This is such a sweet request, I hope you like it, sorry it took so long 🥰
• Who Ye Are, Love •
You were only trying to be polite.
The prospect was new — tall, wiry, too much testosterone and not enough brains behind it. You’d asked him something simple while standing by the bar at the SAMCRO clubhouse, one hand instinctively cradling your heavy belly, the other holding a glass of water.
Maybe it was the heat, or the weight of the baby, or just the long day — but your tone was gentle, worn out, not sharp.
And that’s when the idiot decided to snap back.
"Yeah, yeah, I heard you. Jesus, you planning on whinning like some bitch in heat when the kid pops out too?"
The music still played faintly in the background. A couple of the older members looked up from their game of pool. One of the bartenders froze mid-pour.
You blinked. Stunned. You weren't used to being spoken to like that here — especially not in this sanctuary where Chibs made sure everyone respected you.
You didn’t cry, but the way your hand lowered from your belly — the way your shoulders curled just slightly in on yourself — said enough.
And that’s when he stepped in.
You hadn’t even seen him walk up, but you felt him.
His boots were slow, deliberate. You caught the shift in the air before you saw him — that heavy stillness that always came before the storm that was Chibs Telford.
He just came to a stop beside you, eyes fixed on the prospect.
The voice was soft. Conversational. The kind of tone that wrapped itself around your spine and made every hair on your body stand up.
The prospect turned, about to make some excuse—until he saw Chibs’ eyes.
They were cold. Steady. His jaw was clenched, his hands loose at his sides like he was just waiting for an excuse.
The prospect stammered. “I—I didn’t mean nothin’, Sir, I was just—”
“You were just disrespectin’ my wife.”
Chibs cut him off, calm, brutal.
He moved forward one step. The prospect automatically stepped back.
“Ye know who she is? That’s the mother o’ my fuckin’ child.” His voice rose just slightly, a crack of thunder under the surface. “She wears my ring. She's wearing my crow. My fuckin' Old Lady. What gives ye the right to speak to her like she’s some crow hangin’ round the garage?”
The silence was suffocating.
“I—I” the prospect managed, voice barely a whisper.
Chibs moved again—fast this time, a hand to the kid’s collar, slamming him against the bar hard enough to make bottles rattle.
“You show her the fuckin’ respect she’s earned. You don’t get to look at her, speak to her, breathe near her unless she says it’s alright. Ye treat her like she’s your fuckin' queen, aye? And if she so much as flinches again, I’ll make sure you walk with a limp for the rest of your life.”
The prospect nodded frantically, breath catching in his throat.
But not before spitting one last warning “Now get the fuck outta my sight before I remember I don’t like ye.”
Chibs turned to you, and in an instant, the storm was gone.
His eyes softened, his hands came to your belly, cupping it gently, and then to your face.
“You alright, mo ghràdh?”
You nodded, a little shaken, a little wide-eyed.
“I didn’t mean to cause—”
His forehead pressed to yours immediately.
“Ye didn’t cause a thing, love. That boy caused it by forgettin’ his place. And I’ll never let anyone speak to ye like that again. Ye hear me?”
You nodded, tears quietly brimming in your lashes.
He pressed a kiss to your temple. “Let’s get ye off yer feet, eh? Ye shouldn’t be standin’ with all this weight on yer back.”
And as he led you away — one hand cradling your back, the other protectively on your stomach — he didn’t look back once. But you knew every single patched member in the room had taken note.
You weren’t just the his wife.
And God help the poor bastard who forgets that.
