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
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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—
"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.
"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.
"D’ye want tae die tonight?"
"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."
