#chibs x reader

[belleeebelleee]

Chibs Telford (Sons of Anarchy) x fem!reader

Chibs is 48, reader is 24

Sitting on Chibs' lap. It starts because there's no where else to sit. It's a bit awkward at first and then over the course of the evening it becomes comfortable. Eventually, over months, you start sitting on Chibs' lap all the time, even when there are seats available. The Samcro boys give you guys so much shit. When a guy starts flirting with you, and you run to Chibs for help, his feelings come crashing down over him.

The first time you sit on Chibs Telford’s lap, it’s purely accidental.

At least, that’s what you tell yourself afterward.

The clubhouse is packed shoulder-to-shoulder for a Saturday night party. Music blares through old speakers, half the room smells like beer and cigarettes, and every available seat has already been stolen by bikers built like refrigerators.

You’re carrying a drink and looking increasingly distressed when Chibs notices.

“Ye look lost, lass.”

You glance around helplessly. “There’s nowhere to sit.”

Chibs is sprawled in one corner of the couch, tattooed forearms stretched along the back cushions, beer balanced against his thigh. He’s relaxed in the way only older men can be—completely comfortable taking up space.

Then he pats one jean-clad thigh casually.

“Sit here.”

You freeze.

The men nearby immediately look interested.

Chibs notices too late what he’s just suggested.

His eyebrows shoot upward slightly. “Ah—only if ye want, sweetheart.”

Your face warms instantly.

You should say no.

You absolutely should say no.

Instead, awkward and flustered and trying not to spill your drink, you perch carefully on the very edge of his lap.

The room goes dead silent for half a second.

Then Tig barks out a laugh.

“Oh, this is gonna get interestin’.”

“Shut up,” Chibs mutters automatically.

You’re acutely aware of everything.

How broad he is beneath you.

The warmth of him.

The solid weight of his arm resting along the couch behind your back.

And Chibs—

Poor Chibs—

is suddenly hyperaware of the fact that you are twenty-four years old and sitting directly on him.

Jesus Christ.

He stares very intently at his beer like it personally offended him.

“You comfortable there, lass?”

“Mm-hm.”

You are not comfortable.

You are aware of your own heartbeat.

You are aware of Chibs breathing.

You are aware that he smells unfairly good—leather and smoke and whiskey and something warm beneath it all.

You are also painfully aware that every single SAMCRO member is watching this unfold like reality television.

Juice leans toward Tig and stage-whispers:

“Ten bucks says Chibs dies of cardiac arrest before midnight.”

The thing is—

It gets less awkward surprisingly fast.

Mostly because Chibs is very good at making people feel safe.

He shifts slightly so you’re sitting more securely. His hand settles loosely near your knee—not possessive, not inappropriate, just steadying you when someone bumps the couch.

Conversation starts flowing again.

You laugh at something Happy says.

Chibs glances down automatically at the sound.

And something in his chest goes crooked.

Because you look good there.

Too good.

Like you belong tucked against him.

Dangerous thought.

Very dangerous thought.

Especially considering the age gap.

Twenty-four and forty-eight.

Christ.

He was already running guns when you were born.

He shouldn’t notice how soft your hair looks over his shoulder.

Shouldn’t enjoy the feeling of you relaxing against him over the course of the evening.

Shouldn’t feel quietly pleased every time you lean back into his chest to laugh.

But he does.

God help him, he does.

At some point, you stop perching awkwardly and settle properly.

One of Chibs’ arms drapes naturally around your waist because otherwise you almost slide off when Tig starts arguing loudly across the room.

Nobody comments on it.

Well.

Nobody except Juice.

“Look at that,” Juice says dramatically. “Nature is healing.”

“Juice,” Chibs warns.

“You tucked her in like a seatbelt!”

“She was slippin’.”

“You adjusted her blanket too,” Tig adds smugly.

“I hate every single one of ye.”

You laugh so hard your forehead falls briefly against Chibs’ shoulder.

He goes very still.

Then very carefully keeps breathing like a normal human being.

Because the alternative is screaming.

After that night, it starts happening naturally.

At first only occasionally.

You’ll wander into the clubhouse and if seats are full, Chibs automatically pats his lap without even thinking about it.

You start sitting there with less hesitation every time.

Then eventually—

Eventually you stop waiting for there to be no seats.

That’s when the boys lose their minds.

“There are literally three empty chairs,” Juice says one afternoon as you walk straight past them and settle comfortably onto Chibs’ lap.

You shrug. “This one’s my favorite.”

Chibs nearly chokes on his whiskey.

Tig howls laughing.

“Oh, he’s GONE gone.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Chibs mutters weakly.

But his arm wraps around your waist automatically anyway.

Every single time.

Like muscle memory.

Like instinct.

The thing nobody says aloud is that you fit there strangely perfectly.

You curl naturally against him during long meetings.

Steal sips from his drinks.

Fall asleep against his chest during movie nights at the clubhouse.

And Chibs—

Chibs lets you.

Every time.

Even though he knows he shouldn’t.

Even though every month that passes makes the feelings worse.

Because it stops feeling harmless eventually.

Stops feeling platonic.

You start absentmindedly playing with the rings on his fingers while talking.

You smooth your hand over his beard when you’re tired.

Sometimes you seek him out automatically after hard days, climbing into his lap before he even asks.

And every single time, Chibs feels his heart cave in a little more.

He’s utterly fucked.

Absolutely, completely fucked.

The worst part is how natural it feels.

One rainy afternoon, you’re half-asleep on him while he talks business with Bobby and Tig.

Your cheek rests against Chibs’ chest.

One of his large scarred hands rubs slow circles against your back absentmindedly.

Neither of you even realizes you’re doing it until Bobby goes:

“This is disgustingly domestic.”

You blink sleepily.

Chibs immediately stills.

Tig grins like the devil himself. “They’re basically married already.”

“We’re no’—” Chibs starts.

You yawn softly and nuzzle closer without opening your eyes.

Chibs forgets the rest of the sentence instantly.

The room erupts.

“Oh my GOD,” Juice yells from across the clubhouse. “He short-circuited!”

Chibs flips everyone off while your sleepy confused face peeks up from his chest.

“What happened?”

“Nothin’, sweetheart,” Chibs says immediately.

And the terrifying thing is—

He means it.

Holding you like this already feels so natural that he barely notices anymore.

Until other people point it out.

Gemma notices before either of you say anything aloud.

Of course she does.

She corners Chibs outside the clubhouse one evening while you’re inside helping Tara organize paperwork.

“You love her.”

Chibs nearly inhales cigarette smoke directly into his lungs.

“The hell are ye talkin’ about?”

Gemma looks unimpressed.

“Scottish, please. You look at that girl like she hung the moon.”

Chibs exhales slowly.

“She’s young.”

“She’s twenty-four, not twelve.”

“I’m forty-eight.”

“And?”

“And I got no business wantin’ her.”

Gemma’s expression softens slightly.

“That girl walks into rooms looking for you first.”

That hits harder than he expects.

Because it’s true.

You do.

Always.

You don’t realize how obvious your feelings are either.

Not until a guy flirts with you at the garage one afternoon.

He’s harmless enough.

Cute, maybe.

Around your age.

And ordinarily, you’d politely endure it.

But today he keeps touching your arm.

Keeps leaning too close.

Keeps smiling in that pushy way that makes your skin crawl.

“You got a boyfriend?” he asks.

Your brain immediately supplies an image of Chibs.

Warm hands.

Rough laugh.

Blue eyes crinkling when he smiles at you.

The thought hits so hard it startles you.

“Oh,” you say quietly.

The guy mistakes your distraction for encouragement.

“Can I get your number?”

Panic rises unexpectedly in your chest.

Not because he’s dangerous.

Because he’s not Chibs.

And suddenly the truth lands on you all at once, overwhelming and impossible to ignore:

You don’t want anyone else.

Before you fully process it, you blurt:

“I need to go.”

Then you practically flee.

You find SAMCRO at the clubhouse.

Chibs is outside working on his bike when you appear.

The second he sees your face, he straightens.

“What happened?”

You walk directly to him.

Straight between his knees where he’s seated on a crate beside the bike.

And without hesitation—

You climb into his lap.

Like instinct.

Like home.

Chibs catches you automatically, arms circling your waist immediately.

“Easy, lass,” he murmurs, startled. “What’s wrong?”

You bury your face against his shoulder.

“There was this guy and he wouldn’t stop flirting and I know that’s stupid but I hated it and—”

Chibs goes completely still.

His heartbeat pounds hard beneath your cheek.

“You came here?” he asks quietly.

Your brows knit together. “Yeah?”

“To me.”

You finally look up.

And something in his expression steals your breath.

Not amusement.

Not fondness.

Something deeper.

Rawer.

“Oh,” you whisper.

Because suddenly you understand.

The realization crashes over both of you at the exact same moment.

Chibs’ hands tighten slightly at your waist.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters softly.

“What?”

“You really have no idea what ye do to me, do ye?”

Your pulse jumps violently.

The clubhouse door swings open behind you.

Juice steps out, sees the position you’re in, and immediately groans.

“Finally.”

Neither of you look away from each other.

“You came runnin’ to me because some boy flirted with ye,” Chibs says, voice rough now.

“I didn’t mean to.”

“Aye.” His thumb brushes unconsciously against your side. “That’s the problem.”

You stare at him.

At the scar cutting through his brow.

The tired kindness in his eyes.

The affection he’s tried so hard to hide from you for months.

“Chibs…”

“I tried real hard no’ to cross lines with ye,” he admits quietly. “Told myself ye deserved somebody younger. Safer. Better.”

Your chest aches.

“I don’t want better.”

Chibs closes his eyes briefly like the words physically wound him.

“Sweetheart…”

“I want you.”

Silence.

Then Tig’s voice yells from inside the clubhouse:

“KISS ALREADY, JESUS CHRIST.”

You burst into startled laughter.

Chibs laughs too despite himself, forehead dropping briefly against yours.

Then his expression softens into something unbearably tender.

“You sure?” he asks quietly.

You answer by kissing him.

Chibs makes a rough broken sound against your mouth.

One hand slides gently into your hair while the other holds you close against his chest.

And somehow—

Somehow kissing him feels exactly like sitting in his lap always did.

Safe.

Warm.

Right.

