The castle grounds were still bathed in soft Scottish dusk when the evening do kicked off properly. Fairy lights strung across the stone terrace, pipers long since packed away, and the band now thumping out something vaguely Motown that had half the aunts attempting the twist. Hugo, best man, old school rugger bugger, thirty-four and still built like he could scrum down tomorrow, had already put away enough single malt to make most men slur. Not him.
He just got louder, broader, more cheerfully obscene. The kilt swung heavy around his thick thighs with every step, dark tartan bunching and shifting, and Christ, it was obvious to anyone with eyes that the man hadn’t bothered with pants. Tradition, he’d bellowed earlier, slapping his own arse like it was a drum. Tradition my hairy bollocks.
The groom’s brother, Theo, twenty-eight, quiet, gym-carved but slender, all lean lines and sharp collarbones under the crisp white shirt, had spent most of the day keeping his head down. Polite smiles, small talk with distant cousins, a few gin and tonics. He wasn’t built for the centre of this kind of noise. Hugo, though, had decided Theo was fair game for banter. Had been all afternoon. “Oi, little brother, you’re looking too serious, loosen up, yeah? I’ll find you a bridesmaid to climb.” Theo had laughed it off, cheeks warm. Hugo kept orbiting, big hand landing on Theo’s shoulder, squeezing like he was testing ripe fruit, breath smelling of peat and cigars.
By the time the groomsmen were rounded up for terrace photos (“official ones, lads, smile like you mean it”), Hugo was properly pissed. Pink-faced, grinning like a wolf, kilt riding high enough on those meaty thighs that you could see the shadow of dark hair curling right up. The photographer, a nervous man in tweed, kept trying to herd them into formation. Hugo wasn’t having it.
“Right,” he roared, clapping his hands so hard it echoed off the battlements. “One for the album, then we get filthy.”
First shot: standard line-up, arms round shoulders, cheesy grins. Hugo stood dead centre, bigger than everyone, chest out, kilt bulging obscenely at the front.
Second shot: Hugo yanked the front of the kilt up without warning. Thick, soft cock flopped out. Jesus fucking Christ, it was obscene. Heavy, veiny, uncut, hanging halfway down those colossal thighs like a slab of meat left to thaw. The lads hooted, half horrified, half delighted. Theo’s eyes locked on it before he could stop himself. It was enormous. Even soft it looked dangerous, the foreskin glossy, the slit already glistening with a bead of piss that caught the light. Theo’s mouth went dry and wet at the same time.
Hugo caught him staring. Of course he did.
“Fuck me, Theo,” he drawled, voice low and amused, “you look like you want to climb on and ride it already. That your type, yeah? Big and stupid?”
Theo’s face flamed. He tried to laugh, managed a strangled noise. The photographer squeaked something about decorum.
Hugo just laughed louder, then thinking it was hilarious gave his cock a lazy slap against Theo’s hand (loud, wet smack) and let it swing again.
Third shot.
Theo, Christ knows what possessed him, maybe the fourth double gin he’d allowed himself, maybe the way Hugo kept looking at him like he already belonged under him, muttered, “I’ll hold it for the photo. Make it proper artistic.”
The terrace went briefly silent, then exploded. Hugo’s grin turned feral.
“Go on then, posh boy. Get a grip.”
Theo stepped forward before he could think better of it. Hand shaking, he wrapped fingers around the warm, heavy length. It filled his palm instantly, soft but dense, skin velvet over steel. He could feel the pulse in it, slow and thick. Hugo stared straight into his eyes the whole time, dark, amused, something hotter flickering underneath. Theo’s thumb brushed the underside by accident. The cock gave a lazy twitch.
“Fuck,” Hugo breathed, almost too quiet for the others to hear. “You’ve got soft hands, mate.”
Theo gave it three quick, experimental strokes (light, testing) before he could stop himself. The shaft thickened noticeably in his grip, foreskin sliding back just enough to show the flushed head. Hugo’s nostrils flared. He didn’t pull away. Didn’t laugh it off. Just held Theo’s gaze like he was daring him to keep going.
The photographer snapped the picture anyway. Flash. Everyone cheered. Hugo finally tugged the kilt back down (though it did fuck-all to hide the new, obvious ridge) and clapped Theo hard on the back, almost knocking him forward.
“Good lad,” he muttered against Theo’s ear as the group started to break apart. “Proper brave. We’re not finished, you and me.”
Theo’s heart was slamming against his ribs. His palm still felt warm from the weight of it. He could smell Hugo (sweat, whisky, faint musk of skin and arousal) and his own cock was traitorously hard under the tailored trousers.
Hugo leaned in one last time, voice gravel-low.
“Find me later, yeah? When the old dears have fucked off to bed. I reckon you’ve earned a proper look.”
He walked off toward the bar, kilt swinging, leaving Theo standing there with damp palms.
The next few hours went to shit in the best way. Shots lined up, tequila, then some green Jaeger crap that burned going down. Gin and tonics kept coming, cold and bitter. Theo let loose for once, laughing at the groomsmen’s dumb stories, getting dragged into a stupid conga line that wound through the hall. Felt good to stop thinking. He hadn’t seen Hugo much after the terrace. The big prick was on the prowl, kilt swinging, trying his luck with every bridesmaid who looked twice. Theo had half-hoped to pull himself, fresh out of a four-year thing, a decent fuck would’ve sorted him out, but none of the men caught his eye either. Too drunk, too straight-acting, too obvious. Nothing stuck.
By three the place had quieted down. Band gone, fairy lights half dead, just a few drunks left mumbling at the bar. Theo’s head was buzzing, mouth dry as hell. Needed air and a fag.
He slipped out to the terrace, sat on the low stone wall in the dark. Lit up, took a long drag, let the smoke settle the spin.
Didn’t hear Hugo until the big bastard dropped down next to him, making the wall shake. “Alright, little man?” Heavy slap on the back, hard enough to knock ash off the cigarette. Hugo stank of beer, sweat, and that same faint musk.
Theo exhaled smoke through his nose. “Christ, Hugo. You trying to break my spine?”
Hugo grinned, teeth flashing in the dim light. “Nah, just checking you’re still in one piece. You’ve been proper on it tonight. Saw you doing the Macarena with the ushers. Looked like a drunk flamingo.”
Theo snorted. “Piss off. At least I was moving. You were just looming around like a hairy mountain, scaring off the bridesmaids.”
“Oi, I was charming.” Hugo leaned back on his hands, thighs spreading wide enough that the kilt rode up dangerously. “Proper gentleman. Bought one a drink, told her she had nice eyes. She said ‘thanks, but I’m married.’ Married! To who? The invisible man?”
Theo laughed, short and sharp. “Maybe she saw the kilt and realised you weren’t wearing pants. Instant red flag.”
Hugo barked a laugh, loud enough to bounce off the stone. “Tradition, mate. Tradition. Besides, you didn’t seem to mind earlier.” He nudged Theo’s shoulder with his own, solid as a fucking wall. “Still thinking about that photo?”
Theo felt the heat crawl up his neck again. Took another drag to cover it. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”
“Not a chance. Best grip I’ve had all night.” Hugo swigged from the bottle he’d carried out, half-empty IPA now, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “So come on then. No luck for either of us? Thought you’d have some fit lad dragged off to a broom cupboard by now. You’re out and proud, yeah? Should be swimming in options.”
Theo shrugged, flicked ash over the wall. “None of them did it for me. Too pissed, too loud, too not my type. I’m not desperate.”
Hugo raised an eyebrow. “Not desperate, eh? Could’ve fooled me the way you were staring at my cock like it owed you money.”
Theo rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “Fuck off. You whipped it out in front of twenty people. Hard not to look.”
“Admit it,” Hugo said, voice dropping a notch, teasing but not mean. “You were impressed. Proper gobsmacked.”
Theo exhaled smoke slowly. “It’s big. Yeah. Happy now?”
Hugo chuckled, low and rough. “Getting there.” He took another long pull from the bottle, then set it down between them with a clink. “Right. No bridesmaids, no groomsmen, no broom-cupboard action. Looks like it’s me and my hand tonight. Most action I’ve had all evening was you grabbing my cock for that photo. Cheers for that, by the way.”
Theo snorted again. “Yeah, well. Enjoy yourself later.”
Hugo grinned, sly and sudden. “Shit, forgot I promised you another look, didn’t I?”
Theo shook his head, chuckling. “I think I’ll survive.”
“Nah. Promise is a promise.” Hugo bunched the kilt up without hesitation. Cock flopped out, heavy, slapping softly against his thigh before hanging there. Thick as a wrist, veiny, foreskin covering most of the fat head. Pubes dark and thick at the base. It reached halfway down those massive thighs. Obscene. Theo had seen big ones before, lockers, porn, hook-ups, but nothing like this. It looked dangerous. Hypnotic.
He stared. Licked his lips without meaning to.
Hugo chuckled low. “Fucking weapon, right?”
Theo dragged his eyes up. Hugo was watching him, steady, no piss-taking now. Just waiting. “Yeah,” Theo said, voice rough. “Proper dangerous.”
He tried to laugh. Didn’t land. Heat was crawling up his chest, cock twitching in his trousers. Hunger hit him hard, sudden.
Hugo still hadn’t covered up. The kilt stayed rucked, cock resting against his thigh. It twitched once, slow, thickening just enough to push the foreskin back a bit, showing a wet bead of piss at the tip.
Theo looked again. Couldn’t stop.
Hugo’s voice dropped. “Go on. Ask. You want to.”
Theo swallowed. Heart thumping loud in his ears. Cigarette forgotten, burning down between his fingers.
“Can I touch it again?”
Hugo nodded once, slow and deliberate, like he’d been waiting for exactly this.
Theo reached out before he could second-guess it. Fingers closed around the thick shaft again, soft still, but Christ, it filled his palm and then some. Warm, heavy, the skin velvet-smooth over dense meat. Even limp it felt obscene, like holding something alive and dangerous. Theo stared down at it, thumb brushing the underside by instinct, then gave a few quick, experimental tugs. The cock jerked in response, thickening fast under his grip. Not much longer, fuck, it was already massive, easily eleven inches hanging soft, probably thirteen hard, but it fattened up quick, veins standing out, foreskin sliding back just enough to bare the fat, flushed head. A bead of pre-cum welled up and smeared under Theo’s thumb.
