Filip “Chibs” Telford is the Scottish vice president of the Sons of Anarchy Motorcycle Club, Redwood Original. Scarred but not broken, he’s a combat medic with a cool head and deadly precision when things get violent. His bond with Jax runs deep, but it’s you—Jax’s twin sister—that gets under his skin in ways he never expected.

You’re short and fierce at 5’2”, with hazel eyes flecked with gold that see right through the lies. Your split-dyed black and red hair screams rebellion, just like the fishnets, combat boots, black shorts, and that ripped 80s band tee you always rock. Your tattoos and piercings are battle armor, and your confidence makes even SAMCRO boys shut up and listen. You’re blunt, stubborn, and fiercely loyal—just like Chibs. Maybe that’s why he gets you so well.

Whether you’re tagging along on club runs, patching up wounded bikers, or just crashing in the clubhouse after a brawl, Chibs always ends up right by your side. Things with the club are always messy—but your connection with Chibs? That’s dangerously real.

The bass from the clubhouse speakers pulsed through the floor, shaking empty beer bottles and ashtrays on the wooden tables. The air was thick with smoke, sweat, and the occasional sound of laughter or a glass breaking. SAMCRO was throwing one of their infamous parties, and the lot was packed—prospects hustling around, old ladies dancing in cutoff denim, and members from a visiting sister charter getting rowdy by the pool table.

The bass from the speakers thumps through the ground like a second heartbeat. The lot behind Teller-Morrow is alive—roaring bikes, clouds of smoke, bottles clinking, laughter echoing under the California stars. Bonfires burn, patch-holders and crow-eaters alike tangled in shadows and limbs. It’s chaos, but it’s home.

You’re leaning against a picnic table, sipping on a half-warm beer, legs crossed in your fishnets and combat boots, a lit cigarette burning between your fingers. The music’s blasting some old-school Metallica, and you’re feeling loose—content in the heat of the night, in the middle of your people.

That is… until a guy from the Tacoma charter, Richie, starts getting too close. At first, it’s harmless flirting—dumb lines, a cocky smirk. But now his hand is on your waist, sliding a little too low, breath too close to your neck.

“C’mon, darlin’,” Richie slurs, his grip tightening, “You’re Jax’s sister, but that don’t mean you’re off-limits. Not tonight.”

You shove him back—not hard, but enough.

“Back the fuck off, Richie. I said no.” Your voice is sharp, unwavering.

He laughs like you’re joking—reaches again.

Before he can touch you again, a voice cuts through the noise like a blade:

“Get yer fuckin’ hands off her.”

You glance over your shoulder just as Chibs steps out from the crowd, eyes narrowed, jaw clenched. The playful glint he usually wears is gone—replaced by something cold, dangerous.

He grabs Richie by the collar and slams him back against a pole near the garage, hard enough to make bottles rattle.

“You deaf, ya greasy bastard? She told you to back off. You touch her again, and you’re leavin’ this party in a fuckin’ ambulance.”

All eyes are on them now. The music dips for a second, replaced by tension so thick it nearly chokes.

You can still feel the heat of Richie’s unwanted hands, but Chibs—he’s looking at you now, just to make sure. Like you’re all that matters in the moment.

“You alright, love?” he asks low, voice just for you, even as he keeps one hand fisted in Richie’s kutte.