#Les Packer fic

[the-hinky-panda]

Strings: Part I

Title: Strings

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Les Packer x Fem! Reader

Summary: You and Les had been high school sweethearts. You're going to be a music teacher, he's going to climb the ranks of the SAMDINO MC. The only thing that stands in your way is his mentally unstable brother, Isaac. Things fall apart and fifteen years later, your daughter calls Les for help when you're in a coma and she's trying to figure out how to stay out of foster care. Les is faced with figuring out if you daughter is his or possibly Isaac's. Either way, he can't walk away for a second time from you and your daughter.

She looks like you, that’s the first thing that strikes Les. 

Her posture, straight and tense, the waves of hair falling over her shoulders, the serious set of her mouth. It isn’t until he enters the small diner and approaches the table that he realizes her nose and eyes are not like yours at all. 

They’re a Packer’s. 

The eye color is a mix, blue and green, like an unsettled sea. But the shape is most definitely Packer. 

“Zoey, I presume?” As if she could be anyone else. 

She nods once, those eerie eyes studying his face. “Mr. Packer.” 

He hears one of his guys snort from a couple booths over. Hoosier from the sound of it. He wasn’t sure if this was a set up or not so back up was a must. Now, he’s regretting that decision. With a heavy sigh, he slips into the booth across from her. He doesn’t know if she knows anything about him, or Isaac. What you told her about her father. He doesn’t have enough information going into this meeting so he does what he always does in these situations: get the other person to talk. 

“Alright, say what you have to say.” 

She reaches under the table and pulls out a stack of slightly yellowed envelopes, all tied neatly together with a fraying blue ribbon. “My mom told me where to find these letters, in case anything happened to her.” She pushes them with shaking hands across the scratched formica towards him. “There’s not too many Les Packers in California. I just assumed…” 

He recognizes the ribbon, remembers when he gave it to you, and fights the urge to reach out and touch it. He had used it to tie the stems of wildflowers together in a poor excuse of a bouquet when he had asked you out to some music in the park festival in Redlands. The next day, after the wildflowers had been arranged in a canning jar with water, you used the ribbon to tie your hair back away from your face while you played the guitar on a dilapidated back porch. He can still remember what the curve of your cheek felt like under his fingers, soft as the satin of the ribbon. 

He clears his throat. “So something has happened to your mother?” 

Zoey nods. “Yeah.” 

“Is she…” even after sixteen years of distance, he still can’t bring himself to finish the sentence. 

“No, but it’s bad. She’s in a coma.” 

“For how long?” 

“Six days today.” Zoey folds her hands in front of her and Les sees the ring on her middle finger. A small sterling silver band with a teardrop piece of turquoise. 

“Your mama give you that ring?” 

“No,” she turns it around her finger nervously. “I found it with the letters. In a safety deposit box. Do you want it-” 

It’s a cheap thing he bought from a street vendor in San Diego. You had loved it, the colored veins in the blue rock. You had called it a piece of art and he handed over a twenty dollar bill for the treasure. He shakes his head. “Nah. Tell me what happened to your mom.” 

“She was in an accident. On her motorcycle. She was coming back from a music recital at the middle school when a drunk driver clipped her. The police said she skidded across the road and h…h…hit a tree.” 

That’s a nasty type of accident and it sounds like a miracle that you’re just in a coma and not dead. “Do you think that’s what really happened?” 

Zoey’s entire face clouds over, tears gathering quickly in her eyes. “Yeah. The police arrested the guy.” 

“So what am I here for?” 

She pulls out another envelope, thick and wrinkled. “Here. It’s not a lot, about $560 but it’s all I have.” 

He glances in the envelope and finds mostly $10s and $5s. “Where did you get this money?” 

She fiddles with the fraying end of a braided bracelet around her wrist. “I’ve always saved up money. It’s just my mom and me. Some months are harder to pay the bills than others so I save up what I can to help when that happens.” 

Les closes the envelope and sets it down on the table between them. It pains him to no end to hear that you’ve had to struggle financially because of him. Because of Isaac. And what little bit he had tried to do for you, to help ease that burden, wasn’t enough. “How old are you?” 

“Fifteen.” 

He nods in understanding. “CPS is starting to snoop around.” 

Zoey uses a shaky hand to wipe away her tears. “Yeah. They’re talking about putting me in a foster home. I overheard the lady tell the doctor that they need to get me in placement as soon as possible for when my mom…” She chokes down a sob. “My best friend in school is in a foster home. She says it’s terrible. She sleeps on the floor, has to take care of the younger kids and work a part time job. And the father…” 

God, what is wrong with the world? Like he needed that confirmation to make his decision. He slides the money back over to her, along with the letters. Her face falls, thinking he’s going to say no. He’s failed in protecting you and your daughter. He’s not about to let that mistake continue. He’s stayed on the sidelines for far too long. 

“What hospital is your mama in?”

[words-and-seeds]

Aww poor Les. I’m choosing to believe they had 30+ years of incandescent happiness first.

Was she worth it?

That’s the question that Bishop asks Les as they sit on the porch outside of the clubhouse in Santo Padre. The two men are smoking cigars and watching Gilly beat the shit out of one of Les’s San Bernardino guys, Rhino, a bruiser who was stupid enough to get into the cage with him. Les winces as Rhino goes down before handing over a hundred bucks to Bishop.