The clubhouse erupts behind you.

Cheering.

Whistling.

Someone absolutely starts collecting money.

But Chibs barely hears any of it.

Because you’re kissing him back with your hands curled into his kutte, smiling soft against his mouth like this is exactly where you want to be.

And for the first time in a long time—

Forty-eight years old, scarred to hell, emotionally exhausted—

Chibs feels something dangerously close to happiness.

[witchthewriter]

𝐇𝐮𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬

⤷ gender neutral, ambiguous race, and any size reader. Requests are open, thank you for reading!  

a/n: just a bunch of my favourite men!

18+

ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ | ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ ᴵᴵ

𝐀𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐫𝐧

・Kisses you goodmorning and goodnight, every single day without forgetting

・Always helps you get ready in the morning and helps you get undressed at night. His nimble fingers always steady.

・Doesn't let anyone talk over the top of you. All he has to do is give his 'stern face' and anyone will stop talking

・His favourite place to be is in your arms. With your legs tangled with his.

・Aragorn's kisses are always passionate. Cupping your face, he doesn't care whose around. All he knows is that his mouth needs to be on yours.

𝐆𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥𝐭

・Doesn't like to admit it, but he likes that he's taller than you

・He likes to bathe together, with you sitting in his lap, his cock hard against your back

・Your hand finds it and grips tight. Moving back and forth until Geralt grunts and lifts you up, placing his dick inside you.

・Sex with Geralt verges on animalistic. He grunts and groans when he's inside you, hands gripping tight, skin to skin, biting and sucking.

・He doesn't like PDA, but when you're alone, he needs you badly.

𝐉𝐚𝐱

・Lets you sleep in when he's home

・Without fail, gives you a forehead kiss every single day

・Loves spending money on you, jewelry, clothes, honestly whatever you want. Doesn't care what it is, if his baby wants something, then they'll goddamn have it

・Whenever he goes for a shower, he leaves the bathroom door open. Almost like an invitation (it's definitely an invitation)

・Has a prospect follow you around so that nothing bad can happen while he isn't there

・You just end up inviting the prospect inside, making him lunch, letting him watch tv etc. (When Jax finds out he's ... less than happy)

𝐒𝐞𝐯𝐫𝐨

・Completely feral and completely yours.

・Will call someone out for even looking at you a certain way

・Once hit a guy because you told him no but he kept flirting with you anyway

・Is very insecure but doesn't let anyone but you see that side of him

・So in love with you that your well-being becomes his top priority

"Babe, have you eaten today? Drank any water? If the answers no I'm gonna be pissed!"

・When you're on the couch, he'll massage your feet, you think it's sweet until he starts cracking your toes

𝐃𝐚𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐧

・You're the only person he trusts wholly.

・Caraxes adores you. You always bring him a treat and sit with him and talk (he understands).

・So that obviously means you go flying with Daemon all the time.

・He never lets anyone speak down to you nor does he let people speak ill of you. (You remember what happened to Vaemond).

・Daemon would do anything for you, he'd cross any line to keep you safe.

・Loves leaving bite marks on your skin where others can see it.

・Shows his vulnerable side to you and only you

𝐀𝐝𝐚𝐦

・Cried during your wedding, he didn't think anyone would want to spend time with him, let alone all their time and love

・When you shared a bed for the first time, he had moved so far away that he was on the edge of the bed

・You had to drag him toward you, and show him that physical touch is okay

・For your birthday, he always has flowers ready to give to you

・He's quite the romantic, loves slow dancing with you; even without music

・Adores when you brush his hair, he'd sit there for hours feeling the comb go through his hair

・Intimidates anyone who makes you uncomfortable, his strength rippling underneath the surface of his skin, ready to protect the one he loves the most

𝐂𝐡𝐢𝐛𝐬

・Being married to this old Scot means you are loved unconditionally

・With his hidden life, he still tells you everything that's going on

・Chibs loves gently grabbing you by the cheeks and kissing you softly.

・He sleeps on the side that's closest to the door (just in case someone breaks in)

・He wants to take you to Scotland one day, show you where he grew up etc

・Always makes sure you have a ride wherever you're going

・Before he leaves for the day, Chibs will lean his forehead against yours and whisper, "I love you."

𝐅𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐧

・Will throw a blanket over you and tackle you to the ground...but out of cuteness aggression. He also likes to bite you - lightly, lightly.

・Thinks you're the sexiest thing alive and tells you all the time. Even in front of Uhtred

・Smacks your ass when it's just the two of you

・And when you're alone, he's always ready.

・Dick hard, balls heavy, Finan is leaking for you.

"Please, would you help me, my love?"

・You can't help the way he looks like this either; all flushed and needy.

・One of the perks of being married to Finan is that you know every time you fuck, he's going to make you cum.

𝐁𝐨𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐫

・Loves sweeping you off your feet and spinning you around

・Has so much love for you that he hurts with it

・Likes when you help him remove his armour. He asks for you all the time

・Wants to know how your day went, if anything out of the blue happened

・Would 1000% pass the bird theory

・Loves putting his head in your lap

・If there's any danger, he pushes you behind him and tells you to stay close

"I'll never let harm come to you, I promise you that."

[fanficwritinggirl]

{Three Ways to Worry - Chibs Telford x F!Reader}

Part 1 of 3

Summary - A few practice contractions, a club lockdown, and one very overprotective biker who's convinced you need feeding every five minutes.

Word Count - 5300ish

The funeral home always felt different after dark.

Not frightening. You had never found it frightening, despite what people assumed when you told them where you worked. The building simply became quieter once the last family had gone, taking their flowers and carefully contained grief home with them.

At night, there were no ringing telephones or low conversations slipping beneath closed doors. No children being told not to touch things. No relatives asking you for the fourth time whether the shade of lipstick was the same one their mother had worn.

There was only the faint hum of the ventilation system and the clean, sharp smell of disinfectant clinging to your hands.

You stood beside the preparation table, arranging the final few instruments before covering them. Mrs Donnelly had been moved to the viewing room nearly an hour ago, her silver hair curled exactly the way her daughter had requested and her favourite brooch pinned carefully to the collar of her blue dress.

She looked peaceful.

You knew people said that about the dead because they did not know what else to say, but this time it was true. The tension illness had carved into her face was gone. Her daughter had cried when she saw her, but she had smiled too.

That was the part of the job you tried to carry home.

Not the bodies. Not the grief.

The small moments when someone looked at the person they had lost and recognised them again.

You peeled off your gloves and dropped them into the bin. A familiar tightening gathered low across your stomach before you could reach the sink.

You stopped.

One hand settled instinctively beneath the curve of your belly while the other gripped the edge of the counter.

The pressure climbed slowly, turning your stomach hard beneath your palm. It was not exactly painful. Uncomfortable, certainly, but you had been uncomfortable for so long that the word had nearly lost all meaning.

Your back ached. Your hips ached. Your feet had somehow become complete strangers to the shoes you had worn comfortably for years.

You breathed through the tightening and waited.

After half a minute, it loosened.

“There,” you murmured to the baby. “We’re fine.”

The baby responded with a solid movement beneath your ribs.

You rubbed the spot. “That wasn’t an invitation.”

The front bell chimed somewhere beyond the preparation room.

You checked the clock on the wall and frowned. The doors had been locked after the last family left, and your aunt had gone home more than twenty minutes ago.

A second later, the muted sound of boots travelled along the corridor.

Only one person ignored a locked door with quite that much confidence.

“You know,” you called, turning on the tap, “most people knock before breaking into funeral homes.”

“Aye, well, most people answer their bloody phones.”

Chibs appeared in the doorway, broad shoulders nearly filling it, his leather kutte sitting over a dark shirt and his expression caught somewhere between irritation and relief.

You smiled despite yourself.

“There you are.”

His eyes moved over you quickly, checking your face, your hands and the heavy curve of your stomach before returning to your face.

“Here I am,” he said. “Been calling you.”

“My phone’s in my bag.”

“Aye. Very useful place for it.”

“I was working.”

His gaze shifted briefly towards the covered preparation table, and some of the tension left his expression. Chibs understood that you could not simply walk away because someone wanted you elsewhere. He might not like it, particularly now, but he understood.

He stepped fully into the room and held out your coat.

“We need to go, love.”

Something in his voice made your smile fade.

“What happened?”

“Nothing you need to worry about.”

You stared at him.

Chibs sighed.

“Nothing you need to worry about yet.”

“That’s much more reassuring.”

“Club’s going into lockdown.”

You turned off the tap and dried your hands slowly. “Why?”

“Jax got word there may be trouble headed towards Charming. Clay wants everyone behind the gates till we know what we’re dealing with.”

“And you came to get me.”

His eyebrows lifted as though the alternative was ridiculous.

“Course I did.”

“You could’ve sent a prospect.”

“I could’ve sent Tig wearing nothing but a raincoat. Doesn’t mean I would.”

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “That sounds more like something Tig would volunteer for.”

“Aye, and that’s why we don’t give him ideas.”

Chibs crossed the room and stopped in front of you. Up close, you could see the strain around his eyes and the hard set of his mouth. He was trying to make this feel ordinary, but he had not driven across Charming at this hour because Clay wanted everyone together for a friendly drink.

His hand came to rest against the side of your stomach.

The baby moved again, pressing into his palm.

Chibs’s face softened instantly.

“There’s my wee troublemaker.”

“Your wee troublemaker has been using my ribs as footholds all afternoon.”

“Strong legs.”

“Violent legs.”

“Gets that from you.”

You looked pointedly at his kutte.

“Yes. Clearly I’m the dangerous influence.”

He smiled and bent to kiss you.

It was not a hurried kiss, despite the urgency that had brought him there. One hand remained spread over the baby while the other slid around the back of your neck, his thumb moving beneath your ear.

You leaned into him, letting yourself have those few quiet seconds.

When he pulled away, he did not go far.

“You eaten?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

You opened your mouth.

Nothing came out.

Chibs gave you a knowing look.

“I was busy.”

“Aye, so that’s a no.”

“I had half a sandwich.”

“When?”

“Lunch.”

His eyes narrowed.

“It was a large half.”

He muttered something in Gaelic or possibly just inventive Scottish swearing and reached inside his kutte. He produced a slightly flattened paper bag.

You stared at it.

“What is that?”

“Food.”

“I can see that.”

“Then we’re making progress.”

He handed it to you. Inside was a sandwich from the diner and one of the lemon cakes you had been craving for the last three weeks.

Your irritation collapsed immediately.

“You brought me cake?”

“I brought you dinner. The cake’s so you don’t complain about the dinner.”

“I never complain.”

Chibs looked at you for a long moment.

“Eat in the truck.”

You folded the top of the bag closed and set it beside your handbag. “I need to finish cleaning.”

“Already looks clean.”

“You have no idea what clean means in this room.”

“I know I don’t want to be standing in it longer than necessary.”

You glanced towards the covered table. “She won’t bite.”

“Never worried about her.”

His hand returned to your stomach as if he needed to reassure himself you were still there.

You softened.

“Five minutes.”

“Two.”

“Four.”

“Three, and I’m watching.”

“That seems fair.”

You moved towards the counter, but another tightening caught you before you reached it.

This one came more quickly than the last.

You stopped, drawing in a slow breath through your nose.

Chibs noticed immediately.

His hand closed around your arm. “What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“Didnae look like nothing.”

“My stomach tightened.”

His face changed.

“How long?”

“It’s already stopping.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

You breathed out as the pressure began to fade. “Maybe thirty seconds.”

“How many?”

“Today?”

His grip on your arm tightened, not enough to hurt.

“How many, sweetheart?”

You considered lying and decided he would know.

“Four. Maybe five.”

“Since when?”

“This afternoon.”

“And you didn’t think to call me?”

“They’re Braxton Hicks.”

“You know that for certain?”

“Tara said they were normal.”

“Tara also said you’re supposed to rest.”

“I rest.”

“You work with dead people for ten hours at a time.”

“They’re not very demanding.”

He did not laugh.

You turned towards him and laid both hands against his chest.

“They’re irregular, they aren’t getting worse and they stop when I move around. My waters haven’t broken. The baby’s moving normally.”

Chibs studied your face as though he could find the truth written there.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

Another small movement passed beneath his palm.

You covered his hand with yours.

“We’re both fine.”

The tension in his shoulders eased slightly, though not enough to fool you.

“You’re done working.”

“For tonight?”

“Till the baby comes.”

You laughed. “You’re welcome to explain that to my aunt.”

“I will.”

“She embalmed a man twice your size this morning.”

“I’ve dealt with worse.”

“She has scalpels.”

“So do I.”

“Filip.”

His mouth twitched.

There he was.

You rose onto your toes and kissed the edge of his scar, the one that curved along his cheek. He became still beneath the touch, as he always did. Not uncomfortable exactly. Simply aware.

“You came all the way here to get me yourself,” you said quietly.

“Wasn’t letting anyone else do it.”

“You have things to deal with.”

“You’re one of them.”

“That was almost romantic.”

“Aye, don’t tell anyone.”

You smiled and brushed your thumb through the grey at the edge of his beard.

His gaze dropped briefly.

It was such a small thing that someone else might not have noticed. You always did.

“What?” you asked.

“Nothing.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“Old man shouldn’t be running across town every time his girl forgets to answer her phone.”

You tilted your head. “My girl?”

His hand tightened at your waist.

“You objecting?”

“Not even slightly.”

You kissed the grey in his beard this time.

“I like my old man.”

“Aye?”

“Very much.”

“Even when he’s telling you what to do?”

“Let’s not ruin the moment.”

He laughed softly and rested his forehead against yours.

For a few seconds, the locked gates, the phone calls and whatever trouble waited outside Charming did not exist. There was only Chibs’s hand covering the baby, his breath warm against your face and the quiet steadiness of him.

Then his phone vibrated.

The softness disappeared from his posture before he even looked at the screen.

“We need to move.”

You nodded.

Chibs picked up your bag and coat before you could reach either. He held the coat open and waited while you carefully eased your arms into it.

“I can dress myself.”

“Never said you couldn’t.”

“You’re hovering.”

“Aye.”

“At least you admit it.”

When you bent to adjust the tongue of your shoe, your stomach stopped you halfway.

Chibs caught your elbow.

“Leave it.”

“It’s folded under.”

“I said leave it.”

Before you could argue, he crouched in front of you.

You looked down as he loosened the lace, straightened the shoe and retied it with surprising care for a man whose hands were more often wrapped around handlebars or weapons.

“You know,” you said, “most women have to work much harder to get a biker on his knees.”

Chibs glanced up at you.

“Aye, and most women aren’t carrying my child while threatening to fall on their arse.”

“I wasn’t going to fall.”

“Course not.”

His mouth pressed briefly against the side of your stomach through your dress before he stood.

The tenderness of it caught you off guard.

You touched his cheek.

“You’re worried.”

He covered your hand with his.

“I’ll be less worried when you’re behind the gates.”

“And then?”

His eyes held yours.

“Then I deal with whatever’s keeping me worried.”

You knew better than to ask for details he could not give you in the middle of a preparation room. You also knew the moment you reached Teller-Morrow, Jax or Clay would pull him away.

For now, he was here.

Chibs took your handbag in one hand and placed the other against your lower back, guiding you towards the corridor.

At the door, you looked back to make sure every light was off and every surface was covered.

“Done?” he asked.

“Done.”

He locked the funeral home behind you and tested the door twice.

His truck waited beneath the streetlamp, dark and familiar.

Chibs opened the passenger door, helped you climb in and tucked the paper bag carefully onto your lap.

“Eat.”

“Yes, Dad.”

His expression flattened.

You grinned. “Too far?”

“Much.”

Laughing, you unwrapped the sandwich while he closed the door.

Another small tightening stirred beneath the curve of your stomach as Chibs walked around the front of the truck.

You rested your palm over it and waited.

It passed before he climbed behind the wheel.

Braxton Hicks.

That was all.

At least, that was what you told yourself as Chibs started the engine and turned the truck towards Teller-Morrow.

The sandwich was still warm.

That was the first thing you noticed once Chibs pulled away from the kerb.

The second was that he had remembered exactly how you liked it.

No tomatoes. Extra mustard. The crusts left on because, despite what Tig insisted, you were not six years old.

You took a bite and looked sideways at him.

Chibs kept his attention on the road, one hand resting loosely at the top of the wheel. Streetlights moved across his face in brief flashes, catching the silver threaded through his hair and the scars along his cheek.

“You went to the diner before coming for me.”

“Aye.”

“You were already late.”

“Aye.”

“But you stopped for food.”

He glanced at you. “You saying I shouldn’t have?”

You took another bite.

“I’m saying I love you.”

His mouth softened.

“Eat your sandwich.”

“That sounded suspiciously like you love me too.”

“Thought that was obvious.”

“It’s nice to hear.”

“Aye, well.” His eyes returned to the road. “Don’t get greedy.”

You smiled and settled more comfortably against the seat.

The truck smelled faintly of leather, cigarettes and the soap Chibs used. His gloves sat on the dashboard, and an old receipt had been tucked into the cup holder beside a handful of loose change. The heater blew warm air against your legs despite the mild evening because Chibs had decided weeks ago that pregnancy had made you permanently cold.

It had not.

Arguing about it had achieved nothing.

You finished half the sandwich before folding the paper back over it.

Chibs noticed.

“You’re not done.”

“I’m pacing myself.”

“You’ve eaten four bites.”

“They were substantial bites.”

His fingers tightened slightly around the wheel.

You sighed and unwrapped it again.

“Bossy.”

“Alive.”

“I was hardly going to starve between the funeral home and Teller-Morrow.”

“No, you were going to eat half of that, tell me you were full, then steal my dinner later.”

“That happened once.”

“Last night.”

“You weren’t eating it.”

“I went to get a drink.”

“You abandoned it.”

“For thirty seconds.”

You took another deliberate bite while Chibs shook his head.

The quiet that followed was comfortable at first.

You watched the familiar streets pass outside the window, businesses closing for the evening and porch lights appearing one by one as Charming settled into night. Nothing looked different. There were no sirens, no smoke and no sign that something had made the club gather every family behind locked gates.

That almost made it worse.

You brushed crumbs from the front of your dress.

“How bad is it?”

Chibs’s jaw shifted.

“Not sure yet.”

“That usually means bad.”

“It means we’re being careful.”

“Filip.”

He released a slow breath through his nose.

“Jax got word someone’s asking questions about the club. Our runs. The families. Teller-Morrow.”

“What kind of someone?”

“The kind we don’t want knowing where everybody sleeps.”

Your appetite disappeared.

Chibs saw it happen and reached across the space between you, resting his hand on your thigh.

“Nothing’s happened.”

“Yet.”

“Aye. Yet.”

He did not lie to you.

That had been one of the first things you loved about him, even when the truth came carefully portioned and stripped of names. Chibs might tell you that he could not answer. He might tell you that something was club business and ask you to trust him.

He rarely told you not to worry when there was every reason to.

“Is this connected to the cartel?” you asked.

His thumb moved once against your leg.

“Could be.”

“You don’t know?”

“We know enough to lock the gates. That’s what matters tonight.”

You looked down at his hand.

The rings on his fingers caught the dim light from the dashboard. You placed your hand over his and traced the edge of one with your thumb, following the familiar scratches in the metal.

“And once I’m inside?”

Chibs did not answer immediately.

That was answer enough.

“You’re leaving again.”

“Jax needs me.”

The tightening in your chest had nothing to do with the baby.

“For how long?”

“Shouldn’t be more than a few hours.”

“You don’t believe that.”

“I believe I’ll get back as soon as I can.”

“That isn’t the same thing.”

“No.”

The truck slowed at a junction. Chibs looked at you properly while the light remained red.

“I’d stay if I could.”

“I know.”

“I need you to know that.”

“I do.”

His hand turned beneath yours until your fingers slid between his.

The light changed.

He lifted your joined hands and pressed his mouth briefly to your knuckles before returning them to your thigh.

You watched the road ahead.

“I’m not asking you to stay,” you said.

“Wouldn’t blame you if you did.”

“You’d only spend the entire time listening for gunshots outside the gates.”

His expression tightened.

“And if whatever this is reaches the clubhouse while you’re sitting beside me, you’ll never forgive yourself.”

“Aye.”

“So you go. You deal with it. Then you come back.”

“As simple as that?”

“As simple as that.”

Chibs gave you a tired look.

“You’ve been spending too much time with Gemma.”

“Gemma would’ve added a threat.”

“You haven’t finished yet.”

You squeezed his hand.

“Come back, or I’ll let Tig choose the baby’s middle name.”

Chibs stared at you.

“You wouldn’t.”

“I might.”

“He’d name the poor thing after a dog.”

“He’d name them Tig.”

“Over my dead body.”

“Then we understand each other.”

A reluctant laugh escaped him, low and brief, but it loosened something inside you.

“There’s my incentive,” he said.

“I thought I was the incentive.”

“You are.”

The words came without hesitation.

Chibs’s humour faded, leaving something quieter behind.

“You both are.”

Your throat tightened.

You turned your face towards the window before he could see too much.

Chibs always noticed anyway.

His thumb stroked slowly across the back of your hand.

The baby shifted beneath your coat, a rolling movement that pushed firmly against one side of your stomach.

You placed Chibs’s hand over the spot.

“Someone heard you.”

His palm spread wide.

“There you are.”

The movement came again, directly beneath his hand.

Chibs smiled.

Not the sharp, amused smile he gave the club. Not the one that warned someone they had pushed too far.

This one belonged to the quiet rooms of your home. To mornings when his hair was still mussed from sleep and nights when he thought you had already drifted off.

“There’s my wee one,” he murmured.

You watched his profile.

“You know, you become unbearably soft whenever they move.”

“Do not.”

“You absolutely do.”

“Baby’s kicking me. Nothing soft about that.”

“The baby is kicking me.”

“Aye, but I feel it.”

“That must be very difficult for you.”

“Terrible burden.”

You smiled and covered his hand with yours.

Another pressure gathered low in your stomach.

This time, it came with a faint pull through your back.

You kept your face turned towards the window and focused on breathing normally.

In.

Out.

Chibs continued rubbing his thumb over the baby’s last movement, unaware for perhaps three seconds.

Then your fingers tightened around his.

His eyes flicked towards you.

“Another one?”

You nodded.

His hand left your stomach and returned to the steering wheel as he checked the road around them. “Different?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

The pressure increased.

You breathed out slowly through pursed lips.

Chibs watched you whenever the road allowed it.

“Talk to me.”

“I’m breathing.”

“Not what I asked.”

“It’s tight.”

“Pain?”

“Pressure.”

“Your back?”

“A little.”

His jaw set.

“Filip.”

“How long?”

“It only started.”

He glanced at the clock on the dashboard.

You almost laughed.

“You’re timing it?”

“Aye.”

“You’re worse than Tara.”

“Tara’s not here.”

“She will be at the clubhouse.”

“Good.”

The tightening held for several more seconds before gradually easing.

You relaxed against the seat.

“Gone.”

Chibs checked the clock again.

“Forty seconds.”

“You really did time it.”

“Aye.”

“It was still Braxton Hicks.”

“So you keep saying.”

“Because it is.”

“You’ve had two since I got to the funeral home.”

“I’ve been sitting still. They happen more when I’m tired or dehydrated.”

“You have water?”

“In my bag.”

Chibs looked at the bag near your feet.

You knew what was coming.

“I can get it myself.”

He pulled into an empty space beside the pavement anyway.

“Filip.”

The truck stopped.

Chibs leaned across you before you could reach down, retrieved the bottle from your handbag and twisted the cap open.

He handed it to you.

“Drink.”

You took it, mostly because refusing would only make the stop longer.

“You know I’m still capable of opening a bottle.”

“Never said you weren’t.”

“You’re treating me like I’m made of glass.”

“No.”

His answer came too quickly.

You lowered the bottle.

Chibs looked through the windscreen for a moment before turning towards you.

“I know you’re not fragile.”

“Do you?”

“Aye.”

“Because sometimes it feels like you’ve forgotten.”

His eyes moved over your face.

“I know exactly how strong you are.”

“Then why are you watching me like I’m about to break?”

His hand came up and settled against your cheek.

“Because strong things can still get hurt.”

The irritation left you.

Chibs brushed his thumb beneath your eye.

“I’ve spent too much of my life arriving after the damage is done,” he said quietly. “Let me worry when I’m here.”

There was more beneath the words than the present moment.

Belfast. Fiona. Kerrianne. Years taken from him by violence and men who knew exactly where to cut.

You leaned into his palm.

“I’m all right.”

“I know.”

“The baby’s all right.”

“Aye.”

“And these are practice contractions.”

His mouth twitched faintly.

“That last one sounded less convincing.”

You turned your head and kissed the centre of his palm.

“Take me to the clubhouse.”

Chibs studied you for another second before nodding.

He pulled back into the road, but his hand returned immediately to your thigh.

You drank more water to satisfy him, then reached into the paper bag for the lemon cake.

“That’s dessert,” he said.

“I ate the sandwich.”

“Half.”

“The baby wants cake.”

“Convenient.”

“You’re arguing with your unborn child now?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

You broke off a piece and held it towards him.

Chibs opened his mouth without looking away from the road.

You fed him the bite.

He chewed thoughtfully.

“You bought me this and now you’re eating it.”

“Tax.”

“For what?”

“Driving.”

“I didn’t ask you to drive me.”

“Pregnant women aren’t getting on the back of my bike.”

“I haven’t been on your bike in months.”

“Aye. Because I’m sensible.”

You laughed.

Chibs glanced at you, his expression softening again.

“You miss it?”

“The bike?”

“Aye.”

“Sometimes.”

“Not me?”

“I see you every day.”

“Cruel woman.”

“You knew that before you got involved with me.”

“Thought you’d mellow with age.”

You looked at him pointedly. “Which one of us is meant to be old?”

His smile faded at the edges.

Only slightly.

You noticed.

You always did.

You reached over and brushed your fingertips through the grey at his temple.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Use that voice.”

“What voice?”

“The one where you make a joke before you start worrying I’ll wake up one morning and realise you’re too old for me.”

His gaze remained fixed ahead.

“Never said that.”

“You don’t have to.”

The road grew quieter as you moved towards the outskirts of town.

You traced the silver at the edge of his hair, then let your fingers move down to his scar.

“I know how old you are.”

“Aye.”

“I knew when I kissed you the first time.”

“You were young.”

“I was twenty-four, not fourteen.”

His mouth tightened.

“You had options.”

“I still have options.”

That earned you a sharp look.

You smiled and slid your hand behind his neck.

“And I keep choosing you.”

Chibs’s eyes returned to the road, but his hand closed firmly around your knee.

“You’re very sentimental tonight,” he muttered.

“You started it.”

“Did not.”

“You brought cake.”

“Aye, well. Moment of weakness.”

You leaned across the centre console and kissed his cheek.

“Good thing I like you weak.”

He turned his head enough to catch your mouth before you could move away.

The kiss was brief and awkward with the seat belts between you, but warm.

When you settled back into your seat, the Teller-Morrow sign was visible ahead.

Floodlights washed across the compound. The gates stood open just wide enough for vehicles to enter, with two prospects posted on either side. Cars and bikes already crowded the lot.

Chibs’s hand tightened on your thigh.

The softness left him piece by piece.

His shoulders straightened. His eyes sharpened. By the time the truck approached the gate, the man beside you was still Filip, but Chibs had returned too.

You covered his hand.

He looked at you.

“Come back to me,” you said.

Something flickered across his face.

Then he lifted your hand to his mouth and kissed your knuckles.

“Always, love.”

The gates began closing behind the truck before Chibs had even switched off the engine.

The gates had barely shut before the compound swallowed them. Prospects moved across the lot with weapons tucked beneath their kuttes. Cars stood wherever there was space while women unloaded bags, blankets and sleepy children. The garage doors were closed despite the lights burning inside Teller-Morrow, and someone had been posted at every entrance. It looked less like a lockdown than the entire extended family had been told to prepare for the end of the world with twenty minutes’ notice. Chibs switched off the engine but did not immediately move.

His attention travelled across the lot, counting faces and vehicles before settling on the clubhouse door. You folded the paper around the remains of your sandwich.

“You planning to carry me inside?”

“Hadnae ruled it out.”

“I knew letting you tie my shoe was a mistake.”

He released your seat belt before you could reach it.

“You’re mouthy for a woman who left half her dinner.”

“I ate the cake.”

“That doesnae count.”

“It counted when you stole it.”

His mouth moved faintly. Before opening his door, Chibs placed one hand against the side of your stomach.

“Anything?”

“No.”

The answer was nearly true. It had been several minutes since the last tightening, though the ache in your lower back remained. His eyes narrowed.

“I’d tell you.”

“Aye?”

“Eventually.”

“Comforting.”

He kissed your temple and climbed from the truck. Your door opened before your fingers reached the handle. Chibs held your handbag and the food in one hand while offering you the other. You accepted it because the drop from the truck felt farther than usual. The moment your feet touched the ground, pressure settled low through your pelvis. You paused. Chibs’s free hand came to your waist.

“What?”

“Nothing. The baby’s sitting low.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

He waited until you took another step before loosening his grip. A motorcycle came through the secondary gate as a prospect secured it again. Happy crossed immediately towards Jax, who stood outside the clubhouse with Bobby and Juice. Jax saw Chibs and lifted two fingers in a sharp summons. Chibs acknowledged him but kept walking with you.

“You’ve been called,” you said.

“He can wait.”

“Filip.”

“Two minutes.”

You knew better than to waste one of them arguing. The clubhouse door opened. Tig stepped outside carrying a box of canned food. He took one look at Chibs hovering at your side and grinned.

“There she is.”

“Were you worried?”

“Terrified. Funeral homes are dangerous.”

“Only when you annoy the staff.”

“So I’m never safe.”

“Not once.”

His gaze moved from your face to Chibs’s hand at your back.

“Everything good?”

“Fine,” you said.

“She’s had a few practice contractions,” Chibs added.

Tig’s expression sobered.

“Need Tara?”

“She’s fine,” you said.

Chibs answered at the same time.

“Aye.”

You looked at him.

“Tara can confirm that I’m fine.”

Tig passed the box to a prospect and held the clubhouse door open.

“Inside before Jax starts threatening people.”

“Jax always threatens people,” you said.

“True. Before he gets creative, then.”

Chibs guided you through the doorway. The room was already crowded. Every table held food, bags or weapons. Children sat near the pool table with colouring books spread around them while Gemma directed three people at once from behind the bar. Tara sat at one of the tables with Thomas against her shoulder and a small medical bag open beside her. Her attention sharpened when she saw you. Chibs chose the couch near the chapel doors, away from the busiest part of the room.

“I can sit at the bar.”

“No.”

“The couch is too low.”

“I’ll get you up.”

“That is not the point.”

“Sit, love.”

You stared at him. Tig wisely disappeared towards the kitchen.

“I’ll sit because my feet hurt,” you said.

“Course.”

“Not because you ordered me.”

“Wouldnae dream of it.”

You lowered yourself onto the cushions. Chibs kept one hand beneath your elbow until you were settled, then frowned at the flat pillow behind you.

“It’s fine.”

“It’s useless.”

He removed his kutte, folded it and placed it behind your lower back. The leather was warm from his body. Your irritation softened.

“You’ll need that.”

“Not for five minutes.”

He crouched to loosen your shoes.

“You really don’t have to do that.”

“Aye, I do.”

“You enjoy treating me like I’m incapable.”

“I enjoy seeing you stop pretending your feet don’t hurt.”

He removed the shoes and placed them neatly beneath the couch.

“Better?”

You flexed your toes.

“Much.”

Tara approached with Thomas still against her shoulder.

“How are you feeling?”

“Fine.”

Chibs looked at her.

“She’s had five or six tightenings today. Two since I picked her up.”

You sighed.

“Not painful. Not regular. No leaking or bleeding, and the baby is moving normally.”

As though proving it, the baby shifted beneath your ribs. Tara smiled.

“Any back pain?”

“A little pressure.”

“How long are the tightenings lasting?”

“Thirty or forty seconds.”

Tara checked your pulse and rested a hand lightly against your stomach when another small movement passed beneath it.

“You may have overdone it. Drink water, finish your food and rest. If they become regular, stronger or closer together, tell me.”

“I will.”

Tara looked at Chibs.

“She knows her body.”

“Aye.”

“But?”

“No but.”

Neither of you believed him. Tara gave you an encouraging smile and returned to the table. Chibs handed you the water bottle from your bag. You accepted it without argument. He sat beside you, the cushion drawing you gently towards him. His arm came around your shoulders. You leaned into the familiar warmth of his side.

“You should’ve called me earlier,” he murmured.

“You were busy.”

“Never too busy for you.”

You looked down at the bottle.

“You came.”

“Course I did.”

“You always say that like it’s obvious.”

His fingers tightened gently against your arm.

“It should be obvious to you.”

You looked up at him.

“It is.”

You kissed the scar along his cheek. Chibs turned enough to catch your mouth. The kiss was brief and soft, more reassurance than heat. When it ended, his forehead rested against yours. The baby moved beneath his hand. Chibs rubbed the spot.

“Feels lower.”

“You’ve said that every day this week.”

“It does.”

“You know nothing about babies.”

“Know they’re stubborn.”

“That could still be me.”

“Aye. Fair point.”

Jax appeared in the doorway, his gaze moving from Chibs’s arm around you to the men waiting outside.

“We need to go.”

[romanticallyhaunted]

Where He Softens | Chibs Telford x reader | one shot

A/N I felt like writing something domestic and romantic today, maybe even fluffy and comforting. Just dancing around the kitchen with one of your favorite bikers🖤

It was late at night. Everything had already gone silent, a streetlight flickered through a small gap in the curtains. The entire neighborhood was probably asleep by now, peaceful in a way Charming itself never truly was. Somewhere out there engines still roared and deals were still being made, but inside the house there was only the low hum of old rock music drifting through the living room. You lay curled up on the couch beneath a soft blanket. The fabric brushed against your bare legs while the faint scent of cigarette smoke and old whiskey still lingered in the room from earlier that evening. You weren’t asleep. Just waiting for your old man to come home.

The front door finally opened with a quiet creak. You didn’t move immediately, though the corner of your mouth twitched softly the moment you heard heavy boots crossing the wooden floor. Chibs always tried to be quieter when he thought you were sleeping, despite the fact a man built like him could never truly move silently. You cracked an eye open just enough to see him. Leather kutte. Exhaustion weighing down his broad shoulders. There was dried blood across one of his knuckles and the familiar scent of cigarettes, cold night air and gunpowder followed him inside the house. His tired eyes landed on you almost instantly. “There’s my girl…” His Scottish accent came out rougher than usual, exhaustion dragging through every word. His gaze was tired, though beneath that tiredness there was still adrenaline lingering in his stare. The kind that told you his mind was still stuck somewhere back at the clubhouse.

A soft smile tugging at the corners of your lips as you slowly sat up at the sight of your old man wandering into the living room. “Long night, dear?” Your voice soft, your tiredness of the long wait lingered in your voice like a whisper. “Aye.” He exhaled quietly, rubbing a hand over his beard. “Club shit.” the way he exhaled, even the way his fingers traced the outlines of his facial hair told you exactly what kind of night it had been. You could almost guess how much he had been smoking this evening when the stench of cigarettes and iron filled your nostrils even though he wasn’t even close yet. As you quietly waited for your old man to finally fill up that empty spot on the couch with you.

Your eyes followed him toward the kitchen while he grabbed the whiskey bottle from the cabinet, though halfway through pouring himself a glass he stopped. His gaze shifted toward the radio instead. Toward the old rock song humming softly through the house. Then back toward you. A slow grin pulled at the corner of his mouth. “C’mere.” You laughed quietly underneath your breath. “Chibs, I'm comfortable”. “Woman,” he pointed toward you with the whiskey glass. “Get yer ass over here”. You didn’t have to think twice, you were touch starved for him all day anyway. You got up, the blanket hitting the ground beneath you as you made your way to your old man.

His arms sneaked around your waist, as his rough hands found your lower back. Caressing hands sliding up your back, the fabric of your shirt almost non-existent beneath his touch. The old rock music softly humming around the both of you. Your hands deliberately found his chest, the leather of his Kutte brushed your fingertips, a soft smile appearing on your lips at the familiar feeling. His body finally seemed to loosen bit by bit beneath your touch, the tension slowly draining from his broad shoulders. They clearly had been carrying too much today, you could feel it in the way he exhaled against the top of your head. It was heavy, tired. Almost like he had been holding his breath for hours.

The kitchen light cast golden shadows across the room while the music continued softly around you both. Chibs pulled you closer without hesitation, slowly swaying with you in the middle of the kitchen as if the outside world suddenly didn’t exist anymore. Your cheek rested against his chest while his rough fingertips traced lazy circles against your lower back. “You smell like cigarettes,” you mumbled. A quiet chuckle rumbled in his chest above your head. “And bad decisions,” you added softly as the faint scent of iron reached your nose. “Aye,” he muttered slowly. “That too.” You could feel his heartbeat beneath your cheek. It was slow and steady, just like the rhythm of both your feet shuffling beneath you. The kind of rhythm that made your entire body slowly melt into him without even realizing it.

Your fingertips slowly slipped from his chest toward his hand, carefully intertwining your fingers with his much larger ones. The dried blood across his knuckles already darkened, cracked between his rough skin. Your feet follow into his as he slowly leads you through the kitchen. Moments like this, definitely were your favorite ones. The love for him crawling beneath your skin, goosebumps giving away exactly what you were feeling for him. Your thumb brushed over the bruising gently, almost absentmindedly. Chibs noticed instantly. Of course he did. His gaze dropped toward your hands before a quiet breath escaped him. “Sweetheart…” He muttered slowly. “M’fine”. “I know” You spoke softly, though your fingertips still traced over his knuckles anyway. “Doesn’t mean I can’t care”. For a moment he just looked at you, the look in his eyes was enough of an answer.

The song on the radio crackled softly through old speakers while your bodies kept swaying together across the kitchen floor. The whiskey glass still rested forgotten on the counter behind him, abandoned the second he had pulled you into his arms instead. Outside, somewhere far down the street, a motorcycle roared briefly before silence swallowed the sound again. You rolled your eyes softly underneath your breath while his hand slowly traveled higher along your spine, fingertips disappearing into your hair for a moment. The touch made your eyes close briefly. Comforting. Familiar. Home.

Chibs lowered his head slightly, lips brushing against your hairline while he kept swaying with you to the music. No tension. No chaos. No SAMCRO bullshit. Just him. Just this. His grip tightened slightly against your waist before he spoke again, voice quieter now. Softer. “Best part o’ my day is comin’ home tae ye, lass.” Your eyes closed completely at those words, arms slipping further around him underneath the leather of his kutte. Outside, Charming was still turning beneath violence, engines and bloodshed. But here in the kitchen, wrapped up in Chibs Telford’s arms while old rock music hummed softly through the house, the world finally felt still for once.

After a while of heavenly slow dancing and just enjoying his warmth and touch, one of his masculine hands found your cheek, cupping your jaw. His lips found yours slowly, almost like he needed to savor the moment. The familiar taste of whiskey and cigarettes lingered on your lips as you caught on with his slow and yearning rhythm. The sound Chibs made against your lips while his thumb caressed your jaw, made your knees weak. The kiss wasn’t hungry, it was something more than that. Something you can’t simply put into words. It was a kiss that would carry an entire day of missing each other. A kiss that made him forget everything he had to do on behalf of the club. The slow sway between your bodies never fully stopped, feet still catching on to the rhythm of the music. Neither of you rushed to let the other go, simply swaying together beneath the dim kitchen light.

[kishibe-kisser]

A bed and a home (Chibs Telford/Sons of Anarchy)

Tags: situationship, argument, p in v, cumming inside, that's about it. Chibs had a hard night

The feeling of your bed dipping under someone's weight made you lift your head. Blinking through the darkness, you made out the all too familiar reaper patch before closing your eyes again. It only meant one thing, Chibs.

The only man that had a key to your house, the only person that would come sneaking around in the middle of the night.

"Chibs?" your voice was soft and low, sleep laced in your tone. You could hear his heavy cut hit the floor, together with his shirt as he crawled into bed next to you.

"Ay, go back to sleep." you could hear from his voice that it had been a rough night and you knew that that was exactly why he was here. Every hard day, rough night, this was where he ended up. Your bed was a safe haven, your house a home and yet his relationship with you was undefinable.

It had happened more than once that you found him sitting in your living room, cigarette smoke filling the space as he stared out in front of him. You knew enough about his life to know better than to ask. He'd tell what he needed to, when he needed to. But that choice was on him and that was why he liked it here.

"Do I wanna know?" you asked, turning to face him in the bed. Exhaustion filled the lines on his face, his eyes downturned and sad. You reached forward, your hand stroking over his face. His eyes shut as he leaned into your touch, his own hand finding it's way to your waist.

"I wish I didn't know." he sighed, pulling you closer. All he wanted was to feel you. The heat of your body, your soft skin under his rough fingers, it all helped with grounding him.

"Alright, I won't ask." you started, feeling him nuzzle his face into the side of your neck. His beard always tickled you when he did that, sending goosebumps up and down your back. "Maybe tomorrow you'll tell me."

"Don't count on it." his lips ghosted over the skin of your neck and you felt yourself lean into him more. "You should really go back to sleep."

He kissed the side of your neck, moving his lips to your jaw and then your pausing just in front of your lips. He smelt like cigarettes and leather, invading your all of your senses with him. In this bed, in this house it was just you and him.

"Chibs," you whispered, your fingers finding the hairs at the nape of his neck. He finally looked you in the eyes before pressing his lips to yours, gently at first. Grumbling against you, his hands travelling to try and pull you even closer. "Chibs, please."

He needed you, he needed this and every time he'd get a little fix he'd need so much more the next time. He'd take, take and take and you'd give, give and give.

You let him lift your sleep shirt off of your body, giving him even more of you. The safety of your bed and home was one thing, but your body another entirely and he owned it.

He laid onto his back, pulling you to lay on top of him as your bare chest pressed against his. Tongue fighting yours as your legs straddled his waist. In all honesty, you needed him maybe more than he needed you. You loved it when he came and hated it when he left.

Your hair fell over your face as you looked down at him, one of the hands on your hip moving to hold your hair back. This sight, his messed up salt and pepper hair, the beard you loved toying with, the tattoos on his chest and the rosary that was always around his neck.

Chibs grabbed the back of your neck, need taking him over as his hand rubbed you through your underwear. Your hips rocked in motion with him, moaning softly as your hands braced against his chest. The fingers on your core aided the feeling of him getting harder under you, watching you slowly build up your release.

He tugged your underwear to the side, moving to push his own down as well. Normally he'd take better care of you, his mouth and fingers all coming in to play to make you cum. But not tonight, he needed you too much.

You lifted your hips, sitting up before sinking down on him. Your whimper made him groan, watching you shake your head to move your hair out of the way. This was everything to him, your bare body, your bouncing chest as you rode him even the nails digging into his chest were a welcome reminder to him of how much he loved being with you.

"That's it, that's a good lass," he cooed, gently bucking his hips with your tempo. You moaned at his praise, his nails pressing indents into your hips. Your pace picked up, chasing your high that you so desperately needed. "So good for me."

He pulled you down, flush against his chest to kiss you again. His hands tangled with your hair, pulling it as his hips bucked into your harder. He was chasing his high just as hard. While he didn't come here for sex, it was a welcome surprise and now he just wanted to cum and go to sleep.

"Can you cum for me, pretty lass?" he whispered, hearing your cries turn desperate. Your eyes fluttered shut, your face burrying into his shoulders as you teetered on the edge. With a few more pumps of his hips, your core tightened around him moaning out his name. He wasn't far behind, holding you down on him as you cried in overstimulation before cumming inside of you.

You stayed on top of him, catching your breath as he pet your hair. His hands were gentle, moving over your back and back to your hair. You both could've fallen asleep like that, but knew it would only leave you both sore in the morning. So against lack of better judgement, Chibs helped you lie down next to him and let your legs tangle with his.

He stared at the ceiling, watching the fan turn as you slept on his chest. The events from the day, the gunshots, the bodies replaying in his mind. Falling asleep had been getting harder and harder for him, at least in his own bed. Here it was easier, not easy but easier.

Chibs looked down at you. Your hand resting and head resting on his chest, breath rising and falling steadily. Steady, that was what you were. No matter what went on out there.

He fell asleep and woke up early, yet the bed was empty. He felt sore and aching when he stepped out of the bed, leaning down to pick up his clothes. The cut on his back being light yet oh so heavy at the same time. Glancing in the mirror, he looked and felt like his age this morning, something he hadn't in a long time. He was tired.

"You look exhausted." you stood watching from the doorframe, his gaze floating to you from the mirror. Your body was wrapped in a bathrobe, hair still wet from your shower.

"Ay, I am." He stepped to you, leaning down to wrap his arms around you. His face pressing into your wet hair and taking whiff of your shampoo. "Think I could sleep for a week and not be well rested."

You sighed, looking up at him. Whatever the day before brought was weighing on him, heavier than most things. But he made it clear that talking about it wasn't in the cards.

"I need to head out." he said, kissing the top of your head and trying to pull away. You couldn't let him just yet, pulling him back into you and cupping his face in your hands. His eyes shut again, your golden touch being too easy to melt into. "Darn woman."

"I never ask anything of you-" you started, stroking his cheeks and scars gently. "But I'm going to today."

"Go on." he said softly, hand coming up to hold yours. He was scared for what you were going to ask, but knew it couldn't be more than what he asked of you.

"Just come back to me in one piece." your request was simple in the eyes of a normal person. In his he knew it was more difficult than not, but he wasn't a man that wouldn't try.

"Nothing to worry about, lass." he smiled, leaning forward and pressing another kiss to your forehead. "Besides I got the key."

[saralovesjoelmiller]

Take it easy, baby

Chibs Telford x girlfriend!Reader

Spoiler Warning - Set during the events of season 2

Content - angst, comfort and smut ❤️‍🩹❤️‍🔥

A/N - I’m watching Sons of Anarchy for the first time and I’ve nearly finished season 2, and I’m already obsessed with Chibs 😻 For my frequent readers, I appreciate this is completely different from my TLOU fanfics, but I am working on plenty atm, and I thought I’d switch it up with my latest hyperfixation. Hope you enjoy!💖

It’s been a relief to see Chibs up and about again, even though you think he should be taking it easy, you know the stubborn Scotsman won’t be slowing down any time soon. The explosion had traumatised you, but it served as a reminder of the danger this lifestyle comes with. You were grateful for Tara, and you made sure to compensate her for the risk and consequence she took on for Chibs’ safety. The scar residing at his nape makes your heart ache, but you know that he is one of the strongest people you know. Besides, Chibs has really been milking it; you’ve been spoiling him by being at his side all the time to lavish him with your loving. However, ever since he has got out of the hospital, he has slightly withdrawn from you. You both still made love every night, spend all your free time together, but you could tell his mind was elsewhere. A voice terrorised your mind, taunting you that he isn’t over Fiona. Hell, he wasn’t even divorced from her. But Chibs had reassured you time and time again that his heart belonged to you. It was Fiona that was refusing to sign the papers. But you can’t ignore the fact that he has only started acting off ever since Fiona came back.

Today was your last straw, you were sat at your kitchen island sporting a sour pout. At first, Chibs laughs. He thinks you look cute rather than intimidating. But when he realises you haven’t said anything, he knows he is in the doghouse.

“What have I done now, baby?”, he asks, cupping your face.

You look down, tears threatening to fall from your eyes. You lose to your pent up emotion, crying in his arms.

“Hey, what’s this, darlin? Shhh, I’m here sweetheart, tell me what’s going on.”

“You tell me!”, you exclaim.

He looks at you confused, waiting for you to continue.

You take a deep breath, “Ever since she’s come back… you’ve been elsewhere. Am I losing you, Filip?”

He looks at you incredulous. He can’t say he’s offended, because he can’t deny the fact that he has been elsewhere mentally. The implication does hurt though.

“No. No, how many times, darlin’? I’m yours, you’re mine. There’s no one else- I haven’t loved another woman more than I have loved ye. I love ye!”

You look up at him, his words warm your heart but the concern hasn’t faded.

“Then what’s going on?!”, you cup his face, “You haven’t been the same and, I get it’s been a crazy time, I nearly fuckin’ lost you! But I can tell when you are keeping something from me!”

This is when Chibs screws up, he knows it.

“Ye know what? I can’t do this right now.”, he grabs his keys and leaves the house, slamming the door behind. You cry all alone.

You still went to the clubhouse, you still had your job to do as the best Teller-Morrow mechanic. You didn’t know if you yearned to see your old man, or dreaded to. You just wished things were normal again. Your head wasn’t at work right now, and it showed in the way you were messing up a simple tyre change (something you have sworn you can do in your sleep at this point.).

You kick the wheel in frustration, “Fuck!”, you cry out.

Gemma had been watching the whole scene, she approaches you. “Come here, baby.”, she gently ushered you into her arms, where you cried on her shoulder.

You both had a long chat and a smoke, “I just don’t know what to do, how to move past this with him.”

“First thing, baby. You need to realise that Chibs loves you to your goddamn bones. Fiona… you don’t have to worry about her, Fiona is the past. The only person Chibs really cares about from back then is Kerri’ann. Second, you remind him who his old lady is. Who has got him through thick and thin. Whatever he is hiding from you, he’s probably doing it to protect you. But you remind him that you are strong, and can take on whatever he is taking on by himself.”

You look at Gemma with a face of awe and gratitude. You hug her tightly, “Thank you. You know, you’re the foundation of SAMCRO. Without you, this club would be ashes.”

She smiles, “You’re welcome, baby.”, she kisses your cheek before letting you get back to work. You feel lighter.

You were in the clubhouse, just having finished helping gather firearms for the big retaliation against the League. You were sat at the bar with Juice and Tig, when Chibs entered. He looks at you briefly, soft eyes and a sigh. But that was all you got from him. Juice notices the hurt on your face.

“Hey, this is just a rough patch. You two will get through this.”, he pats your back with a soft smile.

You nod with a long sigh, “I know…Thanks Juicey.” Juice smiles with remorse, he leaves, leaving you and Tig alone.

“Hey Tigger.”, you greet him, taking a seat next to him.

“Hey sweetheart. Here, have a smoke.”, he hands you his blunt to take a drag from. You take a long drag before handing it back to him.

“Everything is such… bullshit right now, Tig. Do you think we’ll make it?”