Reality hit like cold water. He let go fast, cheeks burning, and looked up.
Hugo was grinning, lazy and filthy, eyes dark in the low light. “Sorry, man,” Theo muttered. “Too much to drink.”
Hugo chuckled, low rumble in his chest. “Yeah, same. But it’s awake now, right? Might as well enjoy it.”
Theo’s face went hotter. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
Hugo shrugged one big shoulder, kilt still rucked up around his hips. “Probably not. But fuck it, right?”
Theo swallowed. Heart hammering so loud he could feel it in his throat. “Yeah. Fuck it.”
He reached back out. Wrapped his hand properly this time, fingers didn’t meet around the girth, and started stroking, slow at first, then firmer. Hugo groaned, deep and rough, head tipping back a fraction. The sound went straight to Theo’s cock, making it throb painfully against his fly.
“Fuck,” Hugo rasped, voice gravel. “You’re good at that, posh boy. Proper talent.”
Theo kept going, twisting lightly on the upstroke, thumb circling the slick head on every pass. The cock was rock-hard now, heavy and hot in his hand, pre-cum leaking steady, making everything slippery. Hugo’s thighs tensed, thick muscles flexing under dark hair. His breathing got heavier, chest rising and falling under the open shirt.
After a minute or two, Hugo’s big hand slid into Theo’s hair, fingers threading through, not yanking, just firm. Guiding. He tugged gently, tilting Theo’s face up so their eyes locked.
“Why don’t you get a taste?” Hugo said, voice low, almost soft. “Been staring at it like you’re starving, mate. Go on. Open up.”
Theo looked at him for a long second, eyes flicking from Hugo’s face down to that thick, glistening cock still jutting out like it owned the night, then leaned in slow. No more hesitation. His tongue flicked out first, flat and wet, lapping along the underside from base to tip. The taste hit him hard: salt, musk, the faint bitterness of piss and the saltiness of pre-cum already leaking steady. Hugo sucked in a breath through his teeth.
Theo opened wider, lips stretching around the fat head. Barely got the crown in, fuck, it was massive, but he was eager, hungry, and he knew what he was doing. Tongue swirling, cheeks hollowing as he sucked, bobbing shallow at first, then pushing deeper inch by inch. Spit slicked down the shaft fast, dripping onto Hugo’s hairy thighs. Theo’s hand wrapped the base, stroking what his mouth couldn’t take, twisting on the upstroke while he worked the head with lips and tongue.
Hugo groaned low, rough, one big hand sliding back into Theo’s hair, not forcing, just holding, guiding the rhythm. “Fuck… yeah, that’s it. Good boy. Proper greedy mouth on you.” His hips gave a small, involuntary roll, pushing a bit more in. Theo gagged softly once, throat fluttering, but didn’t pull off. Just moaned around it, vibrations making Hugo curse under his breath.
They kept at it, wet, sloppy sounds cutting through the quiet night, Hugo’s breathing getting ragged, thighs tensing under Theo’s free hand. Theo was lost in it, spit running down his chin, eyes watering, cock aching hard in his trousers.
Then voices, loud, slurred, laughing, spilling out from the doors behind them. A group of late-night stragglers stumbling onto the terrace, bottles clinking, someone yelling about one last smoke.
Theo yanked off fast, panic spiking. Cock popped free with a wet smack, strings of spit and pre-cum connecting his swollen lips to the glistening head for a second before snapping. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, heart slamming.
They were half-hidden in the shadows by the wall, the fairy lights too dim to show much, but still, fuck.
Hugo looked down at him, eyes dark, grinning. Theo’s face was a mess: spit shining on his chin, pre-cum smeared across his lips, throat mucus streaking from the corners of his mouth.
“Fuck me,” Hugo rasped, voice thick. “You look sexy like that, mate. Proper slut for my dick. Hot little mouth, Christ, you can use it.”
Theo’s cheeks burned, but he managed a shaky laugh. “Thanks,” he said, voice hoarse from the throat-fucking. “And thanks for letting me taste it. I… I should probably head off.”
Hugo’s hand shot out, big fingers closing around Theo’s wrist before he could stand. Firm, not rough. He guided Theo’s palm back to the still-hard cock, hot, slick, throbbing under his fingers.
“What room number are you?” Hugo asked, low and steady.
Theo glanced down at the dick filling his hand again, then back up. He hesitated then replied “Twenty-seven. Second floor, end of the corridor.”
Hugo nodded once. Theo let go, slow, reluctant, and Hugo finally tugged the kilt back down over the bulge, though it did bugger-all to hide how worked up he was.
Theo stood, legs a bit unsteady from the drink. Hugo stayed seated, looking up at him with that same lazy, predatory grin.
“See you in ten minutes,” Hugo said.
Theo nodded, quick, sharp, then turned and walked off toward the castle doors. Legs shaky, mouth still tasting of Hugo, cock leaking in his trousers, heart racing like he’d just run a sprint.
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