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spikedfearn · 1 month ago

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All That's Left Is Yours

Part I

Walter "Lion" Kaminski x fem!reader

summary: Walter Kaminski doesn't know how to be loved without bracing for impact. A washed-up fighter living out of motel rooms and underground leagues, he's spent years surviving hits—in the ring, from his brother, from the world. But when you, a runaway with a sharp mouth and a sharper gaze enters his orbit, everything starts to tilt. The closer you get, the more Walter fears what his hands—trained to hurt, never to hold—might do.

wc: 8k

a/n: I’ve been working through Jack O’Connell’s filmography and the Remmick Discord recently did a group watch of Jungleland—and wow. I knew I was going to love it, but I didn’t expect Walter to tug at my heartstrings the way he did 😭 Dedicated to Liz @fuckoffbard for both beta reading and crafting the banner, you dropped something queen 👑

Disclaimer: You DO NOT need to watch Jungleland to read this fic but I highly recommend giving it a watch, Jack absolutely crushes it!!

warnings: emotional trauma, abusive family dynamics, sibling codependency, past drug use (mentioned), PTSD, fighting/violence, sub!Walter, praise kink, past physical abuse (mentioned), hurt/comfort, canon-typical violence, angst with smut, unprotected sex, fingering, creampie, unsafe living conditions, unhealthy coping mechanisms, toxic sibling relationship, trauma bonding as a form of intimacy

likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated, please enjoy!!

Fic Masterlist/Masterlist

Part I: Roadside Attraction

The soda machine clicked, rattled, then swallowed your crumpled dollar like it was nothing. No fizz, no reward. You stared at the red-lit buttons like they owed you something, like they might start speaking and tell you what the hell to do next. But they stayed quiet. Just like you.

It was cold for a desert night. Not cold enough to shiver, but enough that the concrete seeped into your spine as you curled up beneath the flickering fleabag motel sign, your back pressed to the blocky warmth of the vending machine. Your toes were bare and caked with dry blood and gravel. You’d ditched the shoes miles ago, traded them for a gas station sandwich and a bottle of vodka that had long since burned its way through your gut.

You didn’t look up when the footsteps stopped. Not until the low voice cut through the hum of the highway:

"You planning to stay there all night?"

His voice was worn down and gritty, like it had been soaked in whiskey and rung out. The kind of voice that came from a man who’d been punched more times than he could count and still stood tall about it, vowels rough around the edges courtesy of a northeastern accent.

You didn’t answer.

A shadow blocked the light overhead. Broad shoulders. Lean build. Knuckles taped. Face half-hidden under a hoodie, but even in the neon sputter you could see the bruises painting his cheekbone. Left eye a little puffy. A fighter. And not the shiny kind with sponsors and cameras. This one was all backroom and blood.

"I’m not gonna call anyone," he said, voice low. "But you’ll freeze out here."

You looked up. He looked back. It wasn’t pity in his eyes. You would’ve spat on him if it was. No, it was something worse. Recognition. Like he knew the way it felt to run until your legs gave out. To keep your back to the past until the ache in your spine turned permanent.

He fished into his pocket, pulled out a motel key. Room 8.

"I’m not gonna ask," he added. "You want a shower and a bed, it’s yours. I sleep on the floor anyway."

Still, you didn’t move. Not until he dropped the key on the concrete beside you. He didn’t wait. Just turned and walked away, boots scraping the pavement, the bruised side of his face catching the light before he vanished around the corner.

The key dug into your palm when you pushed open the warped motel door.

Room 8 smelled like stale cigarette smoke and borrowed time. The air conditioner rattled like it was dying. There was one bed, neatly made. The sink dripped.

You didn’t see him inside.

The bathroom light buzzed weakly as you flipped the switch. You caught your reflection in the mirror and winced—blood dried at your temple, mascara smeared down your cheeks like you’d been crying even when you hadn’t. The hoodie you wore (not yours, never yours) hung off your shoulders like it didn’t belong.

The water was lukewarm, the pressure shit. But you stepped in anyway.

You peeled off the hoodie and your ragged shirt. The water hit your skin and stung where you were scraped up, but it felt like something real. Something cleansing. You let your forehead press to the motel tile, inhaled mildew and rust, and exhaled the memory of someone screaming your name from a porchlight you never wanted to return to.

Outside, you heard the soft thud of boots on concrete again. Then a lighter flick. The faint, sharp tang of smoke drifting through the thin walls.

You didn’t need to look to know he was right outside the door, leaning against the rail, smoking something cheap, flexing bruised hands with every drag. Trying not to think about you.

You were trying not to think about him.

You stepped out wrapped in one of the motel’s threadbare towels, the water still dripping down your thighs. The bathroom door creaked open. He didn’t turn to look. But he didn’t leave either.

You stood there a minute too long. Listening to his breath.

Both of you pretending like you weren’t listening for each other’s sounds. Like you hadn’t already started building something unnamed in the silence.

And still—he said nothing. Just one long drag of his cigarette, one slow exhale.

Like he was waiting to see if you'd come out again. Like maybe he didn’t want to sleep on the floor tonight after all.

You cleared your throat. Quiet, but just enough to cut through the buzz.

"I’m not staying long," you said. Your voice sounded raw.

He flicked ash into the night air. Still didn’t look at you. "Didn’t figure you would."

Another beat. You hated the silence more than you thought you would.

"You got a name?"

He turned his head then. Just slightly. His eyes met yours under the orange glow of the walkway light. They were tired. Bloodshot. But something flickered there.

"Lion," he said simply. "What about you?"

You hesitated. Names had power. Names meant someone could find you. But you told him anyway.

You watched his mouth twitch. Not quite a smile. Not yet.

He nodded once. "Alright then, sweetheart. Get some sleep."

And then he walked back inside. Left the door cracked. Just wide enough for you to follow.

You stood at the threshold, towel clutched like armor, bare feet planted on the motel carpet that smelled like mildew and cigarette ash. The door was cracked open just enough to catch the whisper of his presence—Lion’s shape slouched in the dark, the thin light from the bathroom stretching shadows across his back.

He didn’t look when you stepped inside. Didn’t say a word. But you felt the shift in the air. Like the way he dragged on that cigarette changed once he knew you were behind him. The silence filled in with something else—tension, heat, the thrum of two damaged people orbiting the same wreck.

You closed the door behind you with a soft click.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, cigarette smoldering between his fingers. The TV was off. The only light came from the slatted bathroom door behind you and the red eye of his smoke.

“I can take the floor,” you said, voice hushed, unsure why. Maybe because the quiet felt sacred. Maybe because you were still dripping, and every breath between you felt too loud.

His laugh was short and dry. “Already told you—I sleep like shit anywhere. Might as well let the floor take the fall for it.”

You didn’t move. Just stood there in your towel, skin goose-pricked from the AC groaning in the wall unit. Your gaze fell to his hands. Thick-knuckled, calloused, bandaged in places. Hands that didn’t know how to be gentle but maybe wanted to try.

“I’ll dry off. Then I’ll go.” You said it, but you didn’t mean it. Not really.

Lion finally turned his head. Looked at you. Really looked.

His eyes dragged over you slowly, not greedy—just tired and curious, like a man taking in something rare he didn’t know how to name.

“You bled through your bandage,” he murmured.

You glanced down. A dark blot of red soaked through the towel near your knee, the scrape reopened. You hadn’t noticed. Didn’t feel it over the slow pulse building in your core, the way his voice kept getting lower, rougher, the longer you stood there.

He reached for the ice bucket lid on the side table, turned it over, pulled a first-aid kit from beneath it. You hadn’t seen it earlier. He unscrewed the cap of a bottle of rubbing alcohol, then held it out without standing.

You stepped forward. Took the bottle. His fingers brushed yours. Just a flicker. But it lit something.

You knelt down in front of him—slow, deliberate. Not sexy. Not flirty. Just there. Between his knees, towel still clinging to your body, water still trailing from your hair onto your bare shoulders. You pulled the hem back enough to clean the scrape. His eyes never left your hands.

Neither of you said a word.

He flicked the cigarette out into the metal ashtray beside him. His hand dropped to his thigh. Rested there. Twitching just slightly.

“You do this a lot?” you asked after a beat, voice barely above a whisper. “Pick up strays?”

He exhaled slow. “Only the ones with a mean left hook.”

That made your mouth twitch. You shook your head, but you didn’t move away.

“You gonna ask what happened?”

“Nope.”

“You wanna know?”

“Yep.”

You looked up at him then. Close enough now that your knees brushed his boots. He smelled like soap from a gas station bathroom and sweat soaked into cotton. Tobacco. Musk. Blood. He looked down at you with something almost tender beneath all that fight-hardened bone.

“I can’t sleep either,” you said.

“I know.”

Another breath passed between you. It felt like a line in the sand. Like if you moved now, everything would change.

So you didn’t move. You stayed right there, with his knees bracketing you and the towel slipping lower down your back, and the heat of his stare holding you still.

And finally—finally—he said:

“You should get in the bed.”

Not a demand. Not a command. Just something raw and honest.

You hesitated.

And then you stood. Dropped the towel. Turned your back to him as you pulled the scratchy motel sheet up over your body, slipping between covers that still held his heat.

He didn’t follow.

But when the lights finally cut out, and the room went dark enough that you couldn’t see the ceiling for the silence, you felt it—his hand brushing your ankle. Just a graze.

Like he was checking you were real.

Like he needed to.

And something about it made your chest ache. Something about it made you wonder.

