Sometimes Chibs would take Tig up to his bedroom.
When Chibs sends a look at Tig, they both know just exactly what the other wants, even if they're in a crowded room. The thick, suffocating stink of tobacco and whiskey, beer and sweat, are foreign to them when they catch each others' eye. And then Chibs would step towards the door and enter the hallway, and Tig would excuse himself fifteen minutes later to take a shit because he ate something that disagrees with his stomach.
Through his walk towards the door behind which Chibs is waiting, Tig takes his time, chatting up his buddies on the way, teasing Half Sack about his nuts, slapping Juice over his head and poking at his "odd" hairstyle. Taking his time is what he does best to irritate Chibs, and sure enough, when he finally steps into the hallway, closing the door behind his heels, Chibs isn't there anymore. Tig would then make his way up to the bedroom, either his or Chibs' - he has to check both because he never knows just which one Chibs would like to be in at the moment.
But usually Chibs would be in Tig's. Tig doesn't know why, and when he asks, Chibs would just grin teasingly at him and capture his lips, freezing any and all other questions in Tig's throat.
Tig, on the other hand, likes to go into Chibs' room. He likes twisting around in the sheets, burying his face in the mattress and breathing in the Scotsman's scent. As with Chibs' case, whenever Tig is asked why he prefers Chibs' room, Tig would just scoff and pull him down to his chest.
And then when Tig is in the right room, Chibs would be sitting on the edge of the bed, cleaning his sunglasses with a cloth. For some reason, whenever Tig sees Chibs doing that, he laughs and jeers. "We're gonna fuck and you're still wiping shit off your shades?" Tig would say, and before Chibs can respond, Tig is on him, pushing him down onto the mattress and kissing him hard.
Tig smirks against his lips as a groan leaves him, hand immediately reaching down to grab his growing erection. Clothes are ripped right off flesh, a quick kiss, a fast prep, and Tig would flip Chibs over onto his stomach and enter him in one swift motion, driving all the way in until he can no longer.
His hands trail up Chibs' sides, nails raking over flesh, digging deeper and deeper with each thrust he gives. Each wave of pleasure is that of ecstasy, Chibs grasping the quilts so tightly in his hands that his knuckles are stark white against his tanned, sunburned skin. Tig bends over him, resting his stomach on his back. His harsh pants are hissed into Chibs' ear, his hot breath falling onto his neck and lobe, the growl just waiting at the base of his throat for the moment where he would arch his back and collapse onto Chibs.
It annoys Tig a little that he's the first one to cum most of the time; the prospect amuses Chibs to no end. They'll lie there in the afterglow, Tig's head on Chibs' stomach, sharing a smoke. Sometimes they'll just lie there without a care in the world until night descends, but other times they'll go back down, one after the other in fifteen minute intervals, just to show their faces.
Tig hates it when they have to do that. Often he complains to Chibs about it, but Chibs only runs his fingers through his hair and pats his cheek. Tig knows he hates it too, but then they have their own responsibilities to the club. As much as they just want to fuck the brains out of each other, they can't neglect their duties. They may be fearless, but the wrath of their president is one that they would never challenge.
A quick kiss, rough and thick with desire, and then they go their separate ways. A fifteen-minute fuck definitely isn't enough, but both would agree that it's better than nothing.