Filip “Chibs” Telford - the Unoriginal Sin

The air in Gemma’s bathroom was thick, a stifling mix of humid heat from the California afternoon and the heady, sweet scent of {{user}}'s perfume. Outside the thin walls, the muffled chaos of the SAMCRO barbecue drifted in the rhythmic thwack of a knife hitting a cutting board, the raucous, gravelly laughter of Tig, and the distant roar of a motorcycle engine. To anyone else, it was a perfect summer day. To Chibs, it was a symphony of potential disasters.

He was braced between {{user}}'s thighs, his boots scuffing against the tiled floor as he moved with a slow, punishing deliberation. Her legs were hooked over his shoulders, her tanned skin a stark, beautiful contrast against the dark fabric of his denim. Every time he thrust, the wet, rhythmic slapping of skin on skin echoed off the porcelain, a sound that felt deafeningly loud in the cramped space.

Chibs let out a low, ragged breath, his hands calloused and heavy digging into the soft, ample curves of her breasts. He was a man of restraint, a man who lived by a code of loyalty that usually kept his impulses on a short leash, but here, with her, that leash was fraying. He squeezed her, his thumbs grazing her nipples, his dark eyes clouded with a hunger that was half devotion and half sin.

"Ach, lass..." he murmured, his Scottish lilt dropping into a gravelly, strained register. His hips drove forward again, burying his length deep within her heat. He felt the tightness of her, the way her body welcomed him, and it made his head swim.

He felt the tug on his neck, the familiar, cold metal of his silver crucifix dancing against his skin as her fingers played with it. He knew what she was doing. She knew exactly how to needle him, how to poke at the restless, superstitious part of his soul that told him he was dancing on the edge of a cliff.

He glanced toward the door, his ears straining. He could hear Tig just a few yards away in the yard, likely mid sentence in some lewd story, completely unaware that the Vice President was currently buried inside his daughter. The guilt hit him a sharp, familiar pang in his chest but it was quickly smothered by the sheer, visceral sensation of her.

"Ye're a menace," he grunted, a wry, breathless smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth despite the intensity of the moment. He leaned forward, his salt and brown beard brushing against her stomach as he chased the friction. "Teasin' a man about his faith while he's tryin' to keep his composure... it's unholy, {{user}}. Pure unholy."

He shifted his grip, his fingers sliding down to catch the edge of her panties, which were tangled uselessly around her ankle, before he surged back into her, his movements becoming more urgent, more primal. He wasn't just fucking her; he was trying to lose himself in her so he didn't have to think about the fallout.

The morning light filtered through the blinds of {{user}}'s apartment, casting soft, golden slats across the tangled sheets. The air was thick with the scent of her perfume, and the musky, salt licked heat of two bodies that had spent the better part of the night entwined.

Chibs lay on his back, his chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. The heavy weight of his SAMCRO kutte was nowhere to be seen, leaving him in just his low slung jeans, his skin warm against the silk of the bedding. His dark hair was a chaotic mess against the pillow, and his eyes usually so sharp and calculating were softened by a rare, drowsy contentment.

He felt a familiar, delicate tugging at his chest. {{user}} was hovering close, her skin glowing in the morning sun, her fingers dancing rhythmically around the silver crucifix that hung from his neck. He watched her through hooded lids, a small, lopsided smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as she toyed with the religious symbol.

"Ye'll have that thing worn smooth if ye dinna pit it down, lass," he rumbled, his Scottish lilt thick and gravelly with sleep. He reached up, his calloused hand covering hers, pressing her palm flat against the cool metal of the cross. "Always a worryin' me, even when we're supposed tae be restin'."

He pulled her a fraction closer, the heat of her body a magnetic pull he never quite got tired of. Every time he looked at her, there was that tiny, nagging prickle at the back of his mind that flicker of Catholic guilt that whispered he was treading on sacred ground. He was Tig’s brother. His blood brother in the club. And here he was, tangled in the sheets of Tig's girl, tasting her skin and memorizing the curve of her hips. But then she’d look at him like that, and the guilt usually took a backseat to the sheer, overwhelming Need.

"Aye, go on then," he teased softly, his thumb stroking the back of her hand. "Call me 'Uncle Chibs' just tae see me face turn red. See if ye don't."

The peaceful quiet was shattered by the heavy, unmistakable sound of a key turning in the front door lock.

Clack. Clack clack.

"{{user}}? Baby girl? You awake in there?" The voice boomed through the apartment, vibrating with a frantic, high energy sort of affection. It was Tig. He didn't knock; he never did. To Tig, this was his daughter's place, and he was just dropping in to check on his sweet girl.

Chibs froze. The drowsiness vanished instantly, replaced by a sharp, electric jolt of pure adrenaline. His eyes snapped wide, staring at the bedroom door as if he could see through the wood.

"Shit," he hissed under his breath, the word barely a puff of air.

The heavy thud of boots began approaching the bedroom door. Thump. Thump. Thump.

"{{user}}? You're not sleepin' in 'til noon, are you?" Tig’s voice was getting closer, the sound of the hallway floorboards creaking under his weight.

Panic, raw and unrefined, took over. Chibs scrambled to sit up, nearly tripping over the duvet as he grabbed for his jeans, his hands shaking just a fraction. He was a man who had faced down rival gangs and heavy artillery without breaking a sweat, but the idea of Tig walking in on him with his daughter was enough to make his heart hammer like a trapped bird.

"Shite..." he muttered, his mind racing through tactical exits, but there were none. They were cornered.

As Tig’s shadow began to loom near the cracked bedroom door, {{user}}'s eyes darted wildly around the room. She grabbed a discarded shirt, her movements frantic, and then her gaze landed on the closet.

Before Chibs could even find his boots, he felt a pair of strong, panicked hands grab his shoulders. He was being shoved, his large frame stumbling backward into the dark recess of the closet, his back hitting the hanging clothes with a soft thwack.

"{{user}}!" he started to protest in a hushed, strangled whisper, but he was cut off as the closet door was pulled nearly shut, leaving him standing there in the dim light, breathless and wide eyed, just as the bedroom door swung wide open.

The sun is beating down on the Teller Morrow lot, thick with the smell of charcoal, charred meat, and the heavy scent of cheap lager. The barbecue is in full swing. Tig is a few yards away, leaning against a truck bed with a beer in one hand, laughing loudly at something Juice just said. He looks up, eyes scanning the crowd until they land on {user}, a wide, proud grin splitting his face. To the rest of the club, {user} is just Tig’s kid the legacy. The bond is visible, solid, and unquestioned.

But the heat isn't just coming from the grill.

Chibs catches {user}’s eye from across the yard. He’s leaning against the porch railing of Gemma’s house, a quiet, observant figure amidst the chaos of the club. He doesn't wave. He doesn't smile wide. He just gives a slow, nearly imperceptible nod, his blue eyes dark and heavy with a silent command.

A few minutes later, the heavy wooden door to the hallway closet creaks open just enough for {user} to slip inside, followed closely by the heavy, rhythmic tread of Chibs’ boots.

The door clicks shut, plunging them into a cramped, suffocating darkness that smells of mothballs, old coats, and the faint, masculine scent of Chibs’ leather vest. The muffled sounds of the barbecue the clinking of bottles, Tig’s raucous laughter, the thumping bass of a radio feel miles away, creating a pressurized vacuum inside the small space.

Chibs doesn't waste time with words. He presses {user} back against the wall, the rough wood digging into {user}'s spine. His hands, calloused and large, find {user}’s waist, pulling him flush against the hard lines of his body. The friction of their denim jeans rubbing together is loud in the small space.

"Easy now," Chibs mutters, his Scottish lilt dropping into that low, deliberate register he only uses when the stakes are high. His breath is warm against {user}’s ear, smelling of whiskey. "Don't be makin' a noise we can't take back."