How often had he done that—reached out, quietly, carefully—just to see if something he cared about was still there? How many times had things disappeared on him without warning? How many hands had he held just long enough to feel them slip away?

You wondered if that was why he touched like that—soft, fleeting, like anything more would scare it off. Like permanence was a luxury he didn’t believe in.

The air conditioner sputtered its last breath sometime just before dawn.

You woke to stillness. Not the kind that soothed. The kind that pressed against your ears and made you too aware of your own heartbeat. The cheap motel sheets clung to your skin, itchy with dried sweat and the weight of someone else’s silence.

The light bleeding in through the blinds was soft—desert dawn pink and melted gold. Your eyes dragged across the ceiling, then to the empty space beside you. The bed was cold now.

Lion hadn’t slept in it.

Your gaze shifted to the floor.

He was stretched out on the thin motel carpet, one arm flung over his eyes to block the sun. His hoodie had been peeled off sometime in the night, wadded up beneath his head like a makeshift pillow. The rest of him—bare from the waist up—was bathed in the kind of early morning shine that made it hard to look away, fractals of light dancing off the gold pendant hanging down and resting against his sternum.

Lean. But cut with that kind of wiry strength earned from fists and failure. There was nothing polished about him. Nothing effortless. His body was a map of fights he didn’t win, of nights that left marks.

But what you noticed first wasn’t the bruises.

It was the ink.

A tattoo bloomed on his left side, stark black against the pale skin of his ribs. A budded cross—elegant, almost holy, but done in thick lines that stretched down to his hip bone. It followed the curve of his body with a precision that made your throat tighten.

It was the kind of tattoo that looked like it meant something.

The kind of tattoo someone might get when they had something to prove. Or something to grieve.

You sat up slowly, careful not to make the bed creak. But his voice cut through the quiet anyway—low, raspy from sleep.

“Didn’t mean to wake you.”

You looked down. He hadn’t moved his arm. But you could see the faint smirk at the corner of his mouth.

“You didn’t,” you lied.

“Liar.”

Your lips parted. You wanted to ask about the tattoo. You wanted to ask about a lot of things. But the morning air felt too fragile, like words might break it.

He finally pulled his arm away. Blinked up at you with those same tired, blue eyes. The bruising had darkened overnight—sick purple above his cheekbone now.

“You get any sleep?” you asked.

He rolled onto his side, elbow propped beneath his head. “Some.”

You nodded. Your fingers twisted on the edge of the motel sheet. He noticed.

“Don’t look so nervous,” he said, voice still rough. “I’m not gonna touch you.”

A beat of silence. Then—

“Not unless you ask.”

That made your breath catch.

“I wasn’t—” you started.

“You were,” he interrupted, not cruelly. Just honest. “It’s fine. You’re allowed to be nervous. I’m not exactly a picture of comfort.”

You let the silence sit for a moment.

“I saw your tattoo,” you said eventually.

That brought a real smile. Just a flicker.

“Yeah?” he asked, tone unreadable.

“It’s…unexpected.”

“People usually expect barbed wire or brass knuckles.”

“I expected nothing.”

That made his eyes narrow slightly. Not suspicious—just focused. Curious.

“Well,” he murmured, “you’re the first person to see it sober in a while. So congrats.”

You didn’t laugh. But you didn’t look away either.

The room was quiet again. Tense, but not sharp. Just stretched thin between two people who knew how to pretend nothing mattered. Who didn’t know what to do with the moments when something actually might.

He sat up slowly, every muscle moving like it remembered pain. His back cracked as he stretched.

“Want coffee?” he asked.

You blinked. “Here?”

He smirked. “There’s a machine in the lobby. Shit tastes like burnt tires, but it’s hot.”

You thought about it.

Thought about saying no.

But you didn’t.

“Yeah,” you said. “Okay.”

He grabbed his hoodie from the floor, dragged it on without looking at you again. But before he stepped outside, he paused. Hand on the doorknob.

“You can stay,” he said, quietly. “If you want.”

Then he left. The door creaked shut behind him.

You were alone again.

But it didn’t feel the same.

The crowd wasn’t loud—it was vicious.

Packed into a basement so humid the walls sweat blood, every shout felt like it came from somewhere deep in the throat. Somewhere animal. They didn’t cheer for skill. They didn’t want grace or footwork or strategy.

They wanted carnage. Blood.

Lion knew that before his fist ever hit the canvas.

His jaw ached from the first right hook, a bone-deep throb that crackled up to his temple. His opponent was a wall of meat and rage, a prison-yard brute with fists like cinder blocks. There was no technique. Just power. And Lion didn’t need his brother shouting from the side to know that power would win this crowd over long before heart ever did.

“Stop dancing and hit him!” Stanley barked from the corner, voice thick with panic disguised as anger. “You want him to walk all over you? Huh? Lion—get up!”

Lion spat blood. His vision shimmered. The world tilted just enough to make everything feel slightly wrong—too fast, too loud, too hot.

He got up anyway.

Because Stanley needed the money.

Because Stanley had smiled that fucking smile earlier that day and said, “This one’s easy, bro. Guy’s all show, no stamina. You just gotta take a few rounds, make it ugly, then put him down. Easy payday.”

Easy payday.

Lion barely registered the fourth hit that cracked his eyebrow open. He just felt the warm trickle down his temple, thick and wet, slipping into his eye. The crowd roared. The brute cracked his knuckles. Stanley screamed something else, but Lion couldn’t hear it.

He was already gone.

Gone into that space in his mind where it was just fists and fire. Where everything else fell away except the weight of his body and the will to keep standing. To not break.

Because he didn’t have the luxury of breaking.

Not when Stanley had already bet half of it.

Not when you were waiting, maybe still asleep in the motel bed, not knowing what the hell he’d gotten roped into.

You heard the door before you saw him.

He didn’t knock.

He just opened it like it was still his room—even though he’d let you keep the bed, even though he’d left hours ago with nothing but a promise of shit coffee and that quiet, bruised voice telling you you could stay if you wanted.

You were still in bed, half-dozing with the curtains cracked to let in the morning sun when he stumbled in.

Stumbled.

That was the only word for it.

His steps weren’t steady. They were uneven, like the world tilted just slightly under his boots and he hadn’t figured out how to stand on it yet.

You sat up fast. “Lion?”

He shut the door behind him and leaned against it like it was the only thing holding him upright.

His face was a mess.

Split brow. Eye swollen nearly shut. Blood crusted from his lip to his chin. His knuckles looked worse—skin torn open, bones shifting wrong under the stretch of bruised flesh. The same hands you’d cleaned less than twelve hours ago.

“What the hell happened to you?” you asked, heart dropping.

He didn’t answer. Just blinked slow, eyes locking onto you like he was making sure you were still there. Still real. Like the only thing that mattered was that you saw him like this—wrecked, standing, and silent.

“Sit down.” You were already sliding out of bed, grabbing the shitty motel towels and the first aid kit he’d used on you.

“I’m fine,” he rasped.

“You’re bleeding.”

“Been worse.”

You knelt in front of him anyway. He didn’t stop you.

You peeled his hoodie back, the fabric stiff with sweat and blood. His body flinched when you touched his ribs, and that’s when you saw it—another set of bruises blooming over his tattoo, new and angry. The budded cross twisted just slightly with every breath.

“Jesus, Lion…”

“I took a fight.”

“No shit you took a fight.”

You pressed a cold washcloth to his brow. He winced, but didn’t pull away.

“I didn’t think you were still fighting,” you said, softer this time.

He didn’t meet your eyes. “I wasn’t.”

You waited. The silence stretched.

“Then why?”

That’s when you heard it—a knock at the door. Two quick raps. Familiar. Confident.

Before you could move, Lion stood. Winced. Opened the door.

Stanley stood there. Sunglasses, too-white smile, a wad of cash folded in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

“Atta boy,” he said, like Lion had just passed a test.

Then he saw you.

And smirked wider.

“Well shit,” Stanley drawled, eyes dragging over you in nothing but one of Lion’s shirts. “Guess we’re celebrating, huh?”

Lion didn’t say a word.

But his jaw tightened.

Hard.

Stanley didn’t even pretend to stay long.

He made himself at home fast—lit a cigarette without asking, sat on the edge of the motel dresser like it was his throne, and slapped the wad of cash down beside the TV remote with a grin that made your skin crawl.

“Got another lined up for Friday,” he said, like he was talking about weekend drinks. “Same guy running the pit. Big payout this time.”

Lion stood with his hands braced on the bathroom door frame, head bowed slightly like he was willing himself to disappear into the wood. His knuckles were still bleeding. You hadn’t even finished bandaging him.

Stanley didn’t notice. Or he did and didn’t care.

“He’s a bruiser, but nothin’ you can’t handle,” Stanley went on, flicking ash on the floor. “And hey—if you go down in round three, we double. Bookies already think you're soft.”

Lion didn’t say anything. Not even a grunt.

You stepped forward, barely keeping the venom out of your voice. “He can’t even see out of one eye.”

Stanley looked at you like you were an amusing commercial break. “He’ll be fine. Lion always bounces back. Don’t you, bro?”

Still nothing.

Not a word.

Stanley stood up then, snagging the cash again. “I’ll hold this for now. Just so you don’t blow it on painkillers and whores.” A wink in your direction. “No offense.”

You didn’t flinch. But your fists clenched hard enough to pop your knuckles.

When the door shut behind him, it was like the air collapsed. Like all the tension that had been floating in the corners of the room finally snapped loose.

