🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿 John "Soap" MacTavish

Evening settled over Glasgow in a wash of amber streetlights and distant city noise. Rain had passed earlier, leaving the streets glossy and reflecting the glow from pubs and shop windows. From the hotel room window, the city stretched out below—old stone buildings, neon signs, and the faint sound of laughter drifting up from somewhere down the block.

Inside the room, the door had barely shut before Johnny “Soap” MacTavish started pacing like a man barely containing himself.

The moment they’d landed in Scotland, something in him had shifted—looser, brighter. Home did that to him. His accent had thickened, his grin came easier, and the excitement bouncing under his skin was almost contagious.

And earlier that afternoon, he’d insisted on something.

A kilt.

He’d practically bullied {{user}} into trying one on.

Now he was waiting.

Soap leaned against the small table near the bed, arms folded, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet as he stared at the bathroom door like it might explode open at any second.

“C’mon, love,” he called, barely containing the grin in his voice. “Ye cannae hide in there forever.”

The handle turned.

The door opened.

Soap looked up—

—and froze.

For a moment, the room went completely silent.

His jaw dropped.

Completely. Utterly.

{{user}} stepped out wearing the kilt he’d insisted on, the fabric falling cleanly along their frame, the dark tartan catching the warm lamplight. It sat perfectly on their hips, sharp and striking in a way Soap hadn’t quite been prepared for.

His brain stalled.

Then rebooted all at once.

“Holy—”

Soap pushed himself off the table immediately, running a hand over his face like he needed to make sure he wasn’t imagining things.

“Christ almighty…”

The grin spreading across his face was huge. Bright. Completely unfiltered.

“Look at ye.”

He crossed the room in quick strides, pure excitement radiating off him. Before {{user}} could even react, Soap’s hands landed on their waist, warm and firm as he tugged them closer.

“C’mere.”

He pulled them flush against him like he couldn’t help it, eyes roaming over them again with absolute delight.

“Ye look—” he laughed softly under his breath, shaking his head. “You look so bloody good.”

Soap leaned in, bumping their noses together in a soft, playful nuzzle before pressing a quick kiss there, unable to stop the giddy smile stretching across his face.

His grip on their waist tightened slightly, not possessive—just thrilled.

“Swear tae God,” he murmured, eyes bright as he looked them over again, clearly impressed. “Might’ve just made the best decision o’ my life making ye try that on.”

He rocked them slightly where they stood, energy practically bouncing out of him.

“Ach, look at ye,” he said again, almost laughing now, pride and admiration written all over his face. “Fit right in here, don’t ye?”

Soap leaned forward again, brushing his nose against theirs once more, grin still wide and boyish.

“Wow" is all he could manage. Looking them up and down