“Yea.” He says blowing out smoke from the cigar. “She was worth it.”

“I was sorry to hear that she’d passed.” Bishop says quietly.

Les hunches over, it’s been a couple of months now and he still feels the agony inside of his chest. It’s why he’s on the road so much lately, he can’t stand to be home these days. The house is too lonely without you, everywhere he looks is another memory and he can’t face that.

“Yea.” Les whispers as he stares out into the darkness. “Me too.”

[tthael]

Dude your writing is so stunning. I was gonna ask if you took any creative writing courses or something and saw you majored in literature so like no wonder lol. I wish to write as good as you but as someone who wants to drop out of college I dont see that happening. Anyway you're awesome and I hope you have a good day 💙💙

 I am going to tell you a secret.

I did not learn how to write like this in college.

Most of my creative writing classes (and I only took 4) taught me to read. They were all workshops, and collaborative, and I learned how to read a piece of writing and identify what it was about--and that’s very different from identifying what the writer intended to write. It taught me to read a story about an adult whose divorced mother is remarrying and say, “Okay, but I don’t think that this story is about the capitalist recompartmentalization of families the way that the title seems to indicate. I think that the questions posed by the premise are ‘where are my roots? where does my identity come from? what dynamics do I retreat to when I need to feel safe, and what do I do when that refuge is taken away?’“ And identifying what a story is actually about is a very important part of the writing and revision process. Workshops also taught me to take critique without taking it personally, and to assess what was a critique worth taking, and whether the giver knew what they were talking about and what their opinion is worth.

Most of my literature courses taught me to think critically--in the sense of “identify this and examine what it means.” What does it mean, in Parable of the Sower, that empathy can be weaponized and used to incapacitate others? What does it mean, in RENT, that Benny is offering the protagonists jobs in their fields and they’re eschewing in favor of authenticity and integrity? What does Watership Down have to say about the nature-vs.-nurture argument and its limitations?

But I did not learn how to write like this in college. I learned how to write like this from fandom.

Some things came pre-loaded. I like writing dialogue, and I’ve been told I’m good at it, and I think it’s because eventually I worked out that nobody ever manages to say exactly what they mean and communication is frequently less like an arrow aiming for a target and more like a small boat bumping up against a dock while the people onboard try to tie their ropes to secure it. I like characters over action, and that’s reflected in the stories I tell--all very heavy character-driven stories, where the ratio of introspection to actual events is very high.

Z. Z. Packer’s “Drinking Coffee Elsewhere” taught me to appreciate the way that characterization leads to action; but I never put that into practice until I went on (forgive me) tumblr and started reading meta. dear-wormwoods is one of my biggest sources of Eddie characterization meta, and that has influenced my fics more than anything else in fandom, though we’ve never spoken. When I was reading bagginshield, I read avelera’s meta for them.

But I’ve also found that many of the best meta writers (that I’ve found anyway) are also the best writers I’ve read. I went straight from avelera’s bagginshield literary analysis to their Pacific Rim fanfiction “the only way out is down” and reading their commentary on how they shaped the work during revision. I read amarguerite’s “Some Friendlier Sky” (Les Miserables fanfiction) and then “An Ever-Fixed Mark” (Pride and Prejudice) and I started asking her questions--”you compare Courfeyrac to a cat, and then Mr. Darcy to a cat, even though they’re very different characters. What’s the thought process there?” and she told me and we talked about it. I read chrononautical’s “A Road from the Garden” (The Hobbit) and went line by line picking out the things I liked in the comment, and I had this sudden epiphany about how Tolkien shows the dwarves as sets of brothers, which means that they are technically a race of brothers in their presentation, so it was GENIUS to play around with the brother dynamic in a work like that and reflect on how frequently an individual will tolerate mistreatment of themselves that they would never permit to happen to someone they loved--like, say, a brother.

I learned the basics of literary criticism and critical analysis from college, and from reading the western canon and trying to pick apart things that were useful to me. But it’s so much easier when everything is written in vernacular instead of faux-detached academic writing, and when everyone involved is genuinely excited about and dedicated to the work instead of being forced to dwell on The Old Man and the Sea yet again, and when there’s space for people to go back and forth analyzing and agreeing or saying “but what if” or rejecting and are just united by this love of the content or the characters or the book or the history.

You can learn to write like--well, you would write like you, not like me, that’s how style is. But you don’t have to go to college to do it. My current style is not the product of the institution that gave me my degree--it’s the product of more recent years’ immersion in fanfiction (and more recently some traditionally published original work) and music and content I get for free online. And you can also get a circle of people who are happy to write together, read each other’s work, comment on each other’s strengths and the things they like, make suggestions as to how to improve things. You don’t have to do that in college. You just have to read and write a lot, and the things that you read will influence what writing you produce, and in identifying what you like about the things you read and how they do the things they do, you will be able to look at your own work critically and shape it more towards your satisfaction.