Lion didn’t move. Just stood there, staring at the place Stanley had been.

You crossed the room, slow and quiet, until you were right in front of him.

“Lion,” you said softly.

Still, he didn’t look at you.

“I don’t get it,” you whispered. “Why do you let him do this to you?”

His breath hitched.

And then he laughed.

But it was a dead thing. A broken thing. Like it had rotted in his throat and came out anyway.

“Let him?” he echoed, voice raw. “You think I let him?”

He finally looked at you then.

And something in his face had cracked wide open.

“This is all I have,” he said. “This is it. Motel rooms, blood money, and fights that don’t mean shit. I’ve been fighting since I could walk. And he’s the only one who ever put food in front of me after.”

“That’s not food,” you snapped. “That’s scraps. That’s chains dressed up like favors.”

He didn’t respond. Just ran a hand through his hair, pacing now.

“You think I don’t know that?” he muttered. “You think I don’t wake up every goddamn morning and wish I’d walked away ten years ago? That I hadn’t spent my whole life being dragged around by someone who just wants to be the brains behind my broken body?”

You didn’t know what to say.

So you stepped toward him.

And touched his face.

It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t even gentle. It was desperate. Anchoring. Real.

He leaned into it, just barely.

And for the first time, he looked like he might shatter.

“I’m tired,” he whispered.

You nodded.

“I know.”

The room was quieter after his outburst. Not peaceful—never peaceful—but quiet like the lull after a storm. You’d seen men blow up before, punch walls, throw chairs. Lion didn’t need any of that. His voice had done all the breaking.

Now he sat on the edge of the bed with his fists in his lap, head down, body humming with everything he hadn’t said. The anger. The guilt. The shame that clung to him like the blood drying on his skin.

You came back with the first-aid kit. Didn’t ask permission this time. You just dropped to your knees in front of him like you had the night before.

This time, he didn’t flinch when you touched him.

You worked slowly. Hands steady. The scrape above his eyebrow had crusted, but it split open again as soon as you wiped it. He didn’t hiss. Just stared at your face like the pain kept him grounded.

“Sorry,” you whispered when you dabbed too hard.

He shook his head. “Don’t be.”

You moved to his hands—those knuckles, those battered fingers. They were worse up close. One was likely fractured, swollen so bad the skin looked ready to burst.

“Jesus, Lion…”

He gave a tired half-smile. “I’ve had worse.”

“You shouldn’t have to.”

That shut him up.

You wrapped his right hand carefully, fingers brushing the rough skin of his palm. He stared down at the top of your head as you worked, lips parted like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. You finished the left hand, taping it just tight enough.

When you looked up, he was already looking at you.

For a second, it was just that.

The light buzzed overhead.

The air conditioner kicked on, rattled, died again.

His thigh brushed yours.

And something shifted.

You don’t know who moved first. Maybe it was you, maybe it was him. Maybe it was always going to happen.

But his mouth was on yours and it was nothing like you expected.

It wasn’t soft.

It wasn’t rough.

It was desperate.

Like he was trying to memorize the shape of your lips just in case the world took you away.

His hands—bandaged, trembling—cradled your jaw like you were something fragile. His kiss tasted like blood and salt and something quieter underneath. Something scared.

You kissed him back with both hands tangled in his hoodie, pulled him down to you like you needed him to feel how fast your heart was racing. How real it was.

When he finally pulled away, he didn’t go far. Just pressed his forehead to yours. Breathing heavy. Quiet. Real.

“I don’t go by it anymore,” he said, voice barely audible. “Haven’t in a long time.”

Your fingers curled against his thigh.

“But if you’re gonna stay—” he paused. Swallowed. “You should know.”

You didn’t say anything. Just waited.

His breath tickled your lips when he said it.

“Walter.”

You blinked.

“That’s my name. Walter Kaminski.”

You didn’t smile.

Didn’t tease.

Didn’t make it smaller than it was.

Instead, you whispered, “Hi, Walter.”

And for the first time since you met him, he looked like he didn’t want to run.

The warmth of his name still lingered on your tongue by the time night fell.

Walter.

You didn’t say it out loud again. Not yet. Not while he was already pulling back into himself, curling up in the corner of the room with a bag of ice on his side and a far-off look in his eyes like he was already bracing for what came next.

You’d made the bed for him.

He didn’t use it.

He stayed in the chair near the window, legs sprawled out, hoodie zipped halfway up like armor. The bandages on his hands were fresh, but you could already see the bruising underneath turning darker by the hour.

You sat on the edge of the bed, chewing your thumbnail, watching him in the reflection of the black screen of the TV. Neither of you had turned it on.

“Are you gonna take the fight?”

The question floated between you, suspended in the dusty air. It sounded smaller than you’d meant it to.

Walter didn’t answer right away.

You hated that you already expected that.

“Stanley’s not gonna let it go,” he muttered eventually. “If I don’t show, he loses money. If he loses money, he gets mean. And if he gets mean—he finds ways to make me pay anyway.”

You frowned. “He’s not your boss.”

“He is if I keep letting him be.”

You turned then, facing him fully. “Then stop.”

His jaw flexed.

“It’s not that simple.”

“It is.”

“No, it’s not,” he snapped, standing suddenly, the chair scraping loud against the laminate floor. “You think I don’t want to be done? You think I don’t want to walk away and disappear and never take another hit again?”

His voice cracked.

You didn’t flinch. You stood too. Right in front of him now.

“Then do it,” you said, voice low. “Stop letting him bleed you dry.”

“I owe him.”

“You don’t.”

He stared at you like he didn’t recognize you. Like you were something that shouldn’t have stepped into his world but did anyway, and now he didn’t know what the hell to do with you.

He turned away. Punched the dresser with his bandaged hand. Didn’t even curse. Just breathed heavy through his nose like he was holding back more than blood.

“I don’t know how to be anything but this,” he said finally. “I don’t know how to be someone you stay with if I’m not fighting.”

You crossed to him. Placed a hand on his back. Felt him flinch and stay all at once.

“You don’t have to know yet,” you whispered. “You just have to try.”

Silence.

Then: “Stanley booked the motel through the weekend.”

You exhaled slowly. “So we’ve got a few days.”

He turned, looked at you again.

Soft. Wrecked. Open.

“Yeah,” he said. “A few days.”

The motel lobby was quiet.

Desert quiet—heat pressed against the glass, flies buzzing near the snack rack, an old box fan rattling against the check-in desk. You stood there, fingers curled around a styrofoam coffee cup, waiting for the guy behind the counter to stop pretending he wasn’t watching you.

“Can I help you?” you asked finally.

The clerk—mid-forties, bored eyes, receding hairline—shrugged. “Nah. Just didn’t expect to see you come outta Room 8 this morning.”

You blinked. “Okay…”

He smirked. “You his girl or something?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

“Didn’t mean anything by it,” he said quickly, hands raised. “Just—he’s usually alone. Or with the other one. The loud guy in sunglasses. You’re new.”

You didn’t answer.

Didn’t owe him one.

Just grabbed a second cup of that awful burnt coffee and walked out.

But the words followed you.

You his girl or something?

Walter was sitting on the hood of a rusted-out car behind the motel, shirtless in the sun, knees pulled up and cigarette dangling from his mouth. The bruises on his ribs had ripened into something nasty. The bandage on his hand was already fraying.

You handed him the coffee. He took it without a word.

“You alright?” you asked.

He nodded.

Then squinted. “Why?”

You shrugged, sitting beside him. “Motel guy asked if I was your girl.”

He paused.

You didn’t look at him, but you could feel the way his whole body stilled. Like you’d reached under his skin and pressed on something he hadn’t let anyone near in a long time.

“What’d you say?” he asked.

“Didn’t.”

He flicked ash off the hood. “Good.”

“Why? That hard to believe someone might care about you?”

Silence.

Then: “It’s not that.”

You turned to look at him.

He finally looked back.

“It’s that people who care about me don’t stay,” he said. “And when they try, they get hurt.”

Your throat tightened.

“I’m still here,” you whispered.

“Yeah.” He stared at you for a long second. “That’s what scares me.”

Stanley showed up like he always did—loud, smug, and uninvited.

You were sitting on the edge of the bed folding the same two clean shirts Walter owned when the knock came. He barely glanced at the door before dragging it open.

“Look at you,” Stanley crowed, stepping into the room like it belonged to him. “Didn’t think you’d be up. You take a nap or a beating?”

Walter didn’t laugh.

You stayed quiet.

Stanley’s eyes slid to you. “Ah. She’s still here.”

You didn’t like the way he said that—like you were a stray dog who hadn’t wandered off yet.

“She got a name?” Stanley asked, looking at Walter now.

“Yeah,” Walter said flatly. “She does.”

Stanley waited, eyebrow raised. No answer.

You could see it coming. The moment when curiosity soured into suspicion. When Stanley tilted his head just slightly and looked at you like you were a piece of something valuable. Something vulnerable.

“You gonna tell me who she is, or should I guess?” he said with a crooked smile.

And before you could open your mouth—before you could laugh it off or lie or do anything to defuse the moment—Walter stepped forward.

Not fast. Not dramatic.

But purposeful.

His hand came to your waist.

Fingers warm, firm, curling just enough to make the gesture unmistakable. Possessive. Protective. Territorial.

Yours.

You felt it like a punch to the gut.

And so did Stanley.

The look in his eyes shifted—something calculating, something darker. Like he’d just found another way to get at Walter if he ever needed it.

But Walter didn’t let go.

