had definitely fallen on King's Landing and left you shivering when your chores weren't there to warm you up. 

A hand pulled you into an alcove. You attempted to struggle but the stranger quickly overpowered you, leaving you unable to move or scream. White streaks cascaded in front of your eyes, carrying a distinct musky smell which stunned you into compliance. 

By the Gods, he had come seeking revenge. 

Aemond Targaryen was going to kill you. 

"Which Maester did you steal that poultice from?"

His sharp tone was terrifying. Tears welled up in the corners of your eyes and a squeak fell from your lips. The prince turned you towards him, waiting for an answer, but you didn't know what to say. Your thoughts were all jumbled together, rendering you as mute as Cromm, the horse keeper from Flea Bottom. He was close, so close that you could see the grain of his skin, the purple of his eye and the scar on his cheek⏤less red than last time, you noticed. 

"Answer me, girl. Where did you find this ointment? Maester Orwyle assures me he has no knowledge of it. Nor do his colleagues. No one in this Keep knew of its existence until I mentioned it. So speak up!"

You stammered a few words, incomprehensible even to your own ears. This seemed to frustrate the Prince to no end as he tightened his grip on your arm. 

Your wrist throbbed, reminiscing the pain. 

"If you do not tell me who–"

"It’s mine," you cut him off, eager to free yourself from his grip. "I made it."

The silence stretched and wrapped around your neck in a horrifying premonitory vision. 

"... You? »

"Yes?"

He glared at you. The darkness of the alcove didn't dull the brilliance of his purple irises. It glowed and made your heartbeat quicken. Legends said the Targaryens were closer to Gods than men and you couldn't help but agree, blessed enough to contemplate their work. 

"Hm."

The pressure on your arm vanished. 

"You will tend to my linens. The new maid cannot do it properly."

The Prince turned around and disappeared into the night. 

The green and black curtains of the four-poster bed had long lost their novelty but none of their splendour. You fluffed the pillow before picking up the duvet. The musky scent of the Prince invaded your nostrils and dilated your pupils. You'd never admit it, but you were relieved to find yourself back in the quarters of the Dowager Queen’s second son. No more freezing water. No more soiled sheets. No more vomit and sperm staining the King's robes. 

The Prince entered the room without a word, but his panting alerted you. Over your shoulder, you caught a glimpse of his clenched fists, furrowed brows and soaked forehead... You didn't wait for him to dismiss you before curtseying, your headdress almost falling off. You gathered up the sheets and headed for the door, but he held out a hand.  

"Stay. I've... I've got to..."

The sheets fell at your feet as the Prince wobbled. Your hands struggled to hold on to his torso, which, in its mass, threatened to send you to the floor too. With clenched teeth, you guided the man to his bed, ignoring the stabbing pain in your arms, and immediately covered him with a blanket, not caring that you had spent time tucking it. 

"What... what should I do? Should I fetch Maester Orwyle? Or someone else? A guard? Ser Criston Cole, perhaps?"

The situation was surreal. Prince Aemond Targaryen, kinslayer and rider of Vhagar, was turning to you for help. A spark of jubilation ignited in your chest but panic spoiled the moment. Large beads of sweat beaded on the Prince’s forehead and ran down his skin to his twitching eyebrow. Your eyes widened at the sight. The whole left side of his face was twitching and convulsing. 

You were right to add chamomile, you thought gravely. 

Prince Aemond had spasms, his muscles never healed from the loss of his eye.

A pang lacerated your heart at the thought of this young boy, fated to suffer in silence during all those years. 

A warm sensation brought you back to the present. A pale and large hand had engulfed yours and was gripping it so tightly that you winced. But you said nothing, just whispered words of encouragement that were drowned out by his groans. He was no longer the terrifying Prince the maids talked about. He was turning into the fragile, battered being he had once been before your very eyes 

"Do you... have your... your poultice?" he managed to say. 