The work I’m writing for IT is some of the best work of my life. TTHAEL is the first long work I’ve completed to my satisfaction. Indelicate is the first thing I’ve written that I feel is really exemplary of my style. Margot’s Room is the first self-contained short work I’ve completed to my satisfaction--and the first explicit sexual content I’ve written that I’m happy with both level of detail and atmosphere. Even Automatic-Mechanical-Pneumatic--which I wrote and posted in the same day, so it’s more of a draft--I look at it and recognize it has pacing issues (you can tell I was racing a clock to get the words out), some of the symbolism is too overt because the characters are too self-aware of it, at one point I tripped up and referred to a character by the real-world inspiration--but that’s a solid draft and it has good parts.

You don’t have to go to college to learn to write. Writing is a skill, and writing is work. And there are advantages that people in colleges have re: networking and libraries and available resources and professors who are being paid to give you feedback. But no institution is going to put you through a four-year program and at the end you’ll come out a “finished” writer, with no more room to improve. That’s something you have to do on your own.

[the-hinky-panda]

Strings: Part III

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Les Packer x Fem! Reader

Summary: You and Les had been high school sweethearts. You're going to be a music teacher, he's going to climb the ranks of the SAMDINO MC. The only thing that stands in your way is his mentally unstable brother, Isaac. Things fall apart and fifteen years later, your daughter calls Les for help when you're in a coma and she's trying to figure out how to stay out of foster care. Les is faced with figuring out if you daughter is his or possibly Isaac's. Either way, he can't walk away for a second time from you and your daughter.

“When was the last time you ate?” 

Zoey covers her mouth with her hand as she chews the massive bite she just took out of a hamburger. Her eyes crinkle in the corners as she smiles behind her hand. “I’ve had a lot on my mind. Kinda killed my appetite.” 

Les forces a smile at the comment, memories of shoving greasy bags of take out into Isaac’s room whenever “inspiration” took hold of him. Isaac would write, paint, sing, draw, whatever outlet of creativity happened to strike him at the moment. He would become obsessed with self-expression to the point that he would forget to eat or sleep. Les was once again shoved into the position of caring for his younger brother. The fact that Zoey shares in that temperament kills Les’ appetite and he slides his untouched burger over to her. 

“So CPS is off your back and you’re feeling okay with that?” 

She nods her head emphatically. “I was so scared of where I was going to end up. My friend, Tilda, her foster family actually made a request for me to live with them.” 

Ah yes, the friend with the handsy foster father. “Tilda, that’s your friend who sleeps on the floor and takes care of the kids, and…” 

Zoey grabs a fry and dips it in the small plastic cup of ketchup. “Yeah, that’s her.” 

It infuriates him thinking about the possibility of Zoey being in that same situation. “What’s the family’s name?” 

She looks up at him with those hopeful eyes. “You can get her out of there? Can she live with us?” 

Les holds up his hand. “Slow down. First of all, I’m only here until your mama wakes up. So ‘us’ is very temporary. Second, I don’t know what to do about your friend but I’m willing to look into it. If something can be done, I’ll do it. But don’t go giving her false hope.” 

Zoey nods in understanding. “I get it. Thank you, for whatever happens.” 

He snags a fry off her plate. “Your mama got me into dipping these things in hot wing sauce whenever we would go to music festivals. If we couldn’t find that, we used bbq sauce.” 

Zoey smiles and slides a couple of the ketchup cups towards him. They’re not filled with ketchup but bbq sauce. “She taught me that too. So is that how you two met? At a music festival?”

Les takes another fry from her plate. “No, it wasn’t a music festival. We met in high school.” 

 Isaac had been caught smoking a joint in the boys bathroom that afternoon. Thank God he had unloaded the crack he had brought to school that morning or else Les would have been waiting for him down at the police station and not at the high school. Their mother was on her way to the school but she had to finish her shift at the steakhouse before attending another sit down with the principal over her out of control son. Their father just flat out refused to even speak to the school anymore. 

So Les has an hour to kill before Isaac is released into the frustrated hands of his parent and he ends up going where he always goes: the music room. No one knows he plays the guitar, that he started teaching himself at the age of ten. His father took him along to one of his motorcycle club’s parties and one of the guys had a guitar sitting in the garage with an inch of dust on it. Les had found a music book in the beaten up case and taught himself how to play jingle bells that night. It only progressed from there. He can now play by ear and has his own instrument stashed behind a stack of tires in the garage. 

But as he approaches the door to the music room, he hears music already spilling out into the empty hallway of the high school. It’s a mix of guitar and percussion. He peers through the small window to see who is in the room but he only sees you. He watches as your fingers dance along the frets and strings, and then he sees you strike the body of the guitar with the heel of your hand. That creates the percussion sound. He doesn’t even realize he’s opened the door and stepped inside until silence replaces the music. 

You stare up at him with wide, surprised eyes. He takes in a breath to say something but you jump to your feet. “I’m sorry. I’ll leave.” 

He holds his hand up to stop you. “No, don’t go.” 

“I don’t want any trouble. Please.” 

Fucking Isaac and his reputation is starting to pull Les’ reputation under as well. Les is a senior, keeps his grades just above passing even though he could have straight A’s. He thought he was just playing it cool but perhaps his actions were listing him into degenerate space. He doesn’t like seeing the fear in your eyes, the tremble in your hands around the neck of the guitar. 

“No trouble. Promise.” 

He gives you a small smile and that seems to calm you somewhat. “Okay. Um, do you…do you play?” 

