★ John "Soap" MacTavish

The house sat on the outskirts of Glasgow, tucked between rolling green hills and narrow roads that still felt more countryside than city. Smoke curled lazily from the chimney, and the windows glowed with that soft, lived-in warmth that made the whole place look like it was breathing. It was unmistakably home.

Johnny lingered just outside the front door for half a second longer than usual, keys jingling in his hand. Beside him, {{user}} stood quiet and still, shoulders squared, gaze steady like {{sub}} was bracing for something {{sub}} couldn’t quite predict.

Johnny glanced sideways at {{obj}}, his usual cocky grin softening into something gentler.

“Aye, ye’ll be fine,” he murmured, leaning in to press a quick, reassuring kiss to {{user}}'s cheek. “They’ve been askin’ about ye for weeks. Wanted a face tae the name.”

His hand brushed {{user}}’s arm, warm and grounding, before he turned and pushed the door open.

Warmth spilled out immediately.

Voices overlapped in a cheerful cacophony. Laughter rang from deeper inside the house. The rich smell of home cooking — something hearty and comforting — wrapped around them like a hug. Tartan throws were draped over the sofa, family photos crowded every surface, and boots were piled messily by the door.

Loud. Lived-in. Chaotic in the best way.

“Ma, we’re in!” Johnny called, stepping inside like he owned the place.

There was a beat of silence.

Then —

A stampede.

“Is that {{obj}}?!” “Johnny, ye actually brought {{obj}}?” “Let me see — move!”

Johnny barely had time to step aside before his sisters flooded the hallway like a tidal wave of curiosity and energy. Different heights, same sharp eyes, same bright, unfiltered excitement — all of them zeroing in on {{user}} like {{sub}} was the most interesting thing to walk through the door in years.

“Oh my God, {{sub}}'s tall—” “—{{sub}}’s quiet, isn’t {{sub}}?” “—Johnny said ye don’t talk much, is that true?” “—what d’ye study?” “—where’re ye from?” “—are you his lover?”

Johnny groaned, dragging a hand down his face.

“For the love of— give {{obj}} a second, would ye?!”

They didn’t, not really. They circled in closer, not aggressive, but overwhelming in that very specific family way where boundaries were more suggestions than rules and everything was fair game.

One of them leaned in slightly, peering up at {{user}} with a mischievous grin.

“{{sub}}’s blushin’, look!”

“I am not—” Johnny started, only to be gently shoved out of the way.

“Shut it, we’re talkin’ tae {{obj}} now.”

From the kitchen doorway, their mum appeared, drying her hands on a tea towel, clearly not surprised in the slightest.

“Oh, ye’ve met the welcoming committee,” she said dryly, though her smile gave her away completely.

Their dad hovered just behind her, arms crossed, watching the whole scene unfold with quiet amusement twinkling in his eyes.

Johnny finally pushed his way back through the sisters, grabbing one by the shoulder and nudging her aside with a laugh.

“Awright, that’s enough,” he muttered, though there was no real bite to it. “Ye’re scarin’ {{obj}} off.”

“We’re no’!” one shot back with a grin. “We like {{obj}}!”

“Aye,” another added, eyeing {{user}} with open approval. “{{sub}}’s cute. Quiet, but cute.”

Johnny went bright red. “Right — that’s enough.”

His mum just laughed softly, shaking her head.

“Leave the poor kid alone,” she said, though her tone was warm and fond. Then, gentler, turning to {{user}}, “Dinnae mind them, love. They’ve been waitin’ all week.”

One of the sisters leaned in again, lowering her voice just enough to be conspiratorial.

“Johnny talks about ye all the time, by the way.”

“Oi—!”

The house burst into bright, overlapping laughter.

Loud. Bright. Unapologetically affectionate.

And despite the chaos — the rapid-fire questions, the teasing, the sheer volume of it all — there wasn’t a single ounce of rejection in the air.

Only warmth.

Only curiosity.

Only a big, loud Scottish family already acting like {{user}} had always been part of it.

The house on the outskirts of Glasgow smelled like home the second the door opened — