#Les Packer x reader

[bullet-prooflove]

SOA Masterlist

Alexander 'Tig' Trager Masterlist

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Les Packer Masterlist

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[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?”

[tropes-and-tales]

El Presidente y La Princesa

Day 28 - Huddle for Warmth || Warm bodies, steady breaths, and comforting feelings.   (Bishop Losa x F!Reader)

(For the 2021 December Challenge.  The event masterlist is here.)  

CW:  So many!  Angst, fluff.  Mentions of violence.  Mentions of drug usage.  Death.  Mentions of attempted sexual assault.  Language, smoking.  Smut (PiV, protected).  18+ only.

Word Count:  8423

AN:  This is what happens when insomnia rears its ugly head.  This got way out of control.  It was supposed to be a drabble.  It’s also riddled with typos, and I don’t have beta readers so....

Requested by: the soon-to-be-hit-with-a-class-action-lawsuit for her Bishop Thots (tm), the lovely @massivecolorspygiant.

Politics in any M.C. is a tricky proposition.  It’s complicated enough, handling the various personalities in a single charter.  More complicated to navigate the various charters within a single club.  The worst?  Managing relations between clubs, especially those whose borders bump up against each other.

Obispo Losa has to deal with a lot of shit as el presidente of the Santo Padre Mayans.   Helping a woman linked to a Sons of Anarchy club get revenge?  It is the last thing he is expecting to deal with when he rolls out of bed that morning.

It’s Les Packer from SAMDINO that calls.  Gives Bishop the entire rundown before the man even has his coffee, and so he’s pissed when he gets to the scrapyard.  He calls the guys into Templo, and a headache is already building like a low pressure storm in his skull.

Thing is, this isn’t just Anarchy business:  it’s Mayans business too.  It’s that sticky, shadowy middle area between the two clubs.  Bishop puts it to a vote, but he already knows he’s gonna do it, with or without official club support.

The play is this:  the Reno branch of the Sons is led by a man named Hench.  His only daughter—you—is on a fucking warpath, and apparently you’re both unstoppable and untouchable, being something of M.C. royalty within that club.  Packer is hazy on the details, but apparently you are looking for a man from Santo Padre.

Scratch that.  You’re looking for a man who was a prospect for the Mayans from a few years back.  The man was named Ruiz, and he had failed to patch in almost immediately; he had been unreliable and was moreover a fucking idiot.  Bishop pinches his nose and wonders why he hadn’t just killed the fucker back then.

His guys vote unanimously to help.  It’s diplomatic relations, staying friendly with the Sons of Anarchy.  Besides, Packer vouches for you, and SAMDINO has helped the Mayans more than once.  Bishop owes them one—or ten.

“Great news,” Packer tells him when Bishop calls and offers their help.  “I’ll let Hench know to send his girl your way.”

-----

Bishop waits at the scrapyard for you.  Hank, Riz, and Angel wait with him, and even though it’s been a few days between now and the meeting in Templo, Bishop’s headache has never really waned.

He only knows two things about you:  you’re Sons royalty, and you’re bent on revenge.  The first fact makes him roll his eyes.  He can imagine you as spoiled, the only daughter of a chapter president and his old lady, getting all these M.C. guys to rearrange their lives to help you.  The second fact, though?  What could drive a woman to hunt a man other than a few things?  Bishop assumes the worst, so he softens his initial preconceived notions about you.

The rest of those notions fall away the moment you pull into the scrapyard.  Chucky opens the gate and waves you through, and if Bishop was expecting a pampered princess in a nice ass car….well, it’s the first surprise of this entire enterprise.  You pull in on a bike—an old-looking one with a motor like a tiger purring—and the only luggage you have is the saddlebags on the bike and a backpack on your back.

You pull right up to them, park the bike.  Kill the ignition and when you take off your helmet, your hair tumbles out like you’re in one of those fucking music videos from the ‘80s.  It’s one of the hottest things Bishop’s ever seen—you on that bike, hair cascading out in slow motion, gorgeous as all hell—and he draws a sharp breath.

So does Riz.  So does Angel.

You dismount your bike, tug off your gloves, and your eyes flicker between the four men.  You read their patches, and your eyes settle on Bishop.  It’s a fucking jolt to his dick, making eye contact with you, but you’re all business.

“My Spanish is shitty, el presidente” you tell him, your hand outstretched.  “But I’m guessing you’re the president here.”  You introduce yourself, and your palm is warm in his.

“Obispo Losa,” he replies.  “You can call me Bishop though.”

If he was expecting a spoiled princess, he is sorely disappointed.  You’re polite.  You introduce yourself to the others with the same straightforward manner, and then you’re back to business.

“Can we go inside and discuss the play?” you ask, and it takes every bit of Bishop’s restraint to not put his hand on your back as he leads you inside the clubhouse.

-----

Bishop can’t provide all of the resources of the club, and you understand.  You nod along when he circuitously describes “on-going business” that can’t be neglected.  But he offers Coco and Angel, and now that he’s seen you, he offers himself.  He amends the original plan, because he doesn’t want fucking Riz cozying up to you.  

He’s the damned president.  He can run business from his phone if he needs to.

“That’s more help than I expected,” you say.  “But I appreciate it.”

Angel and Coco do reconnaissance while you and Bishop cool your heels at the clubhouse.  You pace, and you study the clubhouse walls.  You turn down his offer for a beer, and you go outside to smoke even though the clubhouse reeks of old cigarettes.  He joins you.

You’re solemn as a stone, and while you’re polite, you don’t smile.  You present the same grim face as you had when you arrived.  You take a new pack out of your pocket and light a cigarette, and then you turn to Bishop with a grimace as you exhale a plume of smoke.

“Just undid a year of cold turkey,” you tell him.

“You can always start again tomorrow.”  He lights his own, inhales.  “A year is about three hundred days longer than I’ve ever gotten.”

You snort at that and then sit on the steps.  When Bishop hesitates, you gesture for him to join you.

Normally Bishop would charm you.  He’s got a killer smile and dimples and all the charismatic shit that women eat up.  But you’re a daughter of a president, and you’re stone-faced and solemn with the task at hand.  Bishop has an unpleasant guess as to why you’re hunting Ruiz, and he is loathe to bring it up yet.

“That’s a nice bike,” he says instead.  He points at where you’ve wheeled your ride, right beside his.

“Yeah?”  You stand up, jerk your head in a “come on” way.  He stands up too, and you walk over to where your bike is parked.

“1923 Indian Scout,” you tell him, and the pride is apparent in your voice.  

Bishop tosses his half-smoked cigarette and grinds it out with his heel, then he studies the motorcycle closer.  It’s a deep cherry red and chrome.  Not mint after nearly a hundred years, but well-maintained.  Well-loved.  Well-loved by you.

It’s simply made compared to his giant custom bike.  Lightweight.  Looks like the clutch is foot-operated, and the numbers on the speedometer are ornate in an old-timey script.

“Indian started making these because they were lighter than their 1000cc PowerPlus bikes.  This is 600cc.  Easy to handle for beginners.  My great-grandfather bought it for my great-grandmother so they could ride together.”

Bishop smiles.  “A family heirloom then.  Riding’s in your blood.”

You nod, smile back.  “Before motorcycles, we were ranchers.  Horses, bikes.  It was a natural evolution.”

His phone rings just then, and it’s Coco.  Ruiz has split from the apartment where he was squatting, so they are on their way back to the clubhouse to regroup.

-----

The day is a waste.  You leave to get a hotel room, and you leave your number with Bishop in case anything develops before you regroup in the morning.

Something develops overnight, and he calls you.  You answer on the second ring, your voice husky with sleep.  Within seconds, you’re clear and understanding him and on your way back to the clubhouse.

-----

Day breaks early, and you and Bishop leave just as the sun is setting the east alight in soft oranges and pinks.

You leave your bikes behind.  You grab your backpack and twist your hair into a tight, no-nonsense bun and nod at him that you’re ready.  The two of you take a non-descript car from the scrapyard, but halfway to your destination, Bishop pulls over.

“I can’t let you see where we’re going,” he says apologetically.  “It involves club business, you understand.”

You do.  You understand the secrets and mysteries of M.C. life all too well, and you don’t say a word when he reaches over to blindfold you.  It sends another pulse of arousal through him, to be so close to you.  To lean that close, to brush his hand over your hair as he ties the blindfold.  You smell warm, like caramel and brown sugar, and he swallows hard.

Maybe you sense his growing desire for you.  The insane crush threaded through with lust.  Your lips slant into a slight smile and you murmur, “most guys at least buy me dinner before we get to the kinky shit.”

He chuckles and grins back at you, though you can’t see it.  “I’ll take you out for a nice steak after this is over,” he promises.  “Do it out of order, I guess.”

He drives the rest of the way to Vicky’s, and then he helps you out of the car.  You’re unsteady and uncertain on your feet, and he takes your hands.  Helps you down the ladder into the tunnel under the border, and he settles his hands on your waist to help you hop that final step.  

Still, you stumble, unsure of the distance to the ground, and he holds you.  You lay your hands on his chest to steady yourself, and then huff in frustration.

“Almost there, querida,” he murmurs, and he leads you into Mexico.

-----

On the other side of the border, he removes your blindfold.  You blink at the sudden light, take in the scene.  Bishop points at the dusty truck parked nearby, and the two of you climb into it.  

They got intel during the night:  Ruiz is hiding west of Laguna Salada, in the rocky outcropping and little mountains there.  There’s some family land, a shack hidden away in the hostile environment.  He apparently fled there when he heard that you were looking for him.

You find the shack.  You don’t find Ruiz.  Judging from the lack of tire tracks and the layers of dust in the place, he never was there at all.

Back to the tunnel entrance.  Blindfolded again, and back to the States.  Bishop can hear you grinding your teeth in rage, so he circles around in the car for a mile and then returns to Vicky’s.  Takes the blindfold off of you and takes you in for a beer.

A lot of women would be outraged to have a drink at a brothel.  You are just your polite self—shaking Vicky’s hand, introducing yourself to the few girls milling around.  

Then you turn to Bishop with that same slanted grin.  You don’t say anything, but you’re obviously thinking something amusing.

-----

Over a few beers, you open up a little about your life with the Reno charter.

“Hench is a good president,” you say as you raise your bottle to your lips.  “Fair.  Tries to keep drama to a minimum.”

“All good presidents should do that.”

You shrug.  “All should.  Not all do.  Some guys make it to the top of a charter just to live out their macho bullshit fantasies of guns and women.”

Bishop chuckles.  He’s seen it happen to other clubs.  “Yeah, I try to avoid unnecessary drama.”

You smile around the edge of your bottle.  “That why you’re helping me track a nobody prospect who flunked out of the Mayans?”

“That’s just good politicking, sweetheart,” he replies.  “Besides, I’m always down for a little revenge.”  A beat, and he asks what’s been tormenting him this whole time.  “What’d Ruiz do to you?”

You drain your bottle and wave for another, and you don’t start the story until you’re halfway through that one.

It’s pretty near to what Bishop had thought:  Ruiz tried to rape you.  There’s no easy way to say it, because that’s what it was.

“The Sons in Reno have a big blow-out party every June,” you tell Bishop.  “Anniversary of the founding of the charter and all that.  The clubhouse is out in the desert, and the cops look the other way so long as we keep it tame.”  You pause, smile at him.  “Tame for an M.C., at least.”

You continue, sketching out the scene.  Tons of food and booze, loud music.  A bonfire.  Bikes revving as guys compared the latest tweaks to their rides.  All the bikers and their old ladies, their adult children and girlfriends and buddies.  You were there, of course, as were your cousins.

“My cousin Jess is…”  You trail off, hold your hand out and make a see-sawing motion, indicating instability.  “Been in and out of rehab, hangs out with a questionable crowd.  She brought along a few guys that seemed grimy but okay, I guess.  One of them was Ruiz.”

The rest of the story is a slide into darkness, and Bishop clenches his jaw until it creaks from the pressure.  Ruiz, denied a patch by the Mayans, nurses a grudge against all clubs now.  You were wary of him—he creeped you out—but when Jess handed you a drink, you assumed it was safe.

“My own mistake,” you tell him, shaking your head.  “The drink was drugged.  My cousin was in on it, and they got me alone in the back of the clubhouse.  But I had a bad reaction to whatever they slipped me because I started throwing up, and once it was out of my system….”  You pause, polish off the rest of your second beer.  “Ruiz didn’t do anything other than rob me.  No time to do any real damage.  But he stole my purse and the jewelry I was wearing, and then he and my cousin and his guys left before one of the Sons found me and got Hench.”

“Fuck,” Bishop breathes out.

“Yeah.”  You sit back and look at him, your expression grim and resolute again.

“Why isn’t Hench handling this though?” he asks.

You lean forward again and fix Bishop with those solemn eyes of yours.  “He took care of Ruiz’s buddies and Jess.  They are handled.”  The way you say the last word, there’s no doubt what you mean.  “But he also knows that I need to get my own justice against Ruiz himself.”

Bishop nods and then gives you a small smile.  “I guess you’re not the type of woman to sit back and let the guys have all the fun.”

You return his smile with your own.  “You guessed right, Obispo.”

-----

It takes days to get solid intel on Ruiz.  Coco and Angel beat on doors, and sometimes they beat up people, but there’s no good lead at first.

“I’m taking up a lot of your time and resources,” you apologize to Bishop a few days after Vicky’s, but he chances to put his hand on your shoulder, squeezes it reassuringly.

“Ruiz was a Mayans prospect,” he tells you.  “So he’s our problem too.”

You stay in a nearby hotel, and you spend your days at the clubhouse.  You’re naturally restless, Bishop guesses.  He gives you a tour of the clubhouse, shows you Templo.  You whistle appreciatively at the table, his heavy gavel.

“You guys do it up with a little more style than our club,” you joke.

You chat with E.Z. when he’s cleaning or tuning up the bikes, and you ask all the guys endless questions about their bikes.  Your own bike is tucked away safely, but Bishop learns it’s not your only one.  You have five motorcycles altogether:  a small chopper that Hench got you when you graduated from high school, an all-purpose touring bike, a basic standard, and an ultra-fast Yamaha that’s earned you more speeding tickets than everything else combined.  

And your vintage Indian.  It means something, Bishop guesses, that you came on that and not a faster or more powerful bike.

Bishop eats dinner with you every night.  Sometimes he takes you out to local places, but just as often he orders in and the two of you eat at the clubhouse.  Over the days, you and he get to know each other better.  He tells you about growing up near the Salton Sea, being in the service.  

You tell him about life in Reno.  Hench is your stepfather, technically, but he’s the only father you’ve ever known.  Your mother died from cancer when you were in middle school, and the man never once treated you as anything less than blood.

Bishop admits, after a few drinks, that he thought you’d be more spoiled.  More precious or fussy.  

“Thought you’d be a real princess,” he remarks, and it makes you laugh for the first time since he’s met you.  Your laugh is deeper than your voice, rougher.  Smoky in a way that curls around the base of his spine and makes that spark of lust light up in him.

“How do you know I’m not just on my best behavior?” you tease.  “Maybe I’m a complete bitch once I’m comfortable with people.”

“I doubt it, princesa,” and that’s what he calls you going forward, even when it earns him a playful frown and a little growl in the back of your throat.

-----

A week into the entire operation, Coco gets a lead that proves good.  Ruiz has a place, his home base, in the nothingness that stretches between Joshua Tree and Mohave, but it’s not a needle in the haystack that it may seem to be.  Ruiz has done a lot of damage over the past few years, and a friend of his—who Ruiz frauded—rats out the man in exchange for an easy hundred.

You want to move immediately, so it’s just you and Bishop.  The club’s work for the Galindo cartel still needs to happen, so Bishop leaves Hank in charge of the Vegas delivery so that he can help you.

You and Bishop leave in the scrapyard’s truck.  Just before you climb in, you stride over to your bike and pull a wicked looking knife from your saddlebag, and you slide it into your boot before straightening up and looking him dead in the eye.  

That’s the problem with you, Bishop decides in that moment:  everything you do is the sexiest thing he’s ever seen.  Taking off your helmet.  Draining a longneck of beer.  Smoking a cigarette with a guilty expression.  Sliding a Bowie knife into your battered motorcycle boots and then glaring at him, as if daring him to comment on it.

“Let’s go, princesa,” is all he says, and you nod and climb into the truck.

-----

The closest landmark is Ludlow, so Bishop pulls off at a gas station to refuel.  You go inside to use the bathroom and to buy snacks, which makes Bishop smile when he sees the haul:  sour gummies and pretzels and beef jerky and soda.  But your face is solemn when you climb back into the truck.

This part of the world, there’s not a lot to see other than sand and scrub.  Bishop follows the GPS, turns off onto a narrow road about five miles past Ludlow, and the narrow road eventually cedes to little more than rutted tire tracks.

A quarter mile from Ruiz’s trailer, Bishop kills the engine.  

“We go the rest of the way on foot,” he says.

If this were Hollywood, there’d be a spectacular showdown.  Bishop would use the handgun he’s holding, you’d take the second pistol he hands you.  You’d surround the rusty trailer, taunt Ruiz, maybe land a debilitating shot before rushing inside and finishing him off.  

But this is real life, and real life often disappoints.  Ruiz is inside the trailer, but you’re too late to get revenge:  the man is dead on his couch, stretched out and clearly the victim of his own addiction.  His skin is a greyish color, and he must have been dead for over a day.

“Fuck!” you shout, and you turn to kick the cheap paneling of the wall.  Your boot goes through it, and your foot gets caught.  Bishop slides his gun back into his waistband and helps extricate you.

“I’m sorry—” he starts to tell you, but you jerk yourself out of his hold.  You storm past Ruiz’s body and disappear into the back of the trailer.  Bishop follows.

“It’s gotta be here,” you mumble, and Bishop watches as you toss the bedroom with the efficiency of a tornado.  “Jess said he kept it.”

“What are you looking for, princesa?”

You turn and glare at him, but Bishop knows the heat behind your expression isn’t for him.  You’ve been denied your revenge, given an anticlimactic moment in the desert.  The blade of that wicked knife tucked in your boot won’t get to taste any blood.  

But it isn’t just revenge after all.  You run your hand through your hair in frustration, tug against it as you look around the room.  “When Hench and the guys questioned my cousin, she said that Ruiz kept trophies.  That he’d use the cash and credit cards he stole from me, that he’d sell most of the jewelry, but that he’d keep a trophy.”

“So…”  Bishop isn’t quite tracking with what you’re saying.

“So I don’t give two shits about the cash, and I already cancelled the credit cards.  I found the pawn shop where he dumped most of the jewelry, and I found everything but the necklace.  Ergo, it’s here somewhere.”

“You’re looking for a n—”

“It has to be here.”  You stare back at Bishop, and for the first time since he’s met you, he sees an emotion that isn’t cool cunning or smirking sarcasm.  Your eyes shimmer with tears, and you swipe them angrily, as if you hate showing any weakness.

“Okay.  So let’s find it.  What’s it look like?”

You describe it, and you start to attack the room like a dervish again, so Bishop walks up to you.  He lays his hands on your upper arms and stills you.  Your anger radiates off of you like heat, and if he thinks you’re gorgeous any other time, you look luminous when you’re angry.  He wonders what it would be like to fight with you, get your blood boiling like it is now, then take you to bed.  He thinks, if you were his old lady, he might pick fights with you just to get you torqued up like this.

“Take a breath,” he tells you in his most official president-voice.  “We’ll find it if we do this smart.”

You take a deep breath and then another.  He breathes with you, the two of you matching your inhalations together.  He helps you steady yourself.  You nod at him and some of the tension leaves your frame, so he nods back at you.

The two of you take it inch by inch.  It takes an hour, which is just enough time for your simmering rage to rise back up in you, but Bishop eventually finds it.  Ruiz had a battered shoebox hidden away in a top cabinet in his kitchen, and Bishop pulls it down and sets it on the counter.  He opens it, sees what’s inside.  He calls you over.

You stand next to him, close enough that he can smell that warm caramel scent of you.  You look over his shoulder, brushing against him, and then you whistle low.

“Shit,” you say, taking in the contents of the box.  “That’s a lot of trophies.”

It is.  Ruiz had been a busy little monster, judging from the jumble of stuff in the box.  There’s driver’s licenses and photos.  There’s a set of keys, two saint’s medals, and a little resin statue of the Lady of Guadalupe.  There’s a tarnished silver hair clip, and a dried out flower like something a woman might have worn in her hair.

There’s also jewelry, probably stuff too insignificant to pawn.  Cheap charm bracelets and mood rings.  You dig through the stuff, and then you cry out in relief and hold up the necklace:  a thin silver chain with three silver charms—a sun, a moon, and a star.

“That’s the one?” Bishop asks, but he already knows.  You’re already putting it back on your neck, and any remaining tension melts away.

You don’t give Ruiz’s body a second glance as you march out of the trailer.  Justice came for him in the form of death, and judging by the number of trophies in that box, it was justice that was well deserved.

-----

It’s only when you’re halfway back to Santo Padre that you run into trouble.

The truck has a habit of overheating, but E.Z. was supposed to have fixed the thermostat issue.  On a lonely stretch of Route 62, the truck starts to sputter and the dashboard lights up with warning lights.  Bishop pulls over just before the truck stalls, and when he climbs out and pops the hood, a plume of white steam greets him.

It’s not a great situation.  He calls Hank, but nearly everyone is in Vegas making a run.  He tries to call Packer, but the call doesn’t go through.  The two of you are too far from Twentynine Palms to walk, and besides, the sun is setting.

People who’ve never been in the desert wouldn’t know, but it gets cold quickly once the sun goes down.

“Bad news, princesa,” Bishop tells you.  “Help is a ways away.”

You aren’t much of a princess, though.  You only grin at him in the deepening dusk and hold up your armful of snacks from the gas station.  

“Looks like we’re sheltering in place then,” you reply.  “Thank god I got provisions.”

The two of you eat.  It’s a feast of jerky and candy and pretzels, all washed down by atomic yellow Mountain Dew and dark colas.  There’s still a restless energy to you, but the solemn, serious rage you had been harboring is gone.  Ruiz, your would-be attacker and feckless thief, took himself out.  You retrieved what belonged to you.

“What is it about that necklace?” he asked in the darkness of the truck.  It’s not too cold yet, but the temperature is dropping noticeably now.

You turn on the bench seat, and he can feel your eyes on him.  “It was my mom’s,” you tell him quietly.  “Hench bought it for her when he proposed.  She was pregnant with me, and her fingers were too swollen for a ring at the time.”

Bishop gets the whole story there.  How your mother, when she got pregnant, was abandoned by your biological father.  How she met Hench soon after, and how she doubted his instant infatuation for her.

“She thought he’d skip out once she started to show,” you tell Bishop.  “But he was in it for keeps.  Kept telling her that he wanted to marry her, raise me as his own.  It was love at first sight for him, and she just couldn’t believe that this tough fucking biker could be such a softy, especially for a pregnant waitress in a Reno diner.”

“There are a lot of preconceived notions about us bikers,” he replies.

You snort.  “Yeah, well…Hench proposed with this necklace.  Told my mom that her and I were his sun, moon, and stars, and it was so corny she finally said yes.  He eventually got her a ring, but she always wore this necklace.  Every day until a few days before she died.  She gave it to me herself.”  

“I can see why it was important to you.”  His voice is quiet, and he can hear you moving beside him, as if you’re nodding.

Bishop won’t tell the other guys in the club the exact story.  He’ll embellish some parts so that it sounds more impressive than it was, the two of you coming upon Ruiz already dead and just tossing the trailer until you found a simple necklace with a lot of history to it.  Didn’t you travel from Reno on a family heirloom too?  The bike from your great-grandmother, the necklace of your mother…you value the legacy of things more than the things themselves.

Bishop will keep a lot of this between you and him, because he feels like he’s in rare company, being let into your inner life like this.  Bishop guesses that you’re a private person, and he feels honored somehow to have been on this mission.  

You feel it too.  “Thank you for your help, Obispo Losa,” you tell him.  “I know you had better things to do, so I’m in your debt.”

“No debt, princesa.  But I do owe you that steak dinner before you go back to Reno.”

You laugh.  “The beef jerky doesn’t qualify?”

“Nope.  You bought that, and the steak is on me.”

You laugh again, and you start to say something, but then you shiver against the mounting cold in the cab.

“Come here,” he says.  He shrugs out of his kutte, and he hands it to you.  You hesitate for a second, probably understanding how intimate the gesture is, wearing a man’s patch like that, but then you pull it on.  It’s big enough on you that you pull your arms in like a turtle, making it warmer.

Bishop rolls his sleeves down to cover his own arms, and he settles against the back of his seat.  Makes himself comfortable, then extends an arm to you.

In the dark cab, you understand his meaning, and you scoot over and nestle under his arm.  He wraps it around your shoulder, pulls you closer to him.  Waits for you to get comfortable too, which means your head is tucked under his chin, and the warm scent of your hair is right under his nose.

“You’re warm,” you say after a stretch of silence, and Bishop chuckles.

“The Losa’s are a warm-blooded people.”

“Thank you again, Obispo.”

“You can call me Bishop, princesa.”

You turn your head against his chest to stifle a yawn.  “I like Obispo.  Not a name you hear all the time.  It’s a good name.”

He’s still thinking of a funny reply when he feels you falling asleep against him, then hears the light snoring.  He wraps his arms tighter around you, and when you adjust sleepily, when you end up curled against him with your head in his lap, it takes every bit of his strength to keep himself under control.

When Hank and Riz turn up hours later, Bishop has never been so happy to see the cavalry.  

-----

You are planning to return to Reno the next day, but true to his word, Bishop takes you out for a nice steak dinner in celebration.  He skips the fancy places where people like Galindo and his wife dine, and instead he takes you downtown.  There’s a place owned by an old Santo Padre family—the restaurant isn’t anything special, but the steaks are fucking divine.

You agree to let him pick you up at your hotel, and you shake your head playfully when he pulls up on his bike.  You step back inside your room and grab your helmet, then you climb behind him and wrap your arms around his waist.

He takes the long route to the restaurant.

It’s a nice meal, just as he promised.  He orders a bottle of good wine for the table, and the two of you chat more.  The conversation is light now—no more stories of revenge or sad personal histories.  The two of you flirt, and Bishop realizes halfway through his porterhouse that you aren’t just flirting lightly.  You are flirting with intention:  you’re studying him, watching to see how innuendo lands with him.

By the time the two of you are sipping some after-dinner brandy, you are pretty much openly ogling him in the middle of the restaurant.

Bishop settles the bill, and you murmur your thanks again.  On the bike, behind him again, he can’t tell if you’re settled closer against him, the swell of your breasts against his patch, or if it’s just wishful thinking.

At the hotel, he parks the bike.  He walks you to your door, and he pauses as you scan your key card.

“Want to come in?” you ask, and you arch an eyebrow at him to make your meaning clear.  Bishop wants nothing more, but etiquette tugs at his conscience.

“I don’t know,” he answers honestly.  “I feel like the daughter of a president is off limits.”

You frown but reach out to finger the edges of his kutte, straightening it a little.  “In all of the time we’ve spent together in the past week, have you gotten any impression that Hench is overprotective of me?”

“No, but—”

“Did Hench let me seek my own vengeance, or did he keep me locked up in a tower while he got it for me?”

Bishop smiles.  “I doubt that any tower could hold you, princesa.”

“Damned straight, Obispo.  I’m a grown woman, and Hench lets me settle my own scores.  He also lets me handle my own love life.”

“I still can’t imagine he’d be happy with you hooking up with an M.C. guy.”

You laugh at him, run your finger over the collar of his shirt, toy a little with the first button.  “Yeah, he’d rather see me married off to some white-collar middle manager who cheats on me with his secretary.”

“Point taken.”  Bishop takes a half step closer to you, enough for his nose to pick up that warm, sweet scent of you.  Like caramel, he’s always thought, and he actually salivates at the thought that he could put his mouth to you…

You step backward through your open door, but you pinch the edge of his kutte between your thumb and forefinger.  You tug him gently inside, and it’d be easy to break your hold and leave.  He should, probably.  He might be stepping into a world of hurt, despite your reassurances about your father.

But he’s spent over a week with you.  Went to sleep with the scent of you his in nose, the sound of your low voice in his ears.  Actually held you in his arms last night and tucked you in his vest to keep you warm.  He kept himself under control because of the mission at hand, but now…

He crosses the threshold of your hotel room, and he kicks the door shut just as you move towards him, pushing yourself up on your toes to kiss him.  It’s a clash at first, because both of you try to take control—your mouth fuses to his, and you lick at the seam of his lips boldly until he opens his mouth to you.  It’s a fucking jolt to him, how pushy you are.  Bishop wonders if you’ve been measuring him the past week too, thinking about him in the same salacious way.

Bishop can’t remember the last time he’s been with such an assertive woman.  Such a pushy one.  He’s usually the one leading the dance, el presidente, but he’s been calling you a fucking princess for days, and that probably outplays a president.  He groans as you kiss him, as you sweep your tongue into his mouth and taste him.  You taste like the brandy you had after dinner, and you taste like the ghostly, guilty cigarette you probably snuck before dinner.

Then he feels your hands on him.  You push his kutte off, tug at the buttons of his shirt, and he has to hurry to catch you up.  Normally he’d make his hands gentle, but you nearly have him naked before he’s even figured out the fastenings on your shirt, all the tricky little buttons and hidden button and decorative hardware the passes for fashion in your world. When he tugs it off of you finally, you actually growl against his rough treatment and arch into it.  Keening for more.

He obliges.

It takes no time at all for you to get him out of his clothes, and once he understands the tenor of the situation, he gets you stripped too.  He regrets that he doesn’t get to savor it, to take his time, but there’s been a pent-up energy growing between the two of you, and this is it’s breaking point.

It’s a frantic moment.  There’s no foreplay, or rather—the foreplay was over dinner, or even further back, like the night in the truck where he gave you his kutte to keep you warm.  No foreplay means you push him backwards, your warm hands groping him the same way he’s groping at you, and then you push him off balance until he falls onto the bed.

Bishop also can’t remember the last time a woman has wanted him so fiercely.  There’s no shyness, not an ounce of coyness or restraint when you climb onto him and slot your mouth over his again.  He’s slowed down since his younger days:  he sometimes hooks up with women who come to club events, and sometimes he indulges with one of Vicky’s girls, but he’s never felt so pursued.  Like he’s the prey instead of the predator.  

The thought, if possible, makes him even harder.  Makes his cock twitch against the soft skin of your inner thigh where you’re straddling him.

“I suppose I should ask if this is okay,” you murmur against his lips, but you shift your head to kiss his neck, nipping at his pulse point and making him growl before he can answer.

“Fuck, are you kidding?”  His hands on your hips, he pushes you down more firmly onto himself, breathes deeply through his nose at the feeling of your wet heat against his leg.  

You answer him by pulling away a little, gazing down at him with a studious look.  Like you’re gauging his words against his wants, and Bishop imagines that his desire for you is apparent on his face…and elsewhere on his body.  You finally give a satisfied nod and climb off of him.  

For the scant moment where you’re standing by the bed and rooting through your backpack for a condom, Bishop gets to study you.  The jeans and shirts you’ve worn over the past week did little to hide the shape of you—the curves of your ass and hips, your breasts.  But naked, he can see that you have almost as much ink as him.  It’s just been hidden by your clothes until now.

There’s a reaper on one shoulder, a variation of the Sons logo.  You aren’t a patched member, obviously, but it marks you as part of their family.  On the other shoulder is a bloom of cherry blossoms with what he assumes is your mother’s name in elaborate calligraphy.  A line of small moons march down the knobs of your spine, from crescent to full and back to crescent, right near the small of your back.

When you turn a little, he sees one he can’t quite make out on your ribcage along the side, and another on your hip.  But by then, you have the condom in hand, and you toss it to him, and his study of you is over.

It goes too fast.  Far too fast for Bishop’s liking, actually.  He rolls the condom onto himself, and then you straddle him, and after you ask again if it’s okay and he gruffly says ‘yes,’ you are sliding onto him.  

Even through the latex, he can feel the incredible heat of you, the vice grip you have on him.  There’s no time to enjoy it, because you don’t wait:  you start to ride him at a frenetic pace, your gorgeous tits bouncing, and even when Bishop lays his palms on your hips, there’s no holding you back.  You’re taking what you want from him, and it makes his blood heat up to be so passive to such a pushy woman.

“Fuck, princesa,” he groans out.  He can already feel his control unraveling, can feel the tension tightening at the base of his spine.  “I’m not gonna last long.”

“I know,” you pant out, and Bishop registers the words but doesn’t consider them in that moment.  He’s focused on you—the warm scent of you that’s filled the room, the throaty whine in the back of your throat as you impale yourself on him over and over.  Your eyes are narrowed in concentration, and your hands brace yourself against his chest—until you shift one back to yourself, circle a skilled finger around your clit, hastening your own release too.

When you come, Bishop isn’t sure what part of it pushes him over the edge with you.  You still against him, you arch your back as you cry out, but he can feel every twitch and tremor along your molten cunt.  You throw your head back, but the hand still on his chest spasms too, cuts your short nails into his skin with a sting of pain, and Bishop comes too.

After you both calm, and after you dismount, Bishop goes into the bathroom to clean up.  When he returns to the room, you’re stretched out on the bed, the sheets pulled up to your waist.  You open your mouth to say something, but he crawls into bed beside you, and the surprise is apparent on your face.  It takes him aback.

“You want me to leave?” he asks, but you shake your head and move over to make room for him.  He tugs you to him, and it’s like the night of the truck again—you nestled against his chest, right under his chin.  

There’s a moment of quiet between the two of you, and then Bishop asks, “was that okay for you?”

You shift a little, nuzzle against him more.  “Yeah, it was great.”  A beat.  “Was it okay for you?”

He glances down at you but can only make out the curve of your cheek from his vantage point.  “Also great.  A little fast, maybe.”

That makes you shift again.  You lift your head to look at him, those curious eyes of yours still giving him a jolt like the first time he met you.  “That was fast for you?”

“It wasn’t fast for you?”

You shake your head and smile.  “No, that was about the average amount of time.  You gotta go quick or…”  You trail off and shake your head again, and Bishop tries to parse out your meaning.  Your earlier words return to him, when he warned he wouldn’t last.  I know, you’d said.

He can fill in what you leave off.  You gotta go quick or you won’t get to come too.

Bishop chuckles and tweaks your chin, pulls you in for a gentle kiss.  “What two-pump fuck boys have you been messing around with, princesa?”

Unbelievably, that seems to embarrass you.  Not tearing him out of his clothes and wantonly fucking him in the span of minutes.  You slide your eyes away from his, but he cups your face.  Makes you look at him.

No wonder you reached down to help yourself along.  You’ve probably been fucking with boys who don’t take care of you.  No wonder you took care of yourself.  And no wonder you looked surprised when he climbed back into bed with you after it was over.

“I can last longer than that,” he tells you, and he sees how his words make a shimmer of desire pass over your face before you school yourself.

“Sure,” you reply, unconvinced.

“I can.  And I bet I can make you come again without you even having to touch yourself.”

You roll your eyes at that.  “Big talk, Obispo.”

“No talk then.  I’ll just show you.”

He slides out from underneath you, turns to press you down onto the mattress.  He catches the look of surprise, then your smile just as he kisses you.

Bishop goes slow.  Probably slower than he ever has before, though maybe it just seems slower because of how fast you went.  If you were a dervish with all that restless energy, Bishop moves like a glacier.  He puts his mouth to every inch of you, gentle and deliberate, until you are trembling underneath him and whining for release.  He doesn’t give it; he just teases you more:  drags the tip of his tongue over the outlines of your ink, slides one and then a second finger into you.  Crooks them until he finds the spot that makes you gasp, and he grins against your hip, bites lightly against the curve of you.

He only breaks away long enough to retrieve a second condom from your backpack, and then he’s on you again, parting your thighs to make room for him, teasing at your swollen folds with the tip of his cock.  You raise your hips, try to hasten him along, but he doesn’t allow it.

“Patience, princesa,” he growls by the delicate shell of your ear, and that makes you shiver.  Makes him smile again, and he kisses you lazily as he slides into you a second time.

Bishop can guess at the sort of men you’ve been with before.  Probably bikers, or biker-adjacent assholes.  The type of men who consider a woman a conquest just for fucking her, not for leaving her satisfied.  Bishop’s always considered it a mark of pride, making his women come, but this feels different.

This isn’t just the satisfaction of leaving you fuck-drunk and sated afterwards.  It also isn’t the pride of being an older man fucking such a young woman brimming with life.  It’s more than that—it started the second you pulled into the scrapyard, the moment you shook his hand and gazed into his eyes.  The moment he edged out Riz and kept Coco and Angel from you, kept you to himself.

Hasn’t he been looking for a woman like you forever?  A bold one, an audacious one.  One who knows the life, who accepts it but challenges it where necessary.  A woman who lets the men in her life handle some battles for her, but who takes her revenge where she sees fit.  A woman who can be lead but not ruled.

He buries himself into you, notes the way you whimper softly when he stills.  You’re probably sensitive from the first round, so you probably feel every inch of him inside you.  He can certainly feel the way you twitch against him, the involuntary way you clench at him.

He keeps it slow.  Deliberate.  Pulls out a fraction before pushing back into you, and he adds an extra swivel of his hips that grinds the base of his cock against your swollen clit.  He knows it’s working for you:  you gasp every time he does it, and your eyes get glassy and dazed.  You reach a hand down, but it isn’t to touch yourself.  Instead, it settles on his hip, your warm palm just feeling him as his pistons himself into you.

Who knows how long it takes?  To you, it probably feels like an eternity, given your disappointing past lovers.  In that span, though, Bishop makes you come twice…and he doesn’t slow down or speed up, but just drives through it.  He grits his teeth against how tightly you grip him, but he doesn’t slow.

“Obispo,” you pant out after you come the second time.  “Are you—”

“You got one more for me, princesa,” he whispers against your neck.  “One more, and I’ll come with you.”

It’s easy to coax a third one out of you.  After the first, you’re so sensitive that everything he does gets a response.  The slow, deliberate drive of his cock into you.  The calloused thumb that tweaks your diamond-hard nipples.  The way he kisses and sucks against your neck, his bristly mustache and stubble raising a red burn that he soothes with his tongue.

Then you finally come again.  You gasp out his name, and you arch underneath him, and then both of your hands are on his head, hauling his mouth to yours.  You sigh into the kiss, breathe out a whimpering ‘fuck’ as he feels your orgasm roil through your body like a tidal wave.  He gives up too, abandons his own restraint, and the coil of tension snaps as he buries himself into your clenching heat and spills harmlessly into the condom.

Then it repeats.  He climbs off you, goes to clean up.  Climbs back into bed, only this time you look stunned into lazy satisfaction.  He pulls your lax body to him and waits for you to say something.

It takes a long beat before you do.  

“Jesus Christ,” you finally mutter.

“Told you.”

You tilt your head to look up at him.  “You smug bastard.”  He can hear the smile in your voice, and he grins down at you.

“Don’t they make ‘em like that in Reno?” he asks.

You snort.  “I don’t think they make them like that anywhere.  You might be a custom model, Obsipo.”

“Damn straight.”  He strains his neck to kiss your mouth, your lips kiss-swollen and red.  Then he releases you, presses your head into the space between his chin and his chest where it fits so perfectly.

There’s no pillow talk.  Like last night in the truck, you fall straight to sleep, snoring lightly against him.  Bishop isn’t long in joining you—good sex makes him relax, and great sex makes him sleepy too.  

But already the calculating part of his president’s mind is planning:  you’re going back to Reno in the morning, but would it be that hard to build something with you?  It would be an easy thing, he thinks.  Las Vegas is about the same distance from Reno and Santo Padre.  He’s in Vegas all the time—how hard would it be to get you there, sync up your schedules?  Ease you into the life of his charter, have you meet all the guys, come to a party or two?

He’s el presidente, after all, and he’s been searching for a woman like you for a long time.  Not an old lady for a biker, but a princess who can hold her own against a king.

~~~Tag List~~~ @bananas-pajamas  @massivecolorspygiant​   @imspillingcoffee​   @amneris21​   @paintballkid711   @mad-girl-without-a-box   @bestattempt   @rosiefridayrogersunday   @strawberrydragon   @hoeforthefictional   @greeneyedblondie44  @leannawithacapitala   @stardust-galaxies   @glimmerglittergirl   

[gilbertineonfr2]

SSTIC 2017 Wrap-Up Day #1

I’m in Rennes, France to attend my very first edition of the SSTIC conference. SSTIC is an event organised in France, by and for French people. The acronym means “Symposium sur la sécurité des technologies de l’information et des communications“. The event has a good reputation about its content but is also known to have a very strong policy to sell tickets. Usually, all of them are sold in a few minutes, spread across 3 waves. I was lucky to get one this year. So, here is my wrap-up! This is already the fifteen edition with a new venue to host 600 security people. A live streaming is also available and a few hundred people are following talks remotely.

The first presentation was performed by  Octave Klaba who’s the CEO of the OVH operator. OVH is a key player on the Internet with many services. It is known via the BGP AS16276. Octave started with a complete overview of the backbone that he build from zero a few years ago. Today, it has a capacity of 11Tpbs and handles 2500 BGP sessions. It’s impressive how this CEO knows his “baby”. The next part of the talk was a deep description of their solution “VAC” deployed to handle DDoS attacks. For information, OVH is handler ~1200 attacks per day! They usually don’t communicate with them, except if some customers are affected (the case of Mirai was provided as an example by Octave). They chose the name “VAC” for “Vacuum Cleaner“. The goal is to clean the traffic as soon as possible before it enters the backbone. An interesting fact about anti-DDoS solutions: it is critical to detect them as soon as possible. Why? Let’s assume that your solution detects a DDoS within x seconds, attackers will launch attacks of less than x seconds. Evil! The “VAC” can be seen as a big proxy and is based on multiple components that can filter specific types of protocols/attacks. Interesting: to better handle some DDoS, the OVH teams reversed some gaming protocols to better understand how they work. Octave described in deep details how the solution has been implemented and is used today… for any customer! This is a free service! It was really crazy to get so many technical details from a… CEO! Respect!

The second talk was “L’administration en silo” by Aurélien Bordes and focused on some best practices for Windows services administration. Aurélien started with a fact: When you ask a company how is the infrastructure organised, they speak usually about users, data, computers, partners but… they don’t mention administrative accounts. From where and how are managed all the resources? Basically, they are three categories of assets. They can be classified based on colours or tiers.

Red: resources for admins

Yellow: core business

Green: computers

The most difficult layer to protect is… the yellow one. After some facts about the security of AD infrastructure,  Aurélien explained how to improve the Kerberos protocol. The solution is based on FAST, a framework to improve the Kerberos protocol. Another interesting tool developed by Aurélien: The Terminal Server Security Auditor. Interesting presentation but my conclusion is that in increase the complexity of Kerberos which is already not easy to master.

During the previous talk, Aurélien presented a slide with potential privilege escalation issues in an Active Directory environment. One of them was the WSUS server. It’s was the topic of the research presented by Romain Coltel and Yves Le Provost. During a pentest engagement, they compromised a network “A” but they also discovered a network “B” completely disconnected from “A”. Completely? Not really, there were WSUS servers communicating between them. After a quick recap of the WSUS server and its features, they explained how they compromised the second network “B” via the WSUS server. Such a server is based on three major components:

A Windows service to sync

A web service web to talk to clients (configs & push packages)

A big database

This database is complex and contains all the data related to patches and systems. Attacking a WSUS server is not new. In 2015, there was a presentation at BlackHat which demonstrated how to perform a man-in-the-middle attack against a WSUS server. But today, Romain and Yves used another approach. They wrote a tool to directly inject fake updates in the database. The important step is to use the stored procedures to not break the database integrity. Note that the tool has a “social engineering” approach and fake info about the malicious patch can be injected too to entice the admin to allow the installation of the fake patch on the target system(s). To be deployed, the “patch” must be a binary signed by Microsoft. Good news, plenty of tools are signed and can be used to perform malicious tasks. They use the tool psexec for the demo:

psexec -> cmd.exe -> net user /add

The DB being synced between different WSUS servers, it was possible to compromise the network “B”. The tool they developed to inject data into the WSUS database is called WUSpendu. A good recommendation is to put WSUS servers in the “red” zone (see above) and to consider them as critical assets. Very interesting presentation!

After two presentations focusing on the Windows world, back to the UNIX world and more precisely Linux with the init system called systemd. Since it was implemented in major Linux distribution, systemd has been the centre of huge debates between the pro-initd and pro-systemd. Same for me, I found it not easy to use, it introduces complexity, etc… But the presentation gave nice tips that could be used to improve the security of daemons started via systemd. A first and basic tip is to not use the root account but many new features are really interesting:

seccomp-bpf can be used to disable access to certain syscalls (like chroot() or obsolete syscalls)

capacities can be disabled (ex: CAP_NET_BIND_SERVICE)

name spaces mount (ex: /etc/secrets is not visible by the service)

Nice quick tips that can be easily implemented!

The next talk was about Landlock by Michael Salaün. The idea is to build a sandbox with unprivileged access rights and to run your application in this restricted space. The perfect example that was used by Michael is a multi-media player. This kind of application includes many parsers and is, therefore, a good candidate to attacks or bugs. The recommended solution is, as always, to write good (read: safe) code and the sandbox must be seen as an extra security control. Michael explained how the sandbox is working and how to implement it. The example with the media player was to allow it to disable write access to the filesystem except if the file is a pipe.

After the lunch, a set of talks was scheduled around the same topic: analysis of code. If started with “Static Analysis and Run-time Assertion checking” by Dillon Pariente, Julien Signoles. The presented Frama-C a framework of C code analysis.

Then Philippe Biondi, Raphaël Rigo, Sarah Zennou, Xavier Mehrenberger presented BinCAT (“Binary Code Analysis Tool”). It can analyse binaries (x86 only) but will never execute code. Just by checking the memory, the register and much other stuff, it can deduce a program behaviour. BinCAT is integrated into IDA. They performed a nice demo of a keygen tool. BinCAT is available here and can also be executed in a Docker container. The last talk in this set was “Désobfuscation binaire: Reconstruction de fonctions virtualisées” by Jonathan Salwan, Marie-Laure Potet, Sébastien Bardin. The principle of the binary protection is to make a binary more difficult to analyse/decode but without changing the original capabilities. This is not the same as a packer. Here there is some kind of virtualization that emulates proprietary bytecode. Those three presentations represented a huge amount of work but were too specific for me.

Then, Geoffroy Couprie, Pierre Chifflier presented “Writing parsers like it is 2017“. Writing parsers is hard. Just don’t try to write your own parser, you’ll probably fail. But parsers are available in many applications. They are hard to maintain (old code, handwritten, hard to test & refactor). Issues based on parsers can have huge security impacts, just remember the Cloudbleed bleed bug! The proposed solution is to replace classic parsers by something stronger. The criteria’s are: must be memory safe, called by / can call C code and, if possible, no garbage collection process. RUST is a language made to develop parsers like nom. To test it, it has been used in projects like the VLC player and the Suricata IDS. Suricata was a good candidate with many challenges: safety, performance. The candidate protocol was TLS. About VLC and parser, the recent vulnerability affecting the subtitles parser is a perfect example why parsers are critical.

The last talk of the day was about caradoc. Developed by the ANSSI (French agency), it’s a toolbox able to decode PDF files. The goal is not to extract and analyse potentially malicious streams from PDF files. Like the previous talk, the main idea was to avoid parsing issues. After reviewing the basics of the PDF file format, Guillaume Endignoux, Olivier Levillain made two demos. The first one was to open the same PDF file within two readers (Acrobat and Fox-It). The displayed content was not the same. This could be used in phishing campaigns or to defeat the analyst. The second demo was a malicious PDF file that crashed Fox-It but not Adobe (DDoS). Nice tool.

The day ended with a “rump” session (also called lighting talks by other conferences). I’m really happy with the content of the first day. Stay tuned for more details tomorrow! If you want to follow live talks, the streaming is available here.

[The post SSTIC 2017 Wrap-Up Day #1 has been first published on /dev/random]

from Xavier

[bullet-prooflove]

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.”

[bullet-prooflove]

We just roll around beneath these sheets

Les Packer pretty please!!

Young!Les Packer Series - Fallen Star

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."

[bullet-prooflove]

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 looks into your eyes and he breathes it and the noise you make...