He sticks his hands in his jeans pockets and shrugs. “A little, yeah. Not like you though.” 

You duck your head in embarrassment and brush a strand of hair behind your ear. “I was just messing around. It’s not exactly traditional skills. Mr. Elledge would kill me for hitting the body of the guitar like that.” 

“I thought it was beautiful. Could you teach me?” 

You think about it for a minute before nodding. “Okay. Sure.” 

He remembers taking that guitar from you, the strings still warm from your hands. He remembers the scent of your shampoo, rosemary and thyme, as your hair fell over the both of them as you maneuvered his hands into the percussion positions. He remembers the warmth of your body pressed against his back. He remembers the desire that settled under his skin that prompted him to seek you out every day after that at school. 

“My mom plays the guitar?” 

The question wounds him. “She used to play all the time.” 

“Huh.” Zoey sips at her soda. “I’ve heard her play the piano and a little on the cello, but never a guitar.” 

He wonders what it was exactly that made you give up the guitar, the instrument that was constantly in your hands. He hopes he’s not the reason why you gave up the thing that brought the two of you together. That thought causes him to worry what your reaction will be when you wake up from the coma. “Well, when she comes to, you’ll have to ask her to play something for you.” 

Zoey nods silently, taking his words as they were intended: hopeful. 

[the-hinky-panda]

Strings Series (Les Packer x Reader)

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Les Packer x Fem! Reader

Summary: You and Les had been high school sweethearts. You're going to be a music teacher, he's going to climb the ranks of the SAMDINO MC. The only thing that stands in your way is his mentally unstable brother, Isaac. Things fall apart and fifteen years later, your daughter calls Les for help when you're in a coma and she's trying to figure out how to stay out of foster care. Les is faced with figuring out if you daughter is his or possibly Isaac's. Either way, he can't walk away for a second time from you and your daughter.

Part I

Part II

Part III

[the-hinky-panda]

Strings: Part II

Title: Strings

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Les Packer x Fem! Reader

Summary: You and Les had been high school sweethearts. You're going to be a music teacher, he's going to climb the ranks of the SAMDINO MC. The only thing that stands in your way is his mentally unstable brother, Isaac. Things fall apart and fifteen years later, your daughter calls Les for help when you're in a coma and she's trying to figure out how to stay out of foster care. Les is faced with figuring out if you daughter is his or possibly Isaac's. Either way, he can't walk away for a second time from you and your daughter.

TW: This chapter has a mention of rape.

Les Packer is a tough son of a bitch and there is very little that surprises or unnerves him. Seeing you lying in a hospital bed, tubes and IVs and monitors surround you makes his heart race and his palms sweat. The constant beeping of your heartbeat, the whoosh of the ventilator, the ticking of your brain waves are all hopeful signs that you’ll survive this but the constant noise grates at his nerves. Your coloring is off, your eyes closed, your hands are still. He remembers you always being so animated, bright, and full of life. You didn’t stay still for longer than necessary.

You’re almost unrecognizable. 

Almost. 

Zoey goes through the routine of setting down her backpack in one of the pastel vinyl chairs in the room, opening the blinds, and putting fresh water in a plastic vase of drooping roses. She picks up the dropped petals and drops them into the small trash can in the bathroom. The routine has come so naturally to her, she seems to forget that he’s even in the room at the moment. It’s when she turns from the trash can that she seems to finally notice him. 

“When was the last time you saw her?” 

Les smooths a hand over the soft leather of his kutte, wishing he could touch you. But it’s been so long, too much damage hangs between the two of you. Damage he had hoped one day to fix but it seems time may have run out. “It’s been sixteen years.” 

Your hair has been braided, the thick rope draped over the side of your bruised neck and shoulder. Zoey carefully undoes the plait and gently brushes your hair. There’s no movement from you whatsoever, no flicker of eye movement, tic of your cheek. He steps up to the other side of the bed and slips his hand into yours. His fingertips brush over yours, looking for the familiar callouses he had come to love feeling against his skin. But they’re not there anymore. Another thing lost. 

Zoey turns those blue-green eyes towards him, studying his face with a shrewd intelligence, as she rebraids your hair. She almost looks like Isaac in her intensity, her planning and scheming. “She told me my father died before I was born.” 

It’s almost a challenge but more of a question. He wonders if she went home last night and recognized her eyes in the mirror, that she saw the similarities that he did. That she has the same questions he does: who is her father? There’s only one person who can answer that and you may never be able to solve that mystery for them. 

He understands, with almost a sad resignation, why you would have said that and it only seems to confirm his suspicions. He stays quiet, neither confirming or denying anything. He had been hopeful last night when he had returned home that Zoey had been his own child, born out of passion, love, and joy. Instead, evidence is pointing to his unstable brother and his off the charts intelligence. This struggle brings back another time with stunning clarity when he struggled with the idea of Zoey being his daughter or his niece. 

He’d been standing in front of your door for ten minutes, squeezing and twisting the soft stuffed rabbit in his hand. This was the third time he’s ridden down to Santee, a suburb of San Diego that was dilapidated and falling down. He wished you would get a better lock on your door, carry mace or a knife on your person. But he did see how the community treats you and it’s with nothing but kindness. 

Especially now that the baby was born. 

