Scottish-men

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(via https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rKIGystgThc)

@zona-wiedzmina saw this and thought of you!

Upholding Tradition

Warning: I have sinned and it is so not my fault it was surprise Jughead in a kilt. Seriously, who was even expecting that, not me that’s for sure!

***

“God bless the Andrews’ Scottish heritage,” Veronica sighed dreamily, cupping her chin in her hand as she gazed out across the marquis, dark eyes resting longingly on her husband - as of twenty minutes ago - Archie. Betty threw her friend a knowing look, dipping her chin as a chuckle slipped from her lips.

“You mean God bless Nana Andrews and her insistence that the men in the wedding party wear traditional Scottish dress?” she teased, quirking an eyebrow. Veronica was enjoying the view far too much to blush. She’d never been easily shamed when it came to gratuitous ogling anyway.

“Yes, exactly that,” she replied with a grin. Betty shook her head, laughing at the bride and her newfound appreciation for kilts. Veronica turned to Betty pointedly, lifting a perfectly manicured finger in her direction accusingly. “Don’t act like you’re not just as grateful.”

Betty couldn’t help the shaky exhale that left her mouth as she turned to look at where the groomsmen were congregated around the buffet table. Oh, there was no denying it; Betty Cooper would consider herself forever indebted to Nana Andrews’ wedding contributions.

Her eyes instantly found Jughead among the group, his dark curls falling sexily over his forehead, teeth glinting as he grinned at something Archie had said. Veronica had been surprisingly lenient with many of the details for the wedding party, but what she had drawn the line at was Jughead wearing his tattered old beanie as he escorted her maid of honour down the isle. Jughead hadn’t protested too much; it had been a few years since he’d been so reliant on the knitted headwear for comfort, a fact that made a familiar warmth spread through Betty’s chest.

The top button of Jughead’s shirt had been undone, tie loosened, and crisp sleeves rolled up to his elbows to accommodate the stuffy summer heat that had settled beneath the tent. Betty felt herself flush, for reasons other than the seasonably hot weather altogether, as her gaze continued down further. She took in the pleated tartan, stopping just above where the thick woollen knee socks began.

“My husband is all my teenage Outlander fantasies come true,” Veronica’s words filtered in through Betty’s Jughead-in-formal-wear induced haze. She offered her best friend an offhand laugh, still utterly distracted by the pleasant view. Jughead had grown up well, filled out in all the right places, muscles straining so wonderfully against his dress shirt as he clapped a congratulatory hand on Archie’s shoulder. Betty hadn’t been aware that she’d shared in Veronica’s highlander fantasies, but her betraying body was signalling otherwise.

Jughead caught her eye, sending a soft, timid smile her way over the crowds and suddenly she was pulled back from the edge of imaginations of rough, calloused hands and strong, Scottish winds as she lay beneath her boyfriend on a woollen blanket by a loch…

It was a shame, she thought with a bite to her lip, returning his smile. She rather liked that image.

Jughead excused himself from the group, sauntering over to where Betty was seated, cupping her cheek as he leant down to press his lips to hers sweetly. She hummed into the kiss, taking the opportunity run her fingers lightly through his hair.

“Have I told you how beautiful you look?” he asked when they parted, lips still brushing hers as he spoke. She grinned, bopping his nose affectionately with her own.

“You might have mentioned it once or twice, yeah,” she murmured, sneaking in another kiss. He hummed against her lips, moving to sit in the now unoccupied seat next to her, Veronica having hurried off to attend to more of her duties as bride.

“Just checking.” Betty leant towards him, forearm resting on his shoulder as she played with the short hairs at the nape of his neck.

“You don’t look so bad yourself,” Betty told him, voice lowering as she flicked her eyes down his form once more, noting the way his legs were comfortably spread as he sat down. Jughead laughed, shaking his head at his forced attire.

“I still can’t believe I agreed to wear this thing, it’s completely off brand,” he joked, picking up the heavy fabric between his fingers. Jughead looked up when Betty didn’t respond, noticing for the first time the way her cheeks were lightly flushed, pupils dilated, and chest rising and falling a tad faster than usual as she looked him up and down. A smirk crept its way onto his features.

“Betts?” he asked slowly, ducking his head to meet her darkened, unfocused eyes. She snapped them to his own, the deep blue beginning to swirl with mischief.

“Hmm?” she hummed airily.

“Do you… Is this kilt turning you on?” Jughead asked with unconcealed glee in his tone, lowering his voice to a gravelly whisper as Betty’s face turned an entirely new shade of red. Bingo, Jughead thought triumphantly.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said, refusing to meet his eye - or look anywhere in his direction for that matter. Jughead laughed, throwing his head back in disbelief.

“Betty Cooper has a thing for traditional Scottish dress, who knew?” he taunted, unable to keep the smug expression off his face. He saw the exact moment Betty’s demeanour shifted, his frame stiffening in apprehension. She turned her head towards him with an exaggerated slowness, looking at him from beneath thick, sooty lashes. Jughead wasn’t sure when he became the prey but he certainty was now.

“Did you know,” Betty began, leaning even closer towards him until her lips were against his ear, hand resting on his exposed knee in a gesture that was anything but innocent. Jughead gulped, Betty watching the movement of his Adam’s apple hungrily, his senses completely overwhelmed by her. “That traditionally Scottish men wore nothing underneath their kilts,” she whispered, hand inching further up his thigh until the tips of her fingers were beneath the tartan, rubbing infuriating circles on his heated skin. Jughead flushed, shirt beginning to stick to his back.