It kills him.

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 ***

[bullet-prooflove]

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

[bullet-prooflove]

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?"

[bullet-prooflove]

Flowers: Les Packer x Reader

Whenever Les thinks of you he thinks of flowers.

He thinks of the orange rose to used caress the contours of your skin as you lay amongst his sheets, the delicate petals trailing over your nipples before his lips follow suit. The dark, subtle scent of irises clinging to your skin as he makes love to you by candlelight on the couch.

When he leaves, he always finds himself smiling grimly at the sunflowers on either side of your door as he kisses you goodbye, because he doesn’t want to leave, he wants to stay, wrapped up in you for the rest of his life.

Whenever he goes away on ‘business’ you find a small bundle of forget-me-nots in the antique milkjug your grandmother left you. It touches something deep inside your heart because you know wherever he is, he’s thinking about you too.

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

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[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: 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.

[bullet-prooflove]

Young!Les Packer Series: Starburst - Les Packer x Reader

Tagging: @proceduralpassion @crazy4chickennuggets @callsignartemis @kmc1989 @kishie8 @anime-weeb-4-life @oureternalbond  @thanossexual

It’s a starburst, the brand on your shoulder. Les knows it almost as well as he knows himself. He’s spent nights caressing it with his fingertips and his lips. It reminds him of how strong you are, how resilient.

In the wake of the cult’s annihilation the two of you have built a home together, a life. You’ve gone back to school with the intention of completing your GED, something he has no doubt that you’ll accomplish. You work parttime at a bookstore and it seems to suit you. You’ve re-discovered your thirst for literature now that you have the freedom to explore it. In the cult there was only one book, and it was the one the Founder had written himself.

It's been two years since Fallen Star crumbled and Les has not only gained a partner but a daughter as well. He thinks of little Sasha sleeping in the room next door, walls decorated with ponies, a nightlight that shines sparkles on the ceiling because she’s afraid of the dark. The daughter he didn’t even know he wanted until she’d appeared in his life.

Now he can’t imagine a world without her in it. Without breakfast with smiley faced pancakes or school drop offs and pick ups. She’s as ferocious as her mother, bright and adventurous. He thought her time in the cult would have cowed her, but she leaps into everything with a curiosity that amazes him. The world is a bright, dazzling place for her and she’s eager to learn more about it.They go to the library sometimes after school, her favourite book is Funny Bones and Les has spent many bedtimes reading it to her, while you study at the kitchen table.

Les thinks of the two women that approached him today looking for you. He’d been with Sasha at the General Store, sitting outside on the bench where the two of you had first met. They’d been eating popsicles, Sasha’s orange because it was her new favourite colour and his cherry. He hadn’t even registered their approach until he saw Sasha react, he’d never seen her withdraw so fast. Her silence spoke volumes.

He recognises the style of clothing; you all wore similar outfits usually in white or pastels. The first time he’d met you, you’d been wearing a lavender summer dress. He remembers you’d worn your hair tied back, the edges of the brand peeping out from underneath the fabric.

“She doesn’t belong to you anymore.” He reminds them, trying very hard to keep his tone even as not to alarm Sasha.

“Sasha does. She’s his only living relative.”

He’d snarled at them then because the only way they were getting Sasha was over his dead body.

“She’ll come back.” The older of the two had assured him. “She knows where she belongs.”

They’d left after that, but the damage was already done because Sasha may not have remembered their names, but she remembers being ripped away from her mother time and time again by these women. She’s inconsolable until you get home from work because she thinks that it’s happening all over again. He wants to kill them for that. For distressing his child.

When you finally manage to get Sasha settled, you come to bed wearing nothing but one of his t-shirts. You straddle his hips and make love to him with your hand over his mouth to stifle the noise, because when he’s with you like this, he’s loud. There’s an element of control to it, he understands the need to be dominant especially when it feels like the world is starting to crumble underneath your feet.

“I won’t let anything to happen to you.” He promises in the aftermath as he holds you close. “You and Sasha are my family, I’ll protect the two of you until the day I die.”

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

Want more Les? Check out his Masterlist here!

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[bullet-prooflove]

How can I trust you after what I've been through?

How about some more Les Packer and his Fallen Star girl? I fucking love these two so much!

You ask Les as you slip from his sheets, reaching for the lavender sundress that decorates his bedroom floor. He watches as you step into it, pulling it ip over your shoulders before you tug your panties on underneath it.

"You trusted me enough to come home with me." He points out. "To let me take you to bed."

You give him a look and he feels like he's been chastised.

"We fucked." You tell him. "You needed someone to fill the space beside you and I needed..."

You trail off because you can't vocalise what you needed. To feel loved, to feel care for, to feel anything but the crippling numbness that overtakes you everytime you go back to that farmhouse.

Les sees it in your features, the vulnerability, the anguish at going back to the place that's stifling you. They hurt you there, he knows they do because he's seen the marks on your skin.

"This isn't just sex for me and I think you know that." He tells you, the sheets pooling around his hips as his back comes to rest against the headboard.

You stare at him, your fist clenched and your chest heaving. You're torn, you want to bolt, you want to stay. The indecision pins you in place until Les leaves the bed, his hands coming to rest upon your shoulders.

"If you want out, just say the word and I'll help you." He promises.

There's silence and he knows he's lost this fight, that you'll keep going back over and over again because it's what you know.

"I want out." You whisper, your palms coming to rest upon his bare chest, his heart beat thrumming underneath your fingertips. "I need to get because the only way this ends is with me dead and I don't want that."

"I won't let that happen." He tells you, wrapping his arms around you and cradling you close. "I promise I'll find a way to get you out."

[bullet-prooflove]

Midnight You come and pick me up, no headlights

Part of the Young! Les Packer Series - Fallen Star

Fallen Star Series - Young!Les Packer:

Stolen Kisses - Les and you steal a moment before you have to return to the cult.

Sheets (NSFW) - Les reflects on the first time he met you.

Wife Number Nine - You show up at Les's place with a thirteen year old beauty queen and a 44. Colt.

It’s past midnight when Les pulls up to the stop sign on the outskirts of town. He allows the bike to idle before he climbs off it and lights a cigarette. The moon is full tonight, the stars twinkling like a thousand dazzling lights. It’s a beautiful night for mischief.  

He senses your presence before he sees you emerge from the trees. His senses are attuned to you and he knows your frequency anywhere. You look ethereal in that white dress they make you wear, like a siren emerging from the darkness. You turn your face away from him as he approaches and he knows there’s something wrong, it’s in the way you hold yourself. He reaches out, tipping up your chin and guiding your gaze back to him.

His jaw tenses as he reviews the bruise blossoming across your left cheek. It’s a few days old, black ebbing into shades of green. The rage it raises in him like a wildfire, because this isn’t the first time he’s seen you with bruises, he knows they beat you when you refuse to comply. He also knows what it is you refuse to comply too.

“Sweetheart…” He sighs as he presses his forehead to yours. “I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep letting you go back to them.”

“I don’t have a choice.” You whisper as your fingers chase along his chiselled cheek. “I need you… I need you to understand that.”

He looks at you, this beautiful, beaten angel and he wants so badly to rescue you, to steal you away from all of this agony that you endure.

“I love you.” He tells you earnestly. “What you need is time and space away from them. You need to heal…”

“Les, I can’t leave.” You say to him, tears trailing down your cheeks. “You know that.”

“Bring her with you next time, I can get you somewhere safe.” He promises. “We have charters all over the country, there are people that can help the both of you.”

“They won’t let me near her.” You tell him, closing your eyes because the anguish of it it’s all too much. “Christ they won’t even let near my own daughter, they use it as punishment, it’s leverage to make sure I…”

You trail off but he knows, he knows exactly what you’re not saying.

“Look at me.” He whispers against your skin, tasting the salt on your cheeks. “I will find a way to get you out, the both of you. I won’t let them break you. I’m going to make sure you’re safe, that you can live the life you’re supposed to.”

[bullet-prooflove]

A subtle kiss that no one sees

How about a Les Packer?

Young!LesPacker - Fallen Star

It's slow the way Les kisses you, a tender brush of the lips as your fingers grasp the leather of his kutte.

"Fuck I don't want you to go." He whispers against the corner of your mouth. "Please just stay with me..."

"Les..." You drawl his name and it sounds like music in his ears, because your voice, it's just the sweetest fucking sound. "You know I can't."

He dips his head, closing his eyes and pressing his forehead against yours. Your fingertips trail over the stubble on his cheeks.

"One day Les," you promise him. "I promise you one day, we'll be together."