You shook your head. The prince had started to shiver. In a fit of bravery, you placed the back of your hand against his forehead and found it burning. A spark of panic ignited your chest.

Fever was never a good sign. 

"Can you... Can you make some?"

"I–"  you stammered. "My Prince... The ingredients are not easy to find."

"Paper… And a quill."

Not wanting to exhaust him further, you rushed to his secretary and promptly grabbed the items before running back to his bedside. He grasped it with a trembling hand and scribbled something on a roll of paper before handing it to you. 

"Give this to Maester Orwyle. He'll grant you access to his supplies. I... I need your help."

With a determined nod, you set off in the direction of the healer's quarters, who was stunned by your request before letting you in. The man watched you make the ointment in silence. The weight of his gaze slid over your tense body, too concentrated on your movements to pay attention. You left, throwing a thank-you over your shoulder, and returned to Aemond's room, out of breath and with your heart pounding against your temples. 

The Prince had not moved. He only moved when you handed him the pot.  

"Can you... put it on me?" he asked in a small voice. 

So, you, the ever-dutiful maid, did what you knew best and obeyed. 

Gently, you removed his eye patch with his permission and dipped a bandage in the poultice before placing it on his wound. You were careful not to stare at his wound for too long. The Prince was tense, uncomfortable with the idea of his face bare. His hand had found a piece of your apron and was clinging to it like a mussel to a rock in the vain hope of finding comfort. Sometimes, in an uncharacteristic show of bravery, you would let your fingers caress his before taking a new strip and starting the operation all over again. 

Soon his scar was entirely covered with the ointment except for his eyelid, whose bright red flesh alarmed you. 

"You must remove the sapphire, my prince," you murmured, thus speaking into existence what had until then remained silent. 

He tensed under your fingers. A rustle echoed in the room. His hand had torn off a piece of your apron. You swallowed and looked down. 

Had you gone too far? 

Mylenda will beat you for ruining your apron, a more urgent voice reminded you. 

"Your eye socket is irritated," you tried to explain. "And the pressure of the gem seems to be... making it worse. Perhaps it would be best to let the flesh rest and not torture it any further."

"Turn around." 

Your eyes latched onto the drapes and slid higher, over the murals. Dragons were drowning castles in their flames, ridden by white-haired men. Behind you, something clanged against the bedside table. Here and there, blue reflections ricocheted off the wall and drowned the blaze in a fragmented ocean.

"Resume."

A gasp escaped from your throat before you could take it back, horrified by the new mural, even more violent than the war scene you had just abandoned. There was nothing left of the eyelid. The empty eye socket clung to the remaining skin, but it was tangled up in a carnal mess⏤the work of a hurried butcher. The roebuck galloped into your mind. Mylenda would have grumbled at the sloppy stitching. 

"Resume," he repeated. 

His voice trembled with rage. 

Silently, you wet yet another strip of cloth and placed it on the remnants of his eyelid with a trembling hand. Your finger grazed his temple before falling back into your lap. Once again, the Prince grabbed your apron. The chamomile perfumed the room, releasing its soothing fragrance all around you, but he remained impervious to it, battered by pain and ghosts. 

With his face wrapped in white clothes, Aemond Targaryen resembled the dead king.

At least the spasms had subsided. That reassured you. The first bands were already hardening and working their miracle. The hollows in his forehead had disappeared, his body finally giving itself a well-deserved rest. The Prince let himself fall back against his pillows. 

You took this sign as a dismissal and got up, not wanting to impose your presence on him any longer. The dirty sheets from the night before were still lying on the floor. Mylenda was probably wondering what you were up to. Gilliane couldn't make up excuses indefinitely. 

"Stay."

"I have to get back to the kitchen. And your sheets..."

"Stay," he commanded in a weak voice. 

What could you do but make yourself comfortable at the Prince's bedside? The order sounded like a request, but no doubt he would have taken your refusal as an affront. He was still a noble and nobles did not like to be contradicted. 

"Can you touch my cheek? Your hands... Your hands help."