He shifts, his knee sliding between {user}’s thighs, forcing them apart. Chibs’ hands move downward, fumbling with the button of {user}’s jeans. His movements are efficient, driven by a hunger that’s been simmering through months of stolen glances and accidental touches in the clubhouse.

As the denim is pushed down, the cool air hits their skin, quickly replaced by the intense heat of their bodies. Chibs’ hand wraps around {user}’s length, his grip firm and commanding. He begins a slow, rhythmic stroke, his thumb grazing the head of {user}’s penis, catching the bead of pre cum that’s already beginning to leak.

"Aye... there it is," Chibs breathes, a low grunt escaping his throat. He leans in, his beard scratching against the sensitive skin of {user}’s neck as he sucks a hard mark just below the jawline, careful to keep it hidden by the collar of a shirt.

{user} reaches out, fingers digging into the thick muscles of Chibs’ shoulders, pulling him closer. The desperation is there, a frantic need to be closer, even as the fear of a door opening or Tig walking in keeps their movements tight and controlled.

Chibs reaches for his own fly, freeing his thick, heavy cock. It’s already turgid, pulsing with his heartbeat. He guides {user}’s hand to him, letting {user} feel the heat and the velvet texture of his skin.

"Turn 'round," Chibs commands in a harsh whisper. "Face the wall. Keep your hands on the coats."

{user} obeys, pressing his forehead against a hanging heavy jacket. He feels Chibs’ chest press against his back, the weight of the older man grounding him. Chibs reaches around, one hand gripping {user}’s hip to steady him, while the other lathers a bit of spit onto his fingers.

The sensation of Chibs’ fingers sliding into {user}’s heat is sudden and intense. Chibs is patient but forceful, stretching {user} open with a practiced, tactical precision. {user} bites his lip hard to stifle a groan as Chibs’ fingers push deeper, prepping him for the weight of the man behind him.

"Shhh," Chibs murmurs, sensing the tension. He leans forward, his chest molding to {user}’s back. "Just breathe. Think of the beer. Think of the sun. Don't let 'em hear a thing."

Chibs positions himself, the blunt head of his cock pressing against {user}’s entrance. He pauses for a second, his forehead resting against the back of {user}’s head, a moment of shared, silent tension. Then, with a slow, controlled thrust, he pushes inside.

The fullness is overwhelming. {user}’s breath hitches, a sharp, silent gasp caught in his throat as Chibs fills him completely. Chibs groans deep in his chest, a vibration that {user} feels all the way through his bones.

Chibs begins to move, his thrusts long and deliberate. He isn't rushing; he’s working the friction, maximizing the sensation while keeping the impact muffled by the layers of clothing surrounding them. Every time his hips slam against {user}’s ass, the sound is swallowed by the heavy coats and the distant roar of the club outside.

"God... you're tight," Chibs grunts, his voice strained. He reaches around to grab {user}’s cock, his hand working in tandem with the rhythmic pounding of his hips.

The friction is building, a heavy, pulsing heat in the pit of {user}’s stomach. He can feel Chibs’ pulse racing against his back, the older man’s breathing becoming more ragged, though he still fights to keep it quiet. The risk is a physical thing, a sharp edge that makes every sensation feel twice as intense.

Chibs’ pace quickens, his movements becoming more urgent, less controlled. He buries his face in the crook of {user}’s neck, his teeth grazing the skin as he nears the edge.

"Almost... aye, just like that..." Chibs whispers, his voice breaking.

With a final, heavy thrust that pins {user} hard against the wall, Chibs stiffens. He let's out a muffled, guttural sound into {user}’s shoulder as he pulses deep inside him, his semen flooding {user}’s heat. {user} follows a second later, his body shuddering as he comes, his hands clutching the hanging coats so hard his knuckles turn white.

They stay there for a long moment, locked together in the dark, chests heaving in unison, the only sound the frantic drumming of two hearts trying to settle before the world outside realizes they've gone missing.

.