A little girl with your dark hair and bright blue eyes. She’s beautiful and fierce. And he wants nothing more than to protect you both. But he can’t. That night at the clubhouse, in the middle of the chaos of celebration with a group of Sons from Seattle, proved he couldn’t protect you. That’s why he didn’t blame you for leaving him and San Bernardino. You deserved so much better, as does the little girl you’ve been gifted. 

He took an envelope out of his back pocket. It had a note, words filled with regret, bitterness, and a need for forgiveness, that he had spent hours writing. It also had $500 in it, a pitiful amount to help as best he can with this burden you’ve taken on yourself. He wanted you to know he realized just how much he failed you. How he failed your child. How desperate he was to make it up to you both, if it was at all possible. But then he recalls that night with razor sharp clarity:  you in the dim light of the clubhouse, holding your ripped blouse closed, a dark navy shirt with bright yellow lemons on it. It’s a sunny, happy shirt that you only wear on special occasions. There was a thin rivulet of blood running from your nose, some of it already smeared as you had tried to wipe it away. Your eyes, dark ringed with smudged mascara, downcast and tear filled as you slipped out the backdoor. 

He removed the note from the envelope. He didn’t deserve forgiveness for that. Not yet at least. When he trades in his Sergeant at Arms flash for the Vice President, and then the President’s flash, when he officially takes Isaac’s kutte from him and banishes him for good from the club and San Bernardino, then he can come ask for your forgiveness. Until that happens, he has no right to invade your life.  So he set down the stuffed rabbit with the envelope of money in front of your door and left. 

“Mr. Packer?”

“Les.” He chuckles. “Well, when CPS comes around, better call me Uncle Les.” 

Zoey finishes off your braid and ties the end, a small smile on her face. “Uncle Les. I like that.” 

He likes Uncle Les. 

He would prefer Dad.

[words-and-seeds]

I am like immediately invested in this. 👀👀👀

We just roll around beneath these sheets

Les Packer pretty please!!

Les can't get enough of you, the way you feel in his sheets as he makes love to you, the waning afternoon light filtering though the wooden blinds as he kisses you as if his life depends on it, as if yours does to.

Your eyes are on his, your fingers threading in his hair as your back arches meeting his thrusts. You're close, he can feel it in the way you tighten around his cock, your fingertips digging into his tattoos on his shoulders, that pretty flush creeping cross your cheeks.

When you come, he comes with you spilling his release deep inside as your thighs grip his waist drawing him in all the way to the hilt.

In the aftermath he holds you close, his thumb sweeping over the ridged scarring of the brand that has been seared into your skin.

He remembers the first time he saw you, walking into the general store in that sundress, the edges of the brand peeking out across the flat of your shoulders.

"She's one of those Fallen Star girls." Timbers had said to him. "That cult on the outskirts of the forest."

"You mean the hippies?" He'd replyed pulling on his leather gloves.

"Man, you haven't been around long enough to know the shit that they get up to." Timbers tells him.

He knows now, he knows that they don't value their women, that they treat them like a commodity. He knows that they brand them, try to cow them, treat them like livestock. You've been with the cult five years due to your father but they still haven't broken your spirit.

"You can't go back there." He whispers as his fingertips trace across your cheek. "I can't take this anymore. I can't stand the thought of them hurting you."

"They'll come for me if I stay." You say as he trails over the star blazed into your shoulder. "You know they'll kill us both."

[the-hinky-panda]

Hinky’s Masterlist

Minors DNI: The content on this blog is intended for adults (18+). By following or engaging with this content, you are agreeing that you are 18 or older. Do not interact if you are not 18 or over.

Ask: I love analyzing character, plot, storytelling methods, so if you ever want to talk about those things, please don’t hesitate to reach out to me! I also love hearing other people’s ideas so please, share those as well!

A03: Here is the link to my AO3 account. I have a lot of stories with OCs there if you like reading those. I’ve just started getting into writing the Reader stories.

Tag List: Sign up for your favorite characters here! 

Fic Fests:

October 2022 Fic Fest

**All stories are Fem!Reader and are explicit 

Dustland Fairytale - Complete

Mariposa - Complete

Pura Vida (An Alternate Ending to Mariposa) - Complete

Los Regalos - Ongoing series

La Chaparrita - Ongoing Series

After We Fall - Ongoing Series

By Land, Sea, and Air - Ongoing Series

How To… - Ongoing Series

The IT Series - Ongoing Series

The Penny Series - Ongoing Series

The Tremont Tempest - Ongoing Series

The Dog - Ongoing Series

The Lens - Ongoing Series

Sacrifice - Complete

Oneshots for Sacrifice:

Otherworldly

Ghastly

La Finca - Ongoing Series

Eldritch - Complete

The Florist - Complete

The Community Universe (in collaboration with @bullet-prooflove​)

The Medic Series (Coco Cruz x OFC! Morgan Fox)

The Preacher’s Wife Series (Hank Loza x OFC! Maggie Fox)

The Gin Blossom Series (Gilly Lopez x Reader)

Stand Alones: 

Vanishing Act (Kevin Jimenez x Fem!Reader)

Dog Days are Over (Chibs Telford x Fem!Reader)

Strings (Les Packer x Fem!Reader)

The Drowning Kind (Sean Renard x Fem!Reader)

The Seasons Series: 

The Fall Series (Porthos x OFC Reader)

The Winter Series (Aramis x OFC Reader)

The Spring Series (Athos x OFC Reader)

The Summer Series (Treville x OFC Reader)

Boss Mare Series (Jamie Dutton x OFC reader)

The Hare (Richard “Ritchie” Jerimovich x OFC reader)

Out of the Woods (Mitch Keller x OFC!Reader)

June Bug (Goodie Carangi x OFC!Reader)

Forged (Bill Bevilaqua x OFC!Reader)

War of the Roses (Bill Bevilaqua xOFC!Reader)

Vice (Armand Truisi x OFC!Reader)

[the-hinky-panda]

WIP Game

Thank you for the tag @bullet-prooflove! You are responsible for the mess that is my WIP.

