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.
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.”
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."
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.”
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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.
Sweet Girl: Les Packer x Reader (NSFW) - Mini Drabble
It’s dizzying, a rush of ecstasy flushing through your synapses as Les pins your hips to the mattress, his tongue flicking over your clit in slow delectable strokes. His fingers tease over your entrance, fingertips trailing through your wetness.
You can’t move, your wrists are bound above your head keeping you fixed in place as he allows his middle finger to slip inside. He’s methodical, he takes you apart with at his own pace until you’re trembling, needy, desperate.
You beg, you can’t help it. You’re on the cusp, your climax just out of reach as he sucks just lightly on your clit. It’s that final thrust of his fingers that has you hurtling over the edge. It’s powerful, the eruption of euphoria consuming you as it tears through your nerve endings like a fucking starburst. You can’t think, you can’t breathe, you can only feel as Les fucks you through it , leaving you overwrought and sensitive.
He removes his fingers, his tongue delving lower instead, licking up the mess you’ve made of yourself and his sheets. You whine, the overstimulation too much but his rough palms grip your thighs and hold them open as his bright blue eyes focus on yours.
“Legs open sweet girl.” He demands, his lips brushing over your clit. “I’m not finished with you yet.”
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