He just looked at his brother, jaw set, mouth a tight line.

Stanley grinned. “Well, shit.”

And then he left.

The door clicked shut behind him, and the spell broke.

Walter let go.

You turned slowly.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you said.

He met your eyes. “Yeah, I did.”

You wanted to ask why.

But you already knew.

Because you were becoming something Stanley could use.

And Walter? He was already starting to care too much to let that happen.

The motel room creaked with the kind of stillness that wasn’t peace.

Just a low hum of things unsaid, hanging between the chipped walls and the uneven floorboards. The TV was off. The coffee was cold. And Walter hadn’t moved in over an hour.

He was sitting in the same chair near the window, elbows on his knees, knuckles pressed against his mouth like he could hold himself in with just that much pressure. His bruises had darkened. The side of his face was turning a sick kind of gold under the pale light.

You watched him from the bed.

He hadn’t spoken since Stanley left.

Not even when you offered him food. Not when you handed him water. Not when you pressed your palm against the small of your back like it hurt to watch him sit so still.

He didn’t even blink when the ice bucket finally gave up its last sigh of melt.

You stood, bare feet ghosting over the worn motel carpet. Crossed the room without saying anything. And this time, when you knelt in front of him, it wasn’t to tend wounds or wipe blood off his skin.

You just wanted him to see you.

To feel you.

“Walter,” you said, quiet but certain.

His eyes flicked up. Hollow. Distant.

Until they met yours.

And everything in him shifted.

You climbed into his lap without asking.

Straddled his thighs, hands curling around the sides of his jaw. You didn’t kiss him—not yet. You just pressed your forehead to his and breathed him in.

“You don’t have to say anything,” you whispered.

He exhaled, shaky and sharp. Like he’d been holding it in since the door closed.

“I’m still figuring this out,” he said.

“I know.”

“I don’t want to fuck this up.”

“You won’t.”

A beat passed.

Then you felt it—his hands coming to your hips, tentative at first, like he still wasn’t sure he was allowed to hold something that hadn’t already slipped through his fingers.

Your hands slid up into his hair. His mouth brushed yours.

The kiss came slow.

Not like last time.

Not like need.

Like relief.

Like a man who’d been starving for a touch that didn’t come with strings. Like someone who finally understood what it meant to be wanted without it costing anything.

You broke it first. Just long enough to whisper, “Come to bed.”

He hesitated.

“I don’t sleep well,” he murmured. “I—I move. I twitch. Sometimes I talk.”

“I don’t care.”

“I don’t want to scare you.”

“You won’t.”

That’s when he let go.

Of the guilt.

Of the fear.

Of whatever ghosts he’d been keeping curled in his chest like fists.

He let you take his hand. Let you lead him to the bed. Let you pull back the sheets and lie beside him in the dark.

He didn’t touch you at first.

But when you curled into his side, he pulled you in with one arm and held you tight. Like he was afraid someone might come through the door and take you away.

And when he finally spoke, voice hoarse and half-asleep, it was just three words:

“Just stay, alright?”

You didn’t answer.

You just stayed.

The room was dark except for the amber lamp on the nightstand, humming soft against the silence.

Walter lay on his back, one arm tucked under his head, the other resting across his stomach where the bruises looked like spilled ink under his skin. You were curled beside him, the motel blanket tangled somewhere around your calves. Neither of you had slept. Not really. Not since that night.

Not since you crawled into bed with him and didn’t leave.

You could feel him vibrating beneath the stillness—like his body never fully powered down, even when he was quiet. Like he was always waiting for something to blow.

“Can’t sleep?” you asked, voice low in the hush.

He didn’t open his eyes. “Didn’t expect to.”

You turned on your side, propping yourself on your elbow, watching the way his throat moved when he swallowed.

“Tell me something,” you whispered.

He smirked faintly, one eye cracking open. “That broad of a request might get you in trouble.”

“I mean it. Anything. Anything you’ve never told anyone.”

He stared at the ceiling again. The air shifted.

A long, thin silence stretched between you.

Then—

“When I was thirteen,” he said slowly, “I found a dog behind a liquor store. Just a mutt. I named her Ash. She used to sleep under the trailer with me when things got bad. Only thing that made it feel like something might actually care if I didn’t wake up one day.”

You said nothing. Just listened. Let him bleed.

“I kept her for years. Stanley knew. He knew how much she meant to me. Last year, when things got tight, he sold her.”

You blinked. The way he said it—casual, empty—was worse than if he’d cried.

“He didn’t even tell me first. I came back from a fight and she was gone. Asked where she was. He said he traded her for rent and a bag of pills.”

A breath.

You reached over and traced the edge of his ribs—gentle, featherlight. He didn’t stop you.

“I didn’t talk to him for a month,” he said. “Slept outside. Ate canned corn out of a goddamn dumpster. He didn’t say sorry. Not once. Just told me next time not to get attached to things I couldn’t afford to keep.”

Your hand stilled against him.

“You don’t flinch,” he said, quietly.

You met his eyes. “Why would I?”

He looked at you like you were something rare. Something delicate he didn’t know how to hold.

“You gonna ask me why I ran?” you whispered.

He nodded, but didn’t push.

“My stepdad hit my mom. Cops came. Left. I told her to leave him. She didn’t. He hit me next.”

Walter sat up a little, jaw flexing.

“I packed a backpack and didn’t look back.”

“Jesus,” he breathed.

“I lived in my car for three months before I found you.”

He looked at you like he was trying to figure out what that meant. What you meant.

You reached over and slid your fingers under his bandaged hand.

“You’re allowed to be rough with me, Walter,” you said. “I won’t break.”

He looked down at where your fingers laced with his.

And for once—he didn’t pull away.

You didn’t let go of his hand.

Even as the silence settled heavy again, even as Walter leaned back against the motel headboard like he didn’t trust his body to do what he wanted it to. Your fingers stayed threaded with his—warm and sure, firm enough to say you’re safe without ever speaking the words.

He kept looking at you like he didn’t know what the hell to do with that.

“You ever touch someone just to see if they’d flinch?” he asked quietly.

You shook your head. “You?”

“Yeah,” he rasped. “Used to. When I was a kid. Just light. Shoulder, hand, whatever. Like—like if they didn’t flinch, maybe they didn’t think I was bad yet.”

Your stomach twisted.

You reached out, and this time, you brought his hand to your mouth.

Kissed the inside of his wrist. The rough plane of his knuckles. The pad of each finger, slow and deliberate. He watched you the whole time, breathing shallow and tight, like your lips were unraveling him one soft kiss at a time.

When you took his index and middle finger into your mouth, he choked on a sound. One you’d never heard from him before.

It wasn’t a moan.

It was a whimper.

You sucked slow—just the tips—warm and wet and careful, lips gliding down to your knuckles, your tongue dragging just enough to make him twitch. His thighs shifted. His breath hitched. His eyes slammed shut.

“Fuck,” he whispered, like he wasn’t supposed to feel this good.

You pulled off with a pop and kissed the fingertips again, then brought them down between your legs.

Guided him over your panties, soaked through now.

“I want you to touch me,” you said. “But I want it to be your idea.”

He looked at you like he was about to fall apart.

Like he was already halfway there.

“I’m scared I’ll fuck it up,” he admitted, voice barely there.

“You won’t.”

“You’re not—” he swallowed. “You’re not just a distraction.”

“I know.”

“You’re not just some girl who wants a broken boy story to tell later?”

It was a question disguised as a statement, like he was afraid to know the answer.

You took his wrist again, placed his hand just where you needed it.

And rocked your hips once—slow, deliberate—against the heat of his fingers.

“I’m yours,” you whispered.

That broke something open in him.

He pushed your panties aside, tentative at first—like he didn’t quite believe he had permission. But when he slid one slick finger through your folds and felt how wet you were for him, how ready, the sound that tore from his throat was pure disbelief.

“Christ,” he muttered, eyes locked to your face now. “You feel—God, baby.”

You whimpered, grinding down against his hand, your fingers clutching the edge of the mattress for balance.

He was gentle. So gentle. Too gentle.

You pressed your mouth to his ear. “Deeper.”

He obeyed.

You gasped.

He moaned with you.

Like your pleasure belonged to him.

Like the more you came apart, the more whole he felt.

He was panting by the time you pulled your panties down your legs and tossed them to the floor. His fingers were still wet from you, resting on his thigh like he didn’t know what to do next—like he was trying not to come just from the sight of you crawling into his lap.

You straddled him slow.

Bare thighs bracketing his hips.

His back hit the motel headboard with a dull thud, and he looked up at you like you were something holy. Something terrifying. His bandaged hands hovered in the air like he didn’t trust himself to touch without ruining it.

But you didn’t look away.

Not once.

Your eyes locked to his and stayed there—steady, warm, full of something he didn’t know how to name.

You reached between you, wrapped your hand around him. He was already hard, twitching against your palm, flushed deep red at the tip like he’d been aching for you since the second you kissed him.

Walter gasped when you stroked him. His hips bucked.

“Jesus,” he whispered, jaw clenched tight. “You’re so—fuck, you’re gorgeous.”

You lined him up with your entrance and sank down slow. Inch by inch. Taking your time. Letting him feel every slick, tight second of it.

His eyes never left yours.

He moaned through gritted teeth, fists clenched at his sides like he was holding onto control by a thread.

“Look at me,” you said, even though he already was.

“I am,” he breathed. “Fuck, I am. I can’t stop.”

You rocked your hips once, slow and deep, and watched his mouth drop open. His head tipped back for just a moment—overwhelmed—but you cupped his jaw and brought him back.