Rules: reveal the titles of the documents in your WIP folder and tag as many people as there are documents. Let others ask questions about the ones that interest them and post snippets or explain the contents as you see fit! (one of the rules was also to tag as many people as there are wips but my wip folder is too big to play that lmaoooo) - I second this - Mine is wayyyyy too big

WIP List:

Salvation: (this is an AU, alternate ending to Heroes) Les Packer x OFC! Morgan Fox

The Gin Blossom: Gilly Lopez x Fem!Reader

Heroes: Coco Cruz x OFC! Morgan Fox, Angel Reyes x OFC!Morgan Fox

The Preacher's Wife: Hank Loza x OFC! Maggie Fox

Dog Days Are Gone: Chibs Telford x Fem!Reader

Something Witchy: John Doggett x Fem!Reader

Tremont Tempest: Mike Duarte x Fem!Reader

The Dog: Mike Duarte x Fem!Reader

And I think that's enough for now...and I'm going to tag the wonderful and talented @seltsamkind cause I know they have some fantastic ideas for fics, @drabbles-mc (but they may have done this already but I love their stuff!), @tropes-and-tales because they're amazing as well. And @the-ginger-hedge-witch because she always has something amazing in the works.

[the-hinky-panda]

There’s more!! Look at her, out there saving people and being all bad ass. I love her! I love Les! I love them together! Obsessed with this series. Obsessed I say!

Wife Number Nine: Young!Les Packer x Reader

Part of the Young!LesPacker Fallen Star Series

Companion piece to Stolen Kisses & Sheets

Tagging: @kishie8 @aaa111aaa222 @oureternalbond @kirisimpster @words-and-seeds @thump31 @thandesa91 @lifeis-tooshort @anime-weeb-4-life @genius2050

It’s past midnight when you turn up at Les’s door with a thirteen-year-old beauty queen and a Colt 44 that’s still warm to the touch.

“Molly?” he questions when his eyes land on the young girl clad in a thin white nightdress that leaves little to the imagination with a man’s denim jacket thrown over her shoulders.

The last thing he expects is to see Timber’s daughter under your care. He’s spent days putting up missing person’s posters, shaking down every low life in town and putting the fear of God into anyone who’s ever laid hands on a child. He’d never thought…

He knew the cult were fucked up, but it hadn’t even crossed his mind because she was so fucking young. He thinks of you back then, sixteen and already a bride. He realises he should have known; he knew Fallen Star are dangerous, he’s seen the scars across your skin…

“Wife number nine.” You say quietly as you set the gun down on the sideboard and gently guide Molly into his home.  “They took her when she was on the way back from the library. Her backpack’s still there…”

Molly finally tilts her head up towards him, her eyes are dull and glassy. Her pupils are pinpricks drowned out by the hues of her iris, there’s no recognition in them despite the fact he’s been present in her life for a couple of years by now.

“It’s the drugs.” You explain as you settle Molly on the couch, she lays down on her side and closes her eyes as you drape the tartan blanket that his mother had given him over her lithe frame. “It’s supposed to make the first time easier…”

He can tell from the tone of your voice that it doesn’t.

The two of you move into the kitchen, you close the door over behind you, leaving a gap so that you can keep an eye on Molly.

“Did he…” Les can’t bring himself to say it.

You shake your head.

“I didn’t let it get that far.” You tell him as you lean against the kitchen counter your arms crossed over your chest. He can read you like a book; he knows what it means when you withdraw like this, he knows that if you drew up the sleeves of that white peasant blouse that he’d see the bruises. He knows why Molly remains untouched. His jaw tightens at the thought, and he wishes you had never had to make that choice.

“I need to call Timber.” He says, his hand rubbing over the back of his neck. “When he finds out where she’s been…”

You both know what’s about to happen. As soon as the MC learns about what happened, they’re going to wipe Fallen Star off the face of the earth. Anybody who was complicit in the kidnapping is going to end up buried.

“If you want to get someone out, now’s the time to do it.” He tells you as his hand rests upon avocado rotary phone.

You both know that he’s talking about your father, the man who traded you to the sixty year old man, who became your husband so that he could take his place as one of the elders. The man who’s going to beat you bloody, who’s going to kill you when he finds you’ve left the leader of Fallen Star naked and dead in the middle of his bedroom with a hole the size of your fist in his chest.