“SAMCRO will always come out on top, baby. You and Chibs will too. Just give him some time. Poor bastard’s had a hit to his head, he is bound to act stupid, right?”, he jokes, eager to make you laugh again. A small smile pinches your face.

“There she is! Besides, if you ever want me to step in his place for a bit, I’d be more than happy to.”, he teases in his usual Tig Trager fashion.

“You’re terrible!”, you jab his side playfully, chuckling at his audacity.

“Hey! Watch it!”, he laughs. “Nahhh, I know I ain’t got a chance, you and Chibs are perfect for one another. Even if he’s acting stupid right now. I know he’s just thinking he’s doing what’s best to protect you, but he’ll see sense soon.”

You smile at him before resting your head on his shoulder, “Thanks Tiggy.”

He kisses your forehead, “That’s what family’s for, baby.”

Chibs is on his way to you after an insightful chat with Gemma. The whole time Gemma couldn’t help but smile to herself, you and Chibs were truly perfect for one another. She had just finished having the same conversation with Chibs as she had had with you in the morning.

“Mo chridhe.”, he spoke gently. The sight of your form on the bed, back facing towards him, was enough to shatter all his walls. Chibs lies on the bed beside you, his arms wrapping around your middle. He finds refuge in the crook of your neck, kissing you reverently.

“I’m so damn sorry, mo ghràidh.”

“Baby…”, you whisper softly, finally turning to face him. You both kiss, as if it’s the first time in years. But you can’t just kiss and makeup yet, you need to find out what’s been eating up your old man. You pull away tentatively, as if it physically hurt you to.

“Please baby, talk to me.”

Tears fill his eyes, he takes a deep breath before he divulges into what’s been burdening his mind and heart.

“I’m so fuckin’ scared, baby. So fuckin’ scared I’m gonna lose ye. Jimmy O… he’s already got me daughter. He stole Fiona back then- not that I have feelings for her anymore, but ye know. I’m scared of history repeatin’ itself with ye. I can’t lose ye, baby. Ye are my everythin’. Fuck, I was about to rat to Stahl. I’m so sorry, darlin. Ye deserve better, but please never doubt my love for you, baby. Mo chridhe.”

Now you’re both crying, you don’t have the words right now, so you kiss him passionately. A kiss that spoke of forgiveness and undying love.

You hold his hands to your heart, clasping them reverently, kissing them with just as much passion.

“Baby, we’ve gotta be transparent with one another. I’ve stood by you through it all, and I always will. We will get through this together, like we always have.”

His tears roll down now but it’s out of relief.

“I’ve been a right ass, baby.”, he chuckles softly.

You kick his ass softly, “Damn straight!”

“Oi!”, he laughs, he tackles you playfully. You squeal, laughing the most you have in the past two weeks.

Your lips meet again, magnetised, you moan into his mouth.

“I need you.”

“I got ye, baby, I’m always here for ye, baby.”

His clothes were off just as fast as yours were. He entered you with ease, intense pleasure flooding you both. As he thrusted into you, he praised and whispered affectionate Gaelic in your ear. “I love you so much, mo chridhe, come for me, that’s it baby, good girl.” He showered you with kisses as you cried out in pleasure.

You both made love well into the early hours. This time, it felt like your Filip had come back to you, like he always would.

Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed 💖 My requests are currently open 💌

[little-miss-dilf-lover]

thinking about chibs telford refer to himself as old man during sex.. 18+

fem!reader, mdni. cw. implied age gap. 'old man' in the dirty, dilfy way, not club way

the position he’s got you in is simple, quite comfortable really: laid flat on your stomach, side of your face resting on tightly crossed arms. a scrunched pillow sits under your stomach, acting as a prop of elevation for chibs.

he cages over you from behind, arms bent beside yours, lips ghosting the shell of your ear from the closeness. his slow and laboured rhythmic breathing matches the pace of his leisure fucking — the focus on depth and feel rather than the speed. every small, half wind of his hips produces the faintest of exhales from you both, your blissed sounds merging and muffling. 

every slight bump of his cock into your cunt moves you, the pair of you fluid in motion, moving like tiny waves against the bed. your ankles cross and lift as your knees bend, another point of elevation tightening your pussy’s hold on chibs.

“aye, wee lassie,” he murmurs at the new feel, muttering into the patch of skin behind your ear. “not gon’ last,” he adds between a couple pumps, pressing a needy littler of kisses to where he just spoke — beard skimming the sensitive spots along the back of your bare shoulder.

his pace quickens ever so slightly, barely noticeable really. but it’s as if he’s chasing the edge. his chest brushes up against your back with the subtle increase of speed, strands of his greying hair falling from the pushed back position and mixing with yours below.

“you gon’ come with your old man?” he asks, the question practically rhetorical — no need for a vocal answer. voice low and accent thick as he whispers directly into your ear. “aye?” he hums, waiting for acknowledgement and nipping at the lobe of your ear.

you muster a nod, the motion rather haste. a measly whine accompanies the action and your eyes flutter closed. with his hands planted just in your view, his fingers only a short couple inches away — you reach for his hand. and when he feels your touch, he’s lifting a palm to place atop the back of your hand, fingers lacing into yours. 

you clench around him intermittently, your breathing hitching and growing all the more strained with every rock of his cock. 

“yer right there, aren’t yer, lovie?” he muffles into your hair, his forehead resting on the side of your head — strength in his neck seeming to be lost.

“yeah,” you murmur, the whinge following the word is rather pathetic.

his grip tightens on your hand, knuckles whitening atop of yours. “then let go.”

⎯ ☆ ⎯

id actually give my last £7.42 to spend a night with this man. pls man you’re my fav scot PLS. fully prepared for no one to read this bc have never spoken about him on my page before

[tinyshyteacup]

Can I possibly get Chibs smut like first time together after months of just kissing and slow burn even though both of you wanted to rush bc you both felt it😍😍😍😫😫

Probably a little softer then your request but I was feeling it. (Also wayyy longer then I intended)

TW: smut, tobacco depictions, soft chibs, p in v. 18+ MDNI

• Nightfall •

Chibs moves with the silence of a man used to danger. Soft-footed across the dorm floor, every motion careful. This Lockdown had been a joke, and you'd spent the day on your feet, helpful as you were, putting everyone before yourself.

Chibs, despite his tough exterior has always been careful with you, gentlemanly, you'd kissed, held each other, but never explored beyond that.

You hear the low clink of his rings as he gathers your sweater first, folding it loosely over the back of the chair.

His rough hands lift your tank top, your jeans, each item drawn up off the floor and out of the way with a kind of reverence.

There’s no leer to it. No smirk.

Just a soft focus behind his eyes—like he’s cataloguing every thread, every impression you’ve left behind in his space.

"You leave a wee trail everywhere ye go, don't ye..." he murmurs almost inaudibly under his breath, the hint of a fond smile in his tone, though you’re not meant to hear it.

His kutte comes off with a whisper of worn leather, hung on the same hook near the door.

Then his boots.

His belt.

His shirt unbuttons, one clasp at a time.

A slow ritual, like shedding the weight of the world with each piece.

The click of his lighter breaks the silence—small, brief, familiar. The ember glows warm orange against the low light as he steps near the cracked-open window, letting out the first slow exhale.

He leans against the sill, arms crossed, one hand loosely holding the cigarette between two fingers.

The smoke curls around him like a ghost, clinging to his hair, his collarbone, the soft shadow carved beneath his jaw.

"Still can’t wrap me head ‘round you bein’ here..." he mutters softly to himself, thick Scottish rasp coated in smoke and weariness.

"Look at what ye've bloody done… makin’ a home out o’ this mess."

He turns on instinct—maybe to stub it out, maybe just to check that you’re truly asleep.

But he freezes when he catches your eyes on him. Your voice is barely audible, soft and warm in the low dark.

"I can't sleep."

There’s no startle in him. No mask sliding back down. He just holds your gaze for a long second through the smoke, then lifts the cigarette slowly to his lips again.

"Aye," he breathes around the smoke, tapping ash into a tray. "Me neither."

He finishes it slowly, no rush. Not now. Not with you watching him like that. When the stub is pressed out and the tray is pushed aside, he moves toward the bed again—bare chest catching in the dim light, every scar, every piece of ink a chapter written into his skin.

He doesn’t speak as he pulls back the covers, slipping in behind you, one arm drawing you in automatically. His hand skims over your waist, then stills there.

"Ye wan' talk about it, love?" His voice is low, warm against the back of your neck, his accent thick and rasping.

When you shake your head no, just nudging closer, he presses a kiss just below your ear.

"Alright, then."

You both settle. His breath deepens. Yours matches.

Your fingers curl around his hand where it rests across your middle, holding him there like a lifeline. And he lets you.

He doesn't try to fix your thoughts or chase away the ache that keeps you awake. He just stays. Anchors you with his body, his heat, the steady beat of his heart against your back.

You wrinkle your nose a little, burying your face into the curve of the pillow before letting the words out in a mumble against the fabric.

"You smell all smoky."

For a beat, there’s silence, just your fingers idly tracing the lines of ink on his arm.

Then that low, husky chuckle rumbles up from his chest, warm and unguarded. His breath fans across your temple as he leans his head into your shoulder.

"Aye, well," he murmurs, smile tugging crookedly at the corner of his mouth.

"that’s what happens when y’drag an old bastard in from the window, love."

He turns you in his arms with slow certainty, careful not to jostle you, one hand slipping beneath your shoulder and coaxing you to face him. Your legs shift beneath the covers, tangling softly with his, one of his thighs pressing to yours, anchoring.

His eyes crinkle at the corners when he looks at you—tired but bright, like you’ve flicked a switch inside him.

It starts so quietly that it could’ve been mistaken for nothing more than a breath.

One moment, you're teasing him—soft voice muffled by the dimness and his chest so close—and the next, he's looking at you like he’s never been kissed before in his life. Like this might be the first one that matters.

There’s no rush in him, no heat chasing the moment too fast. Just a long pause. A slight lean in. The barest flick of his gaze to your lips, then back to your eyes, as if asking for something without saying a word.

Then he kisses you.

Not hungrily.

Tenderly.

The kind of kiss that makes you forget your name, not because it steals your breath, but because it gives it back.