“Keep looking.”

His hands rose like instinct—found your waist, your hips, then froze.

“Can I…?” he rasped.

You nodded.

He gripped you then. Soft, trembling, reverent.

You started to ride him slow.

Long, deliberate rolls of your hips, grinding down until his breath came in short, desperate bursts. You tightened around him with every movement, dragging him deeper, drowning him in you.

The sound he made was barely human.

You leaned in, your forehead against his, lips brushing but never fully kissing.

“Good?” you whispered.

His grip tightened.

“So good,” he choked. “Fuck, baby—ride me—ride me just like that. Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

You held his gaze the whole time. Watched it flicker and soften. Watched it fill with everything he didn’t know how to say.

Then you started to bounce properly—your thighs working, your body rising and falling in rhythm, slick and full and relentless.

His mouth dropped open again, breath catching.

You whispered right into his ear.

“You’re doing so good for me, Walter. Such a good boy. Taking me so deep.”

He whimpered.

“You feel so good inside me. Perfect. Just like this.”

“Jesus Christ,” he gasped, head falling back. “Say it again—please—”

You gave it to him.

“You’re so good. My sweet boy. Just like that. Don’t stop. You’re making me feel so good, baby.”

He was trembling under you. Entire body tense, fingers digging into your hips like he was afraid to come without permission.

“I’m gonna—” he started, voice breaking. “Fuck, I’m gonna—should I pull out?”

You grabbed his face.

Shook your head slow.

“No. I want it. I want you.”

His eyes went wide—wild with it.

“You sure?” he rasped.

You ground down once more and whispered:

“Cum in me, Walter.”

He shattered.

Moaned your name, low and ragged, as he came inside you—deep, hot, shuddering through the kind of release that felt like surrender. His mouth was against your collarbone, panting, praising you through every wave.

“Atta girl…” he groaned, arms wrapping around you like he couldn’t bear to let you go. “Atta girl… took me so good…my girl…my fucking girl.”

You stayed right there, hearts pounding against each other, skin warm and damp.

And when he kissed you—soft, grateful, still breathless—it felt like something permanent.

You didn’t move.

Not at first.

The world had gone still in the soft aftershock, the motel room hazy with heat and breath and the smell of sweat and skin. Your thighs were still wrapped around him, his hands spread wide over your back like he didn’t trust gravity to keep you from slipping away.

He was still inside you. Still pulsing. Still trembling.

Walter exhaled into your shoulder. A sound more like relief than release.

You buried your fingers in the sweat-damp hair at the nape of his neck and kept your face tucked in close. Not to hide. Just to be near. Closer than close. You could feel his heart hammering against yours like he hadn’t come down yet. Like he didn’t want to.

His voice came low, cracked open.

“Never done that before.”

You blinked. “What?”

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, but his arms didn’t loosen.

“Let someone stay.”

You studied him. His lashes were wet at the tips. His mouth was pink and kiss-bruised. The flush on his cheeks hadn’t faded.

“Does it feel wrong?” you asked softly.

“No.” His voice caught. “Feels like I’m gonna wake up and find you gone.”

You shook your head. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He nodded, but you could see how much it cost him to believe you.

His hand came up to your face then—rough, bandaged, trembling at the edges—and he touched you like he wasn’t sure you were real. Thumb ghosting over your cheekbone. Fingertips tracing the line of your jaw.

“Why me?” he asked. Not self-pitying. Just raw.

“Because I see you,” you said.

He closed his eyes.

You kissed him. Gentle this time. Deep and unhurried, like you were sealing something in place.

When you finally eased off of him, he pulled you close again, curling around your body like instinct. Your head tucked into the hollow of his throat, his hand flat over your spine.

You felt safe there. And you knew, in the way his arms didn’t loosen, that he felt it too.

“Stay with me,” he whispered into your hair. “Even if I don’t know how to be good at this. Even if I fuck it up.”

You didn’t hesitate.

“I already am.”

#i love walter because he never stopped being gentle even when the world demanded he be cruel #writing is just me projecting my need to cradle a fictional man like a wounded bird #his trauma is layered like a lasagna and I'm eating every bite #jungleland #jungleland 2019 #lion kaminski #walter kaminski #lion kaminski x reader #lion kaminski x you #jack o'connell

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floralynn-arts · 3 months ago

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ONWARDS, MY SOLDIERS!

HOLDING THE PRIMARCH + THEIR DAD IS COMPLETE!!

THANK YOU FOR THE PATIENCE, I HAD FUN!!

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ozzgin · 7 months ago

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Hello ozzign (is it okay if I call you Ozzie?) I was wondering if you could do how different hybrids reacting to reader getting their period, because I am on my period rn and it hurts like **HELL**, so I would very much appreciate it if you’d do that for me

Love, 🍄 anon

NSFW content!

Bear!Hybrid loves to spoil you with physical affection. The moment he sees your displeased expression, he knows. He'll sit down and pat his lap, inviting you to hop on. He's massive, soft, and warm: you'll be asleep and in no pain by the time he's done cuddling you.

Lion!Hybrid has a lot of female clients frequenting his salon, so he is rather well-informed when it comes to your troubles. You're in pain? He'll immediately cancel all appointments for the day, grab a blanket, and sit next to you. He has an agenda of tips, tricks, and suggestions that he's dutifully gathered for your sake. He's at your service.

Tiger!Hybrid is a tad awkward when it comes to this, truth be told. He's an underground fighter, and has lived his life with the simple philosophy of sucking it up. Unlike him, however, you're a frail human. He can't bear to see you in discomfort, yet it's not some opponent he can beat up. Maybe he can...uh...fuck you until you're better?

Cow!Hybrid Husband is such a caring spouse. He'll prepare you a warm drink made with plenty of love, then spend the rest of the day pampering you and fulfilling all your wishes. His tail is wagging in anticipation, eyeing your thighs and hoping you'll soon ask him to eat you out. Truly, there is no better cure. Let him take care of it.

Bull!Hybrid is a little nonchalant offering his help. He'll knock on your door, claiming he's heard your groans of discomfort and suggesting he...keeps you company. He doesn't even wait for your response, closing the door behind him and heading for the bedroom. What, it's common sense that neighbors help each other out! And he's starving to show you how neighborly he is.

Hammerhead Shark!Hybrid can tell from the moment you dive in. You barely left your boat, and you already notice him speeding in your direction. A shiver crosses your spine once you see his hungry expression. You begin to gesture at him to calm down. Pointless, really. When he's like this, there's no reasoning. He's always attracted to you, of course, but sometimes you really drive his instincts wild. He's about to devour his prey, and you'll love every second of it.

[More OCs with a menstruating Reader] | [Hybrid Masterlist]

#bear hybrid #lion hybrid #tiger hybrid #cow hybrid #bull hybrid #hammerhead shark hybrid #shark hybrid #hybrid x reader #monster x reader #monster x human #monster smut #monster fucker #terato #teratophillia #🍄 anon

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floatyflowers · 5 months ago

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Dark Platonic! Mufasa X Human child Reader

The sun was setting over the Pride Lands, painting the horizon in shades of gold and orange.

Mufasa, King of the Pride Lands, prowled the savanna on his evening patrol.

His keen eyes swept the land when an unfamiliar scent caught his attention—humans.

The scent made his muscles tense with unease.

Humans rarely journeyed this far into the Pride Lands, and when they did, it often brought trouble.

As he followed the trail, the sound of muffled crying reached his ears.

The mighty lion's ears twitched, and he quickened his pace.

Hidden within the thickets, he found a small clearing where a group of humans stood around a cage.

Inside the smaller wooden, makeshift enclosure was you, a human child, no older than five.

Mufasa’s eyes hardened as he observed the humans laughing and jeering while you whimpered, clutching your knees to her chest.

You were terrified, dirty, and clearly out of place in this wilderness.

The sight of your vulnerability made the king of the jungle angry.

Without hesitation, Mufasa let out a thunderous roar that made the humans freeze in terror as the massive lion emerged from the shadows.

They barely had time to react before Mufasa lunged, claws flashing and teeth bared.

You place your hands on your eyes in fear, as you hear the tearing of flash.

After he kills all your kidnappers, Mufasa approached the cage.

He carefully used his massive claws to break the lock and nudged the door open.

"It’s all right, little one," he says in a deep, soothing voice.

"You’re safe now."

You hesitated, your small frame trembling, but something in Mufasa’s warm gaze reassured you that he meant no harm.

Slowly, you stepped out of the cage and stumbled forward.

Mufasa lowered his head, allowing you to lean against his fur for comfort.

As much as he doesn't like humans, but that doesn't mean you are included in this equation.

You are now a part of his family.

#yandere disney #platonic yandere #tw: toxic relationships #reader insert #possessive #lion king #lion king x reader #mufasa #simba

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mothiir · 1 year ago

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the lion and the pussycat

Cw: facefucking, dubcon due to the lions personality

— —

The Lion’s mouth crashes against the lower half of your face, and you know in that moment that you are dead. He’s going to do what he’s been threatening to do for weeks, and he’s going to kill you — if you are lucky it will be quick, his fangs against your jugular; a spray of blood, or a broken neck. You’ll die without knowing quite what you did to earn such ire from the Primarch, but at least your suffering will be minimal.

His teeth graze your jawbone; you feel the feral heat of his mouth, the smell of his breath, like — like mint, actually. Odd. You thought it would smell of blood, that he would have curds of dried flesh stuck between his canines, like a beast from the wastes — but no. Mint. Spearmint, if you’re not mistaken. Your brain, careening sky-high with terror, picks out that little detail like it is somehow important.