“I had heard that,” he stammered, trying to keep his expression as neutral as possible as he felt a familiar twitch in his groin, suddenly thankful for the cover of the long white cloth spilling over the edges of the table in front of them. Betty’s teeth grazed his earlobe, soothing the bite with a flick of her tongue as Jughead’s breath caught in his throat.

“So, did you uphold tradition? I know it’s very important to the Andrew’s family that everything be authentic,” she said in mock seriousness. Jughead bit back a deep groan.

“Never thought I’d have someone trying to put their hand up my skirt,” Jughead tried to quip, but the breathiness of his tone made the humour fall short. Betty smiled sweetly, contrasting the hunger in her eyes.

“Juggie,” she whispered, fingers climbing higher still.

“Afraid not,” he answered, hands clutching at the edges of his chair. “Worried there might be a breeze, and I wanted Nana Andrews to make it through the entire ceremony,” he joked again, earning a light giggle from his girlfriend this time.

Her hand was so close to where he needed her, almost fully hard at this point, before all of a sudden it was gone. He blinked rapidly, lips parted in disappointment as she settled back in her chair.

“That’s a shame,” she said lightly, fingers tapping idly against the rim of her glass. He’s dumbfound for a moment, persistent pressure between his legs not subsiding any.

“What?” he asked lamely. She shrugged casually, peeking at him devilishly from the corner of her eyes.

“It would have been such easy access,” she purred, Jughead momentarily forgetting how to breathe. Betty took in his choked expression, enjoying herself far too much to stop now. And from the slight bulge she could see beneath his kilt as she chanced a look southwards, so was Jughead. “There’s still time to take them off,” she suggested.

Jughead’s cheeks blazed at her implication, but his eyes darted between the table they’re at and the bathrooms that aren’t that far away, nonetheless. Damn, he was actually considering it. He blamed Veronica’s choice of bridesmaids dress, the blue going perfectly with Betty’s skin tone, the tight fabric hugging her every curve until very little was left to the imagination. And the fact that he already knew what lay beneath the dress, well… His legs tensed, ready to get up from his seat.

“You could get me to do anything, Betts,” he mumbled reluctantly in her ear as he rose from his chair, seeing her excited shiver before he’s heading to the bathroom.

It’s a unsettling feeling to walk through a crowded room with an familiar breeze whipping between your legs, Jughead thought, hoping his stride wasn’t too noticeably different as he wandered back towards their table. Everything felt a little too ‘free’ for his liking. However, he had a feeling he wouldn’t mind for much longer.

“This is so ridic- ugh.” His protests were cut short by the feeling of her hand on him beneath the fabric of his kilt; no preamble, no build up, just immediate contact. She felt him twitch beneath her touch as the tip of her index finger rubbed slow circles over his head, feeling the build up of wetness leaking there. Jughead’s breath shallowed considerably as he tried to keep in his moans.

Betty shifted closer to him, hooking her free arm around his neck in a gesture of cute, innocent affection - everything her other hand was currently not.

“Betty,” he whined when her teasing was becoming too much to handle, eyes darting nervously around the crowd as he lifted his hips in a subtle attempt to her her to grip his erection.

She finally conceded, moving her fist in short little jerks against his skin before taking his entire length in, her movements getting faster with each passing second. Jughead tried desperately to stay still, to keep his eyes from fluttering shut, not wanting to draw any unnecessary attention to her little game.

Betty twisted her wrist expertly around the head as she pumped her hand faster, thumb pressing delicately against his slit. It elicited a rumbling groan from deep within Jughead’s chest before he could stop it, coughing quickly in case anyone heard and earning himself an amused giggle from the temptress beside him.

Jughead knew he wasn’t going to last much longer. Between Betty’s persistent hand, how turned on he’d been just by looking at her, and the way she was panting quietly in his ear, clearly just as aroused as he was by the exposed nature of the situation, he was going to last far less time than he hoped he was capable of.

“Betts,” he cautioned, tendons in his neck straining against the tanned skin. Her breath hitched.

“Are you close?” she whispered, voice nothing more than a breath.

“Fuck, yes. You have to… I’m gonna…” he stammered, panic rising as he realised he was about to come all over his rented garment.

Betty caught on quickly, hand disappearing at the last second as she grabbed a clean napkin from the table just as the tightened coil in Jughead’s abdomen snapped, pressure releasing as he came into the tissues.

He sat in stunned silence for a while, trying to get his ragged breathing back to normal as he watched Betty tuck the crumpled napkin into her purse to dispose of later. She turned back to him, biting her lip against a wide, pleased grin.

“You seem pretty satisfied with yourself,” he managed to accuse sometime later, forehead still slick with perspiration. She laughed, combing the curls back from his face.

“You look pretty satisfied, too,” she murmured. Jughead shook his head, dipping forwards for a light kiss. “Hey, where did you leave your boxers?” Betty asked suddenly, realising he hadn’t emerged with them.

“Yeah, I should go and retrieve those before anyone finds them,” Jughead grinned, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. Betty tucked her head into the crook of his neck, hiding her smile. Neither of them moved, enjoying the aftermath of their secret deed.

“Hey, Juggie,” Betty said sometime later, not moving her head from its spot by his ear.

“Yeah, Betts?”

“This dress… it’s so tight. I’m not wearing any underwear,” she breathed. Jughead groaned, stomach clenching all over again. She would be the death of him, and he didn’t mind one bit.

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John Barrowman, with his lovely Scottish accent, answering the question “Whose bigger, him or David Tenn(inch)ant)