His purple eye rolled in its socket and struggled to stay awake as it rested on you. The Prince was not in his right mind. The pain left him bare before you, vulnerable. What could be more dangerous than a vulnerable Targaryen? He would wrap you in his secrets, not caring that you would surely burn in them. In the Red Keep, it was wiser to remain ignorant. To be a confidant was to meddle in unknown and dangerous matters. 

Mylenda was right. You should have kept your mouth shut. 

So you said nothing as the Prince grabbed your hand and pressed it against his cheek. His courage seemed to surprise him, for he tensed before relaxing and pressing back against your hand, desperately seeking the warmth of your palm. His lips parted and he sighed. Your cheeks flushed at the sensual sound, but you clung to the illusion of peace that embraced the room and buried your fears in a corner of your chest.

It was easier to cooperate. 

Your fingertips traced his temple, the arch of his eyebrow, the hollow of his cheek, the bridge of his nose, and then repeated the exploration on the other side. His purple eye disappeared behind an intact eyelid, so different from the other. He sighed happily and curled up against you. The grip on your apron loosened. His breathing slowed. 

"Mummy."

The moan pierced the silence and took the peace with it, leaving only the cruel reality. She laughed at you and your naivety. Your blood turned cold. A wide purple eye looked into yours. You immediately stood up and mumbled an apology. The Prince followed suit, despite the pain. A bandage fell with a wet noise onto the sheet but, for once, you could not bring yourself care. Your eyes remained stuck on your hands. 

Stupid, stupid girl. What had you done? Touching a Prince like that? If His Highness didn't take care of you, the steward would beat you⏤like Prudence, like all the others. And Mylenda... The horror squeezed your stomach painfully and twisted your guts. 

"If you tell anyone about this, I'll–"

Hot tears rolled down your cheek and dried your skin before landing on your trembling lips. You shook your head frantically and picked up the pile of dirty sheets before running for the door. 

If there was one thing Mylenda had taught you, it was to shut up. 

[0crispinn]

do you guys think the real reason he didn’t blink an eye around those naked animals in the first film was because he hangs with them in his spare time? there’s no way he doesn’t. in the teaser trailer he’s basically naked. HAPPILY. i’m not a furry but..i think..i’m thinking of a couple things.

[disney-imagines]

Nick Wilde x male!reader headcanons?

ahhhh yes!! I love Nick, so I'm super happy to write this!

~Nick's a huge fan of casual PDA, he always has an arm wrapped around your shoulder or is holding your hand

~Especially loves just leaning on you, especially if he's taller than you, he will tease you about your height while resting his head on top of yours

~ It's just how he naturally shows his affection but is also a quiet reassurance that you're there? Man has some deep-rooted insecurities and knowing that you're right there with him makes him feel so much better

~Very proud to introduce to everyone he knows as his boyfriend, constantly slipping it into any conversation with someone

~"Oh well you know my boyfriend was just talking about that!" or "I can't wait to get home and spend some time with my boyfriend"

~Always has some money saved away to take you on spontaneous dates or get you a gift for any occasion

[the-roo-too]

peek-a-boo -> nick wilde! oh haewon

aka the halloween special

٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

“i’m gonna kill you.” haewon immediately turned to you with a pout.

“i did nothing wrong.” she mumbled in response to your accusations.

“haewonnie. everyone is staring at us.” your girlfriend glanced around and sure enough, most of the people at the party were side eyeing you weirdly.

“i don’t see what’s wrong with dressing up as judy and nick for a halloween party.” she said softly, her arms circling your waist to hug you.

“you look like a furry.” you couldn’t help but point out, one of your hands catching the fox ears on top of her head.

“oh yeah? says the rabbit.”

“go eat some meat, foxy.”

“choke on a carrot.”

“guys?” your little banter was interrupted by lily in her kangaroo costume (long story). “when i said animal theme, i didn’t really mean the zootopia pregnancy comic…”

“huh, weird”.

٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

part of [the scare] series