His hands — not gauntleted, for once, but bare, though no less strong, and no less lethal — go to your waist and lift you up. Your legs dangle haplessly; your nervous system feels like it is starting to shut down, tendons and muscles slackening; failing any other option, your lizard brain is trying to make the rest of you play dead. Like the Lion is the sort of hunter to be fooled by such a trick. Like he is the sort of man to leave his prey alone once it has perished. You know what he does to the things he kills; he’s made sure to show you. How he bears them to the ground, drives his sword into flesh, rends apart limbs, plucks out hearts, makes trophies from the skulls of once-terrible creatures. You have no idea why he insisted on making you watch, on threatening you so, but you have quickly learned that to look for meaning in the Lion’s actions is a fool’s errand.

He explains himself to no one, not even his sons. He is a force of nature, as inexplicable as the storm, as ruthless as winter’s cold breath.

He lifts you higher, his teeth at your jugular now. You taste your heart in your mouth, red and burning, and yet he still does not deliver the killing blow. Instead, he grunts with frustration.

“Woman, your legs —there —“

Holding you up with one hand, he uses the other to manipulate your limbs to his liking — which, bizarrely, apparently is around his waist? Well: as around his waist as you can reach. Your thighs are forced into an awkward stretch, your knees resting at his hips, your feet dangling near his buttocks.

“Tighten your grip — like that.”

You obey, rendered mute with fear and confusion. What is this — some kind of pre-slaughter ritual? Getting you to hold onto him so your body is more conveniently placed for the kill? You imagine him biting out a bloody chunk from your neck; the way the gore would stain his beard and splash down your front. Maybe he intends to devour you. You’ve heard tales of the dietary habits of the Emperor’s champions — of blood-soaked angels, and of dark-winged shadows who chew on human skin — and it only makes sense that the Lion shares appetites with his namesake —

His lips touch yours; his tongue fills your mouth. His hands slide from your waist to your arse and squeeze firmly; this time, the grunt sounds almost appreciative.

It is only at this point that you realise oh. Oh.

Having discovered your mouth, and apparently worked out the logistics of kissing someone less than a quarter of his size, the Lion rumbles deep in his chest; a sound that you feel in your marrow, and does little to quell your terror. He’s kissing you. Oh sweet Emperor he — you have no clue what to do, what are you meant to do, is he still planning to eat you —

He plunges his tongue deeper into your gullet, almost choking you. Drool slips down your chin — the divine drool of the Emperor’s son, you think, your mind unstitching with hysteria.

The Emperor’s Son. The Primarch of the Dark Angels.

And he’s kissing you. Badly.

Your hands are shaking, but you force yourself to cup his face, feeling the bristle of his beard beneath your palms. You’re half-convinced that he’s going to snap your hands off, leaving you with bloody stumps, but he doesn’t. He nips at your lower lip, and squeezes your arse again. You are going to be black and blue when he’s done with you; you can already feel your tender flesh start to bruise.

Right. You refuse to let ‘choked to death on the tongue of a Primarch’ be your epithet. Mindful of his teeth, you kiss him back, tightening your legs around his waist, combing your fingers into his hair, trying to guide him into something a little gentler — or, at the very least, less wet.

The instant you touch his scalp, he recoils, his gold eyes blazing.

”I’m sorry!” you say — by now you are well-used to gibbering apologies when he’s vexed at you, even though you are quite convinced you have done nothing wrong.

”Why?” he says, his voice low and rough, his nostrils flaring as he pants. “I liked it. Do it again. Do it while I fuck you.”

While he — what. Your mind goes shrill and empty with confused terror, your lips hanging open as you try to think of anything remotely constructive to say. The Lion resumes his dreadful attempt at kissing, his tongue slicking over your jaw before plunging into your mouth once more.

“Wa — wait —“

You shove at his shoulders; a completely fruitless exercise, since you’ve seen him be hit by a literal tank and not move an inch, but he pulls back.

“What?” he snaps. “What’s wrong?”

”While you — you want to have sex with me?”

”Of course I do,” he says. “Now, take this off.”

He tugs at your tunic — dark green, embroidered with the Dark Angel’s insignia, standard wear for a serf — but, predictably, the gesture is enough to rip the fabric, splitting it up to the bottom of your breasts.

“Wait!” you squeal, realising that he’s about to rip the rest away. “I don’t have any other clothes —“

”Don’t need them,” says the Lion, and before you can understand the implications of that, he’s torn the rest of the tunic away entirely, leaving you in leggings and breast-band.

He glares at the breast-band like it has personally offended him. Maybe it has.

“Wait — hang on please just wait — I thought you hated me!” you say, the words a stumbling mess as the Lion carries you over to his bed, sitting down, leaving you suddenly very aware that you are in his lap, and he is only wearing his loose linen underclothes, and uh —

Is that a sword? Please be a sword. Please be a warm, throbbing sword that happens to be directly adhered to his groin because if it isn’t a sword and it is what you think it is then you are going to suffer a far more ignoble death than ‘choked on Primarch tongue’.

“I don’t hate you,” he scoffs. Man of few words. At the baffled look on your face he elaborates: “I want to bed you.”

”I — yes. I guessed that. Now. But — before — I thought you wanted to kill me.”

”I knew you were foolish, woman, but I didn’t know you were simple,” the Lion sneers, hooking a thumb under your breast-band to feel the soft flesh beneath. Despite yourself you shiver.

“Wait, let me — “ To avoid losing yet more clothing that you cannot afford to replace, you undo your underwear for him, and place it to the side. The room’s silence is only broken by the crackle of the fire, and the sound of his heavy breathing, and your poor, racing heart, thundering in your ears.

“Good,” the Lion says. He cups one of your breasts briefly, brusquely —squeezes it like he’s checking a fruit at the marketplace for ripeness — and then the room whirls around you, and your face thumps into his pillow. It takes you a moment to process what he’s done: flipped you onto your belly, which means —

Cold air strikes your thighs as your leggings go the same way as your tunic. His teeth graze your calf, then close — bizarrely — around your knee, and you wonder if he has any idea what he is meant to be doing here.

He hoiks you up by your hips, forcing you onto your tip-toes, and you feel his finger slide between your lips, prodding around like he’s looking for something.

He has no idea what he is meant to be doing here, does he?

He finds your hole, and slides his finger in briefly. Your body, despite everything, has responded either out of unexpected arousal or sheer self defence and you’re slick and sticky around his digit.

Then he withdraws his finger, lifts you up even more, so your legs are forced to butterfly around him, and you feel something huge and blunt and warm nudge at your entrance and the head of it is bigger than your entire damn cunt.

“Stop it!” you scream, loud enough to startle even yourself. “Stop it you damn fool, if you just put it in you’ll kill me!”

Silence follows, as thick as a shroud. Your flanks heave as you suck in air, and realise that you have called the Lion a damn fool, and he has burned planets for less.

“What did you say?”

His voice is a low rumbling threat. Your fingers curl helplessly into his sheets.

“I mean — my lord, you cannot just insert yourself into me — you are very big, and I’m not ready, and it will tear me and — and then you’d only be able to bed me once, and not for very long at that!”

Unless you want to fuck a split open corpse, you think but do not say.

The Lion doesn’t let you go. You feel his cock resting across your buttocks, and onto the small of your back, like a damn threat.

“Women birth children. They can stretch.”

”Well — yes. Yes they do and they can —“

He’s a virgin. He’s the worst kind of virgin, because he’s a genocidal war lord who thinks that he knows literally everything.

”—but that takes hours and hours of labour and the cervix has to open and you can’t just do it on command!”

The Lion huffs. “A failing of your kind.”

”Yes my lord,” you reply, rolling your eyes into the pillow. “A failing most severe. But — if I may? —“

You wriggle, and much to your relief he understands that at least, and lets you go. You roll onto your back, wanting to keep an eye on the Primarch.

“When — “

You stop. You can’t start explaining what happens when a man and woman lie together to the Lion; you think he might well kill you for patronising him — and even if he didn’t, you’d probably suffer a shame-induced heart attack.

Instead you try a different tactic:

”Humans are weak, frail things my lord — human women especially so. I can’t just…take your cock inside me with no preparation. It would damage me. I am — I am honoured that you desire me but — but can we start things slower? Please?”

He looks unconvinced; though that could just be his face, which — even at rest — seems set in an expression of simmering anger.

“Like — can I —?”

You gesture to his cock; the absurdity of you being so careful to seek permission when his seduction technique was apparently limited to grabbing is not lost on you. Still. He’s a Primarch. The rules are different.

“If I wanted my cock stroked I could do it myself.”

“Yes my lord. Of course. But — let me just —“

You lean forwards and lick up his shaft, tasting salty arousal and the plain-scented soap all the Astartes here seem to use. Soap. Mint. He washed before coming here. He brushed his teeth and sweetened his breath. He wanted to impress — if he just intended to force you he would have done so already.

(The bar is on the Emperor-damn floor, isn’t it?)

He moans, his head lolloping back. You weren’t expecting quite such a dramatic reaction, and a perverse sense of pride kindles in your chest.

“Yes — yes, like that,” he moans, and shuffles back against the headboard, spreading his legs wider. “Keep going.”