His lips move slowly over yours—his stubble brushes your skin, a rough whisper against your softness—but there’s no force, no pressure. Just a quiet pull.

You taste the faint bite of smoke on him, warm and earthy, but even that fades beneath the press of something more.

As the kiss deepens—as his tounge whispers across your lip, a request for entrance—his hand shifts behind your neck, anchoring you to him.

Not in control.

But like he’s afraid the world might wake up and take you away if he lets go.

You don’t realize he’s moving you until you feel the change in pressure beneath you.

The pillows beneath your head are soft, worn from years of use, the faint scent of his cologne clinging to the sheets. Somehow, in the space of a few lingering kisses and the hush between them, he’s gently rolled you beneath him.

But there’s no weight. No pressing need. His body hovers over yours, forearms braced on either side of your shoulders, the line of his thigh resting between your legs, protective, not pushing.

"Didn’t even notice, did ye?" he murmurs against your lips, voice roughened by smoke and the Scotch lilt of his amusement. His accent curls around the words like they’re only for you.

"Slippery bastard, me." You feel more than see his wolfish grin, as he tilts his head and tugs your bottom lip with his teeth.

His fingers drift down, resting at the edge of the button-up shirt you’re wearing—his shirt, too big on your frame, hem brushing your thighs. The sight makes his breath catch, just slightly.

"Jesus Christ..." he mutters under his breath, eyes searching your face as if checking you’re alright with each slow move.

Then, delicately—tenderly—he lifts the first button, slipping it free. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t undress you like a prize to be claimed. He does it like a man peeling away the world to reach you.

He pauses with the shirt hanging open, brushing his knuckles lightly along your collarbone. Not taking, not assuming. Just… being.

"Ye alright?" he asks, voice barely above a whisper, as if he’s afraid to break the spell.

When you answer yes, he doesn’t move fast.

His other hand rests against your ribs under the covers, thumb tracing slow arcs over the skin below your breast, grounding you both in the moment.

“Fuckin’ unreal, ye are.” he murmurs, kissing along your collarbone, voice husky, lilting with that rich Glaswegian lilt.

His hand moves across you— mapping you like you’re a story he wants to learn line by line. The pad of his thumb traces over the gentle curve of your hip, along the slope of your waist, settling at the dip of your thigh.

His fingers still for just a breath. His eyes search yours, quietly scanning—checking that you’re still there, still willing, still you.

His voice is a rasp, barely more than a breath.

"Tell me to stop, lass, an’ I will. But if ye don’t… I swear to God, I’ll be nothin’ but gentle with ye."

And you know he means it.

Not because he says it—but because every moment leading up to this one has proved it.

The laughter. The chase. The quiet way he stood behind you in the clubhouse when things get tense. The cigarette at the window when he thought you were asleep.

Your hands move hesitantly, barely brushing his chest as you explore the warmth of him through tentative touches. The muscles there are solid beneath your fingers—etched from years of battle and burden—but you handle him like he’s fragile.

Like you’re the one who needs to be gentle with him.

Chibs doesn’t move at first. He just watches you, half-shadowed in the low light, expression unreadable—but his breath stutters softly, and that’s answer enough.

"You alright, lass?" he asks quietly, voice thick with his accent, the words low like gravel over velvet. His hand shifts to your hip, grounding you, but he doesn't stop your touch. "Ye don’t have to…"

You shake your head, slowly. “I want to.”

Your answer is barely a whisper, and he swallows hard at the honesty in it. The lines around his eyes deepen as he watches you, waiting to see what you’ll do next.

When your fingertips rise to his face, brushing the edge of his Glasglow smile, he freezes—not tense, but still, like an animal unsure if it’s being hunted or healed.

Your touch is so light it could be mistaken for air, and yet it carries the weight of things no one’s ever dared give him before.

He inhales through his nose, eyes fluttering shut for just a second.

"Ye know what they are, aye?" he asks, voice low and rough, not challenging—just honest.

“Evidence, Filip.”

His lips part slightly, a small furrow of confusion in his brow, like he’s going to say something, maybe a protest, but nothing comes out.

"Evidence that you won, Scotsman" you clarify in a whisper.

He lets out a shaky exhale and leans into your touch.

Chibs moves slow—not because he’s unsure, but because he wants you to feel every second. His weight eases over you, protective rather than pressing. His skin is warm, the scent of smoke still faint on him, but it’s overpowered by something softer—soap, warmth, safety.

He pulls you closer, until his leg slips between yours, the maneuver parting your thighs beneath him.

The pad of his thumb moves in soft teasing circles around your sensitive bud, as he gently aligns his body with yours, the way his hand traces the edge of you knee is so unlike the gruffness he has with his brothers, his breath catches when your knee brushes his hip—but he doesn’t rush.

He shifts and palms himself, a slow delibrate stroke, before notching himself at your entrance.

Cool brown eyes flick to yours and back, before he presses himself forward into your heat.

The slow stretch spreads warm, outward like spilled mulled wine, a slow stain of surrender as Chibs sinks into you.

“Christ, ye ruin me, ye do.” he breathes into your skin.

You slide your arms around his neck, and your fingers brush the hair at his nape—coarse and soft all at once, salt and pepper strands curling slightly beneath your touch.

Your body arched around the intrusion, Chibs leans his forehead to yours, breathing you in like he needs you more than air.

He brushes a strand of hair from your face with a calloused palm and kisses the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, then the soft place beneath your ear.

The room is quiet save for the low hum of the night outside the dorm walls. No engines. No shouting. Just the soft sound of his lips brushing against yours, and the warmth of skin meeting skin.

You're cocooned and consumed by him in every fragile cell, in every pulse of movement, as he rocks into you in a steady rhythmic roll.

You can feel the heat of him, the way he slides across the spongey spot within you in languid grazes.

Your bodies move like waves, with the same tenderness the break has as it maps its way onto the sand—time seems to slow as his thrusts continue slower, deeper.

Not demanding. Not dominant. There would be time for that, he would make sure, but now here with you, your breath hitching with at apex of each movement, it was like a prayer whispered instead of a promise made aloud.

There’s no hunger in Chibs when he loves you like this—His hands are careful, mapping you like a man reading scripture, fingers moving with reverence. He traces the curve of your waist, the slope of your thigh, like it’s a privilege, not a right.

He keeps checking in, even without words—watching your eyes, pausing when your breath hitches, brushing your hair back so gently it makes your chest ache.

When things grow closer, more breathless, he doesn’t break that tenderness. Every sigh from you makes him slow down, not speed up. Every sound you make earns a kiss, a murmur, a whispered.

Until the crash of your orgasm washes over you like the creeping of the tide, slowly and yet all at once.

Chibs stutters above you as he spills into you, the room is warm, thick with your combined breathing as you come down from your high.

The faint smell of cigarettes, soap and skin, lingers.

You let out a faint whine as he gently withdraws himself from your core.

"Its alright, Love" he murmurs, accent thicker now with affection, his lips ghosting the top of your head. "I got ye."

You lie curled against Chibs’ side, one leg draped loosely over his, Your eyes flutter open only as he shifts slightly, reaching toward the bedside table where his cigarettes lie.

The click of the lighter breaks the quiet, followed by the soft crackle of tobacco catching fire.

He takes a drag, exhales slowly through his nose, then turns his head to glance at you.

His fingers trace lazy patterns on your back, up and down your spine with near weightless affection.

"Ye all right, love?" he asks in a murmur, his voice still a little rough from earlier. There's a gentle smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he shifts slightly, propping himself up on one elbow to get a better look at you.

You nod, eyes half-lidded, cheeks warm, limbs pleasantly heavy.

Satiated. Boneless. The word flits across your thoughts, sleep trying to pull you under.

"Christ, yer so bloody soft," he mutters affectionately, brushing his thumb along your back. "Could lie here forever."

He tilts his head back and exhales a slow stream of smoke, the scent curling lazily in the air between you.

You’re just starting to drift when—

CRASH.

The door swings open.

"Hey Chibs, have you seen—OH—OH GOD—OH SHIT—SWEET JESUS—NOPE."

Juice freezes like he’s just walked into oncoming traffic.

There’s a full second of silence, where all anyone does is blink.

You, clutching the blanket instinctively to your chest.

Chibs, exhaling a slow breath through his nose, cigarette held just off to the side.

Juice, wide-eyed, frozen in the doorway with a folder in one hand and utter panic blooming across his face.

"I—I didn’t know—I mean, I wasn’t tryna—like, I wasn’t gonna—" he blurts, already backpedaling verbally but somehow still standing there like a baby deer in leather.

"Shut tae bloody door, Juicy," Chibs says evenly, not raising his voice. Not yet.

Juice flails.

"No, right, right! Totally—door! Got it! I mean, you should lock it next time, man, or maybe put up a sock or something—oh God, you’re not even wearing—is that her shirt?!—shitshitshit—"

You duck your head, cheeks flushing, heart thudding for an entirely new reason.

Chibs sits up slightly, the blanket shifting over his waist. His jaw clenches, cigarette dangling from his lips now, his tone growing colder.

"Juice."

"Yeah?"

"D’ye want tae die tonight?"

Juice stares.

"No."

"Then shut the fuckin’ door and disappear before I put my boot so far up yer arse, ye’ll be coughin’ out shoelaces ‘til Christmas."

"Right!" Juice squawks, spinning on his heel. The door slams behind him.

Silence returns like a drawn curtain.

You stare at the ceiling for a second, pulse still racing.

Then Chibs lets out a sharp, exasperated laugh and mutters around his cigarette.

"Jesus Christ, that boy’s got the subtlety of a fuckin’ grenade in a china shop."

He flicks ash into the tray by the bedside, stubs the cigarette out with two fingers, and settles back in beside you, pulling you against his side again like nothing happened.

You rest your cheek against his shoulder. He's still warm.

"Ye a’right?" he asks softly, voice lower now, gentler. His fingers trace the curve of your spine again like he’s grounding you, bringing your heartbeat back down.

You nod slowly. "That was… a lot."

He chuckles again. "Aye. Jus’ pretend he got dropped on his head one too many times as a baby. Helps it all make sense."

Then he presses a kiss to your hair.

"Back to where we were, aye?" he says, tucking the blanket up over your bare shoulders, "Safe. Quiet. Just us."

You close your eyes.