“No.” You say resolutely. “He knew what they were doing when they took her, he knew how old she was, that she was just a little girl…”

You trail off as you feel the weight of it all starting to collapse in on you, it builds up in your chest and you blink rapidly but you hold it together because this isn’t about you. This is about Molly, about making sure she stays safe, because you are sure as shit know they will try to get her back, even with Ben dead. She’ll be forced to marry the next man, bear his children, it’s a cycle that won’t ever end, not unless someone makes it.

“Do it.” You tell Les. “Make the call.”

Love Les? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[ficnation]

AHHHHHHHHHH SO FUCKING HOT!!!!

let me take it off for you.

For Mr. Les Packer, pretty please!

Les whispers against your skin as you struggle undoing the buttons on the white dress you're wearing. His thumb ghosts along the line of your jaw as you look up at him with those pretty eyes of yours.

His deft fingers undo each of the buttons, loosening the fabric until it slips from your shoulders and into a heap at your feet.

You practically virginal, a simple white bra that shows the darkness of your nipples and thin cotton panties with a damp patch spreading between your legs.

Fuck, he thinks, his mouth going dry at the sight. He drops to his knees and presses his face into the juncture, inhaling the sweet scent of your arousal.

"Has anyone ever..." he trails off as you shake your head.

It takes everything in him to slow things down, to stop himself from utterly devouring you. His lips ghost over your clit, as his fingertips chase along the back of your thigh.

"Can I?"

[words-and-seeds]

I love this, I love that he gives her back to identity. I’m such a slut for Les Packer, especially the way you write him.

Say my name

for Les Packer

You whisper at the pinnacle of release. "My real one."

His grip tightens on your hips and he slows his motions, he looking into your eyes and he breathes it.

When your father had joined the cult you had been reborn and the name they had given you was Aurora. You fucking hated it.

Les is the only person who calls you by your real name, the only one who knows who you really are.

He says it again and you come for him, the orgasm tearing through your synapses as he drinks down your pleasure with a thousand greedy kisses.

"You'll never be Aurora to me," he tells you in the aftermath. "You'll always be who you are right now."

***Part of the Fallen Star Universe - Young! LES Packer ***

[the-hinky-panda]

I’m hyperventilating! I fucking love this so so much! I can’t even type properly at the moment! I want more more more of this! Like 50k more words!!! More young Les! More cult!reader who needs to be saved! Please please please, I am begging you!

We just roll around beneath these sheets

Les Packer pretty please!!

Les can't get enough of you, the way you feel in his sheets as he makes love to you, the waning afternoon light filtering though the wooden blinds as he kisses you as if his life depends on it, as if yours does to.

Your eyes are on his, your fingers threading in his hair as your back arches meeting his thrusts. You're close, he can feel it in the way you tighten around his cock, your fingertips digging into his tattoos on his shoulders, that pretty flush creeping cross your cheeks.

When you come, he comes with you spilling his release deep inside as your thighs grip his waist drawing him in all the way to the hilt.

In the aftermath he holds you close, his thumb sweeping over the ridged scarring of the brand that has been seared into your skin.

He remembers the first time he saw you, walking into the general store in that sundress, the edges of the brand peeking out across the flat of your shoulders.

"She's one of those Fallen Star girls." Timbers had said to him. "That cult on the outskirts of the forest."

"You mean the hippies?" He'd replyed pulling on his leather gloves.

"Man, you haven't been around long enough to know the shit that they get up to." Timbers tells him.

He knows now, he knows that they don't value their women, that they treat them like a commodity. He knows that they brand them, try to cow them, treat them like livestock. You've been with the cult five years due to your father but they still haven't broken your spirit.

"You can't go back there." He whispers as his fingertips trace across your cheek. "I can't take this anymore. I can't stand the thought of them hurting you."

"They'll come for me if I stay." You say as he trails over the star blazed into your shoulder. "You know they'll kill us both."

[words-and-seeds]

Oh, I cannot wait to see where this goes.

Strings: Part I

Title: Strings

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Les Packer x Fem! Reader

Summary: You and Les had been high school sweethearts. You're going to be a music teacher, he's going to climb the ranks of the SAMDINO MC. The only thing that stands in your way is his mentally unstable brother, Isaac. Things fall apart and fifteen years later, your daughter calls Les for help when you're in a coma and she's trying to figure out how to stay out of foster care. Les is faced with figuring out if you daughter is his or possibly Isaac's. Either way, he can't walk away for a second time from you and your daughter.

She looks like you, that’s the first thing that strikes Les. 

Her posture, straight and tense, the waves of hair falling over her shoulders, the serious set of her mouth. It isn’t until he enters the small diner and approaches the table that he realizes her nose and eyes are not like yours at all. 

They’re a Packer’s. 

The eye color is a mix, blue and green, like an unsettled sea. But the shape is most definitely Packer. 

“Zoey, I presume?” As if she could be anyone else. 

She nods once, those eerie eyes studying his face. “Mr. Packer.” 

He hears one of his guys snort from a couple booths over. Hoosier from the sound of it. He wasn’t sure if this was a set up or not so back up was a must. Now, he’s regretting that decision. With a heavy sigh, he slips into the booth across from her. He doesn’t know if she knows anything about him, or Isaac. What you told her about her father. He doesn’t have enough information going into this meeting so he does what he always does in these situations: get the other person to talk. 

“Alright, say what you have to say.” 