For the next half hour, you perform the most nerve-wracking fellatio of your life. You lick his shaft, and mouth gently at his balls; your jaw cracks painfully as you manage to wedge his tip onto your tongue, using your hands to slick over what you can’t reach. The only indication that the Lion is enjoying himself is the occasional little huff or moan — and the pulse of his pre cum onto your tongue. The only words he utters are —

��Eyes on me. Keep them open — want to see —“

— and so you pin your eyes open wide and try to blink as little as possible. As your wrists are starting to ache, and your jaw is twinging, his breathing changes, growing sharper.

“Swallow me —“ he pants, and pushes on the back of your head. His cock rocks forwards into your throat, knocking against your palette, and you instinctively try to draw back. He holds you in place, his hips twitching up, trying to work himself deeper. He’s not going to fit — but he does not see it that way. He wants to fit, so he will. You gargle and choke around him, eyes beginning to water, and he just forces your head down again.

“Swallow — let me in —“

You gulp, hiccuping and choking, and his cock somehow sinks another few inches into your throat, stretching your gullet open. Your feet kick helplessly against the bed.

“So close — good girl — sweet girl —“

His words are disjointed; his hips stuttering forward.

“I’m —“

That’s the closest you get to a warning before he’s cumming down your throat; swallowing is less a choice, more unavoidable. He’s buried so deeply that his seed just spills inside. He keeps you held there, your lips sealed around his cock, until the last little oversensitive shiver.

Then, and only then, does he release you. You sputter and cough, mopping at your teary face, trying not to retch.

“That was tolerable,” says the Lion. “Now, when you’ve finished your dramatics, get down there and do it again.”

#Lion/reader #this is rambling smutty nonsense #my writing

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shroomyv · 14 days ago

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It genuinely seems like everyone collectively agrees that all of Jack oconnells characters that are written for either:

-have a cream pie/breeding kink

-has a oral/pussy eating obsession

-enjoys being ridden better than a cowboy rides a horse

Just a little pattern I’m seeing and I eat it up everytime

#I’m here for it absolutely #and he’s usually a sub to #remmick x reader #remmick smut #sir jimmy crystal smut #jimmy crystal #jack o’connell x reader #jack o'connell #roy goode #roy goode x reader #cook skins #lion kaminski #lion kaminski x reader

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bunnwich · 2 months ago

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Was just revisiting your blog for some quality Leona content but I was wondering in you had some more Leona bf HCs to feed us? Tysm for all the hard work you do fr.🛐🛐🛐

Hi! I assume you’re talking about this post? I’m really flattered you enjoy my stuff. Thank you so much!! I’ll echo what I said in my other post that I think shipping and yumeing with a comfort character is very personal and that little headcanons and interpretations can vary from person to person. At the end of the day, it’s about what YOU wanna see and reflect into your romance! I think taking the time to add your own lil HCs and lore is the fun part!

✨MORE✨ Leona Boyfriend Headcanons

Bedtime rituals are important: Leona mentions enjoying baths a few times, so I think that this quiet time with his partner would be his favorite, and Leona is even more motivated to do nightly self-care rituals. And when his partner doesn't stay the night, sometimes he "forgets" and does wear his braids multiple days. (Leona just mentions that you should come over and fix his braids if you don't like how he does it when you're not around.)

Unfortunately, he enjoys banter, teasing, and playfighting. Anyway, he can get a little rise out of you. NGL, he’s a super annoying bf that makes you wanna hit him sometimes, but in a lighthearted way. It’s never mean, only annoying. You'll become wise to his "tells" anyway, and realize he’s not serious (he’s very hard for others to read BTW) BUT you KNOW when he’s just pulling your leg.

Eating meals together is another thing he always tries to do, and works his schedule around this ritual. He likes the idea that you are getting enough to eat, and I do think sharing a meal is one of his love languages. Seeing you nourished and while indulging in delicious food (something he also enjoys) makes him feel good.

He doesn’t tolerate disrespect of you in ANY form, teasing is one thing, but he will never speak badly of you or let anyone else. AND HE’D NEVER IGNORE YOU OR ACT LIKE HE’S SIMPLY PUTTING UP WITH YOU. (✨No aloof BF here!!✨) In fact, he may get the habit of texting you TOO much. He’s a handful, and you are his emotional springboard in a way. He doesn't have many close bonds with others, so when he's away from you for too long, he gets restless and will start texting you what he's doing and why it is so dull without you. (He’d never pull you away from friends or anything because he's pretty self-aware of how needy he can be. We love a man with emotional intelligence.)

He’s not a TOTAL pushover, especially when “Coach Leona” comes out. He's not afraid to tell you when he thinks you’re wrong. A tough love session or two where he may just tell you you're too nosy and should be focused on yourself, or let you know when he thinks you may be going about something wrong. He DOES place you on a pedestal in his mind, and if he’s a little tough on you, it's just bc he wants you to be successful. He believes partners should be a TEAM and push each other when needed. (You’ll certainly love to boss him around!!)

Once together, he will NEVER request that you clean up after him or run errands for him. (Unless you really want to ig.) You're NOT one of his underlings or expected to be subservient to him in any way, you are his partner and therefore equal.

All of Savanaclaw’s attitude will shift about you, and he will request that they should respect you. And hey, if you are tough enough to get with their “boss” then ofc they would respect you anyway without him even saying.

Queen/King/Prince/Princess (whatever you prefer) Treatment. He wants to spoil you but respects your independence. He’s studied you well enough by now to know when to hold back and let you take control. It’s cute…and VERY attractive to see you lead. In fact, he wants to see you at your best, commanding situations and building your skills.

✨BRO HAS A LICENSE.✨ And (I think) a secret car. He keeps it just off the NRC campus. He used to go for long drives alone along Sage's Island’s coast, but now he has company~ He’ll drive you anywhere you wanna go. These drives with you keep him sane. And he’ll take you shopping and dinner dates, most likely just mean-mugging the whole time or falling asleep on the bench by the dressing rooms. BUT HE’LL DO IT FOR YOU. (Yes, dear…)

His peace is your alone time together, without the noise of the outside world or others. Just curled up in his arms playing mobile chess or watching one of those boring history documentaries I know he's into. (Relationships are about compromise, okay??) He’ll let you choose what you watch, too. He's a professional bedrotter, so on those days where relaxation is needed, he's right beside you, asking you what kind of food you want him to order for you. If you wanna yap to him about the terrible book you just read, hey he’s fine with that too!

He KNOWS he is not the most…well, exciting partner, and that self-consciousness shows through sometimes. He’ll do his best to keep you happy, but he probably needs reassurance that he’s not boring you to death with his 15-minute chess lectures or lethargic lifestyle. He’s an old man at heart.

IMO Leona got his first idea of love from romance novels!! After being disillusioned, he ofc put all that “nonsense” to bed as a kid. But I like to think there is still a part of him who is a hopeless romantic softie. He's secretly dreamed of having a “great love” in his life and a strong partner just like his brother. Someone not like all the others, and who will always be there by his side. So don't be surprised when he pulls out a move or line that you’d NEVER expect him to say. (Maybe a dry delivery, but he’d say it!!)

Not always, but sometimes, Leona can be…strangely sweet, but HE MEANS IT. I do think he’s a bit socially stunted in some areas. As in…he doesn't always know what to say in intimate situations, so stealing a few lines from this “stupid book” he read as a kid is NOT above him. That’s what a prince would say, right? In fact, in trying to be so PAINFULLY logical all the time, he might apply “romance” he learned from books in real life to a devastatingly cheesy, old-fashioned, and endearing degree. (He’d never tell tho.)

I’LL SAY IT, Leona’s version of “lovey dovey talk” is talking in the third person. “You know your lion loves ya right?” “Your lion’s been lonely without ya.” “Your lion misses his_” (Insert whatever cheesy nickname he’s chosen for you). Notice how he conveniently puts himself as ✨possessed✨ by you. Because that's all he wants!! It's cemented in his head. Before he’s sure you feel the same, he’ll make sure you know that he is, in fact, YOUR lion. No arguments. You have to reap what you’ve sown.

In public, these “Your Lion” quips are whispered under his breath, maybe even in your ear. But, in private, he’s fine with rolling over for you like an overgrown house cat, and saying these things loud and proud. He’s looking at you with such a soft expression, you wonder if this is the same intimidating leader of the Savanaclaw dorm you came to know at the beginning of the year.

He’s completely love sick for you. He hates this, but also ✨REVELS✨ IN IT. And what I mean by this is, I think “being in love” would be a bittersweet experience for Leona. He feels very deeply too DEEPLY. He's always been a sensitive guy, and eventually he will settle into a comfortable love…but after SO MANY YEARS of being alone, not just romantically, but without many close bonds OF ANY KIND, the feeling of love would make him feel sorta…sick at first. But, being the grumpy masochist we know…I think Leona would give in to this torture, become addicted to you, especially after you promise that you’re here to stay.

At night, he holds you a little too tight sometimes, but that’s because...he can’t believe you’re really here with him, and the thought of going back to how his life was before you were in it is more painful than anything.

#twst #leona kingscholar #leona kingscholar x reader #leona kingscholar x yuu #twisted wonderland #leona x reader #leona x yuu #leona twisted wonderland #ask #lion talk🦁#anon

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angelickks · 1 month ago

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LUCKY CHARM lion kaminski

synopsis Lion Kaminski has only ever fought for two things—Stan’s approval and your hands in his hair. In the hours before every underground fight, he doesn’t come alive until he sees you. You are the ritual. The reason. The tether. After the fight, when his body is wrecked and his soul frays at the edges, you hold him together with slow kisses and whispered promises.

warning(s). nsfw. mdni 18+. established relationship. reader's nickname is "lucky." language. canon-typical violence. some bruising/blood. lowk softdom! reader. emotional dependency. breeding kink undertones (possessive language). touch-starved trauma. praise kink. quietly feral lion. no use of y/n. not proofread. angel talks. HAAAAA told u. i needed this fr cuz i love him sm.

pairing walter "lion" kaminski x fem!reader

#NAV.ᐟ jack o’connell mlist ⋆.˚ how they met

BEFORE EVERY MATCH, Lion waits. Quiet. Still. Like he’s not fully there until you touch him.

Itʻs the night before the fight. The motel smells like cigarette smoke and bleach. Thin curtains, bad pillows, the kind of bed that groans even under your soft weight. You're painting your nails—black with little stars—because it’s the one girly thing you still get to do when you're on the road with them. You sit cross-legged in one of Lion’s ratty old shirts, sleeves pushed up, your lip tucked between your teeth as you concentrate.

Lion’s watching you from the foot of the bed, knuckles bruised and swollen in his lap. He should be asleep. Fight’s tomorrow. But his eyes are heavy-lidded and stuck on you like gravity.

"You're gonna chip ‘em," he mumbles.

You look up and smirk. "You watching me that close, baby?"

He doesn’t answer. Just ducks his head, a faint blush creeping up under the hollows of his cheekbones.

You put the polish down and crawl across the mattress. Your knees brush his thigh. “What’s goin’ on in that head, hmm?” You whisper, voice soft like lullabies and lull in the storm.

He doesn't say much. He never really has. But his hand—rough, scarred, and trembling—rises to curl against your cheek.

“You’ll be there tomorrow, right?” he asks. And you know that question isn't about attendance. It's about survival.

"Yeah, baby. I'm always there."

Stanley’s pacing outside the locker room like a cat in a cage. Lion's got his hoodie on, fists tight in the pockets, head bowed like he’s praying to whatever’s left.

But he doesn’t move until you walk in.

You look out of place here, too pretty, too soft—like moonlight in a dungeon. You don't belong here, not in this washed-out world of sweat and blood and broken noses—but you come anyway. Like you always do.

His girl.

Lucky.

The whole ring, that’s what they started calling you too. Fighters spit to the side when you walk past, tap their gloves, muttering prayers under their breath like you're some saint.

But they don’t really know. Not like Lion does.

Because for him, his "Lucky" isn’t a charm.

You're oxygen.

No one dares mock you anymore. Not after they saw what happened the last time someone tried.

Lion sees you and straightens. Like his spine’s been tied to your heartbeat. Like your presence reassembles him.

You walk over, lip gloss glinting under fluorescents, wearing one of his oversized flannels over a top that reveals just the right amount of skin to have Lion’s head spinning, just a little. You've got two rings on your fingers and that necklace he gave you the night he won in Trenton.

“Hi, baby,” You say softly, kneeling in front of him.

He exhales like he’s been underwater.

“Hey.” His voice comes out low, barely there. Hoarse from the weight he carries and the fact that he doesn’t speak unless it’s to you.

“Head okay?”

He nods. Lies.

You take his face in both hands and kisses the tip of his nose. “You been thinkin’ too much again.”

He nods again. That one's honest.

You move closer, hands sliding down to his chest. Your fingers splay across his ribs. That’s where you always touch him first. Like a key fitting into a lock.

“You need me to do it?” you ask.

He doesn’t answer with words.

Just presses his forehead to your collarbone and breathes. So hard you feel his ribs move under her palms. That’s his answer.

You pull back enough to see his eyes. They're glassy. Desperate. Like they’ve seen the worst of the world and still found one soft place to land: you.

Your thumbs graze his cheeks. “Look at me, Lion.”

He does.

You start the blessing.

His hands are already out, palms up, desperate.

You take them, cold and calloused, and press kisses to every knuckle, slow. Deliberate. Your thumb brushes the scar near his thumb—the one he got the first night they met. Back when you weren't “Lucky” yet. Just some girl in the back of a dive bar who stitched up his hand without asking questions.

You kiss his jaw, then his forehead.

“Win or lose,” you whisper into his ear, “you come back to me.”

He nods.

You rest your hand over his heart. “You feel that?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s mine. It stays mine. Okay? Right here—you stay mine. You don’t lose that.”

Lion closes his eyes and leans into you, like he’s trying to breathe you in. You kiss his lips, slow. Not deep. Just enough. Just to center him.

When you part, Lion’s hand cups your neck like he’s grounding himself. Like he’ll lose control of his body if you leave too soon.

The crowd roars. Or maybe it doesn't. Lion doesn’t hear any of it. Blood drips down his lip, ear ringing, body sore like always—but the only thing he cares about is finding you in the blur.

He wins.

He always does when you're there.

The fight’s a blur of fists and flashes and his own blood dripping from his eyebrow—but you're there in the hallway after, holding gauze in one hand and his hoodie in the other.

And when he stumbles off the ring, dazed and shaking, he walks straight past everyone. Straight into your arms.

You catch him like he’s a crashing wave and you're sand. Your arms around his ribs. Your lips brushing the crown of his sweat-soaked hair.

“I got you,” you whisper. “Always.”

He presses his forehead to yours. Closes his eyes. Breathes you in like the first inhale after drowning.

“Take me home,” he says.

Lion never had soft things growing up. Not for long.

His life’s been cold water, cold concrete, cold hands. Everything that ever touched him left a bruise. So when you, his Lucky, came along—with your lip gloss smiles and pink hair clips and the way you always said his name like it meant something—it rewired his entire system.

He doesn’t know how to ask for touch. Doesn’t know how to beg. So he clings instead.

Sleeps with a fist in your shirt. Rubs his face into your neck like a feral cat. Kisses your wrists like prayers.

You call it sweet. Call him your baby in that soft, sing-song way that makes his teeth ache.

You don’t know it’s obsession.

That it’s faith.

That he wakes up in a cold sweat some nights terrified you’ll leave and take all the warmth with you.

When the world finally goes quiet and the cuts dry under stinging antiseptic, he never asks to be touched.

He just lays there—quiet, watchful, fists clenched—and waits. Like he’s hoping you'll crawl into him without him having to say it out loud. Like he thinks asking would scare you off.

But you know. God, you know.

He only breathes easy when you're on him. Above him. All over him. Like your weight alone keeps him from floating out of his body. Like you're the only thing holding the pieces of him together.

So you straddle his lap in the dim, creaky motel bed. The room smells like cheap soap and old blood, but Lion smells like salt and adrenaline and sweat-soaked cotton.

His hoodie is half-off. His eyes are glassy. He’s starving.

“Baby,” you whisper, brushing your fingers along his jaw. “You with me?”

His hands come up slow. Almost like he’s afraid. Then they land—tentative, reverent—on your thighs.

“Yeah,” he rasps. “I just—fuck, I just missed you.”

“You saw me three hours ago.”

His mouth twitches, almost a smile. But his voice is a wreck. “Doesn’t matter. Miss you the second you’re not on me.”

You lean down and kiss him, slow and deep, and Lion whimpers.

Whimpers.

Because it’s too much. And not enough. And because every part of his body is begging to be kept.

When your hips rock forward, he gasps. You're warm, slick, barely grinding against him through your panties—and he’s aching.

“Please,” he breathes. “I need—I need you.”

“What do you need, baby?”

His jaw clenches. His hands shake.

“You. Just you. All of you.”

It’s not fast. Not rough. Not like what people expect from someone who fights for a living.

It’s slow. Deep. Devastating.

Lion is gentle. Not because he’s afraid he’ll break you—but because he needs you to stay. Because every thrust is a confession. Every breath is a vow.

“You feel like home,” he groans into your neck.

You cup his face, keep him close. “You are home.”

He loses it a little then. Voice cracking, hips stuttering, arms locking around you tighter like you're slipping away and he’ll never survive it.

“You’re mine,” he pants. “My Lucky. My girl. My fuckin' girl.”

The air shifts, his hips moves faster, like he’s scared you’ll leave.

Like this is the only moment he gets.

Like if he doesn’t show you—prove it—you’ll vanish and he’ll shatter into dust.

He’s kissing you everywhere. Your neck, your chest, your shoulders. Mouthing at your jaw like he’s praying. Whimpering your name.

Chanting it.

“Lucky. Lucky. Lucky—fuck—please, don’t go—”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper, nails digging into his back. “You have me. I’m yours.”

And that breaks him.

His head drops to your shoulder, and his body shudders. “I love you. I love you so much I can’t fuckin' breathe—”

He falls apart inside you—arms locked tight around your back, lips at your collarbone, moaning your name like it’s holy.

You feel every tremor. Every broken breath. Every part of him unraveling in your arms.

And you hold him through it.

Because Lion Kaminski doesn’t need a lucky charm.

He needs someone to catch him when he falls.

Lion doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t speak.

He just stays inside you, face buried in your chest, breathing like a man dragged back from the dead.

You stroke his curls. Kiss his forehead. Murmurs to him like he’s your favorite secret.

“You’re safe. You’re loved. You’re mine.”

He whispers it back without even meaning to:

“Mine. Mine. Mine.”

#˚₊‧꒰ა angelickk blog ໒꒱ ‧₊˚#drabble #jungleland #jungleland movie #jack o'connell #lion kaminski x reader #lion kaminski #lion kaminski smut #jungleland imagine #jack oʻconnell imagine #lion kaminski fanfic #jungleland fanfic

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