She reaches under the table and pulls out a stack of slightly yellowed envelopes, all tied neatly together with a fraying blue ribbon. “My mom told me where to find these letters, in case anything happened to her.” She pushes them with shaking hands across the scratched formica towards him. “There’s not too many Les Packers in California. I just assumed…” 

He recognizes the ribbon, remembers when he gave it to you, and fights the urge to reach out and touch it. He had used it to tie the stems of wildflowers together in a poor excuse of a bouquet when he had asked you out to some music in the park festival in Redlands. The next day, after the wildflowers had been arranged in a canning jar with water, you used the ribbon to tie your hair back away from your face while you played the guitar on a dilapidated back porch. He can still remember what the curve of your cheek felt like under his fingers, soft as the satin of the ribbon. 

He clears his throat. “So something has happened to your mother?” 

Zoey nods. “Yeah.” 

“Is she…” even after sixteen years of distance, he still can’t bring himself to finish the sentence. 

“No, but it’s bad. She’s in a coma.” 

“For how long?” 

“Six days today.” Zoey folds her hands in front of her and Les sees the ring on her middle finger. A small sterling silver band with a teardrop piece of turquoise. 

“Your mama give you that ring?” 

“No,” she turns it around her finger nervously. “I found it with the letters. In a safety deposit box. Do you want it-” 

It’s a cheap thing he bought from a street vendor in San Diego. You had loved it, the colored veins in the blue rock. You had called it a piece of art and he handed over a twenty dollar bill for the treasure. He shakes his head. “Nah. Tell me what happened to your mom.” 

“She was in an accident. On her motorcycle. She was coming back from a music recital at the middle school when a drunk driver clipped her. The police said she skidded across the road and h…h…hit a tree.” 

That’s a nasty type of accident and it sounds like a miracle that you’re just in a coma and not dead. “Do you think that’s what really happened?” 

Zoey’s entire face clouds over, tears gathering quickly in her eyes. “Yeah. The police arrested the guy.” 

“So what am I here for?” 

She pulls out another envelope, thick and wrinkled. “Here. It’s not a lot, about $560 but it’s all I have.” 

He glances in the envelope and finds mostly $10s and $5s. “Where did you get this money?” 

She fiddles with the fraying end of a braided bracelet around her wrist. “I’ve always saved up money. It’s just my mom and me. Some months are harder to pay the bills than others so I save up what I can to help when that happens.” 

Les closes the envelope and sets it down on the table between them. It pains him to no end to hear that you’ve had to struggle financially because of him. Because of Isaac. And what little bit he had tried to do for you, to help ease that burden, wasn’t enough. “How old are you?” 

“Fifteen.” 

He nods in understanding. “CPS is starting to snoop around.” 

Zoey uses a shaky hand to wipe away her tears. “Yeah. They’re talking about putting me in a foster home. I overheard the lady tell the doctor that they need to get me in placement as soon as possible for when my mom…” She chokes down a sob. “My best friend in school is in a foster home. She says it’s terrible. She sleeps on the floor, has to take care of the younger kids and work a part time job. And the father…” 

God, what is wrong with the world? Like he needed that confirmation to make his decision. He slides the money back over to her, along with the letters. Her face falls, thinking he’s going to say no. He’s failed in protecting you and your daughter. He’s not about to let that mistake continue. He’s stayed on the sidelines for far too long. 

“What hospital is your mama in?”

[words-and-seeds]

Ma’am, how do you make such a sensual, evocative scene using like five paragraphs? Leave some talent for the rest of us, please.

let me take it off for you.

For Mr. Les Packer, pretty please!

Les whispers against your skin as you struggle undoing the buttons on the white dress you're wearing. His thumb ghosts along the line of your jaw as you look up at him with those pretty eyes of yours.

His deft fingers undo each of the buttons, loosening the fabric until it slips from your shoulders and into a heap at your feet.

You practically virginal, a simple white bra that shows the darkness of your nipples and thin cotton panties with a damp patch spreading between your legs.

Fuck, he thinks, his mouth going dry at the sight. He drops to his knees and presses his face into the juncture, inhaling the sweet scent of your arousal.

"Has anyone ever..." he trails off as you shake your head.

It takes everything in him to slow things down, to stop himself from utterly devouring you. His lips ghost over your clit, as his fingertips chase along the back of your thigh.

"Can I?"

[words-and-seeds]

Les seems so in love with her, but it’s hard to see where she stands. Understandably, she’s got some walls built up due to the life she leads. It can’t be easy to be torn in two, metaphorically.

I am thoroughly in love with this this series, just so you know. Knowing your penchant for angst, I’m a little worried about how it’s going to end, but I know I’m going to enjoy it either way.

Say my name

for Les Packer

You whisper at the pinnacle of release. "My real one."

His grip tightens on your hips and he slows his motions, he looking into your eyes and he breathes it.

When your father had joined the cult you had been reborn and the name they had given you was Aurora. You fucking hated it.

Les is the only person who calls you by your real name, the only one who knows who you really are.

He says it again and you come for him, the orgasm tearing through your synapses as he drinks down your pleasure with a thousand greedy kisses.

"You'll never be Aurora to me," he tells you in the aftermath. "You'll always be who you are right now."

***Part of the Fallen Star Universe - Young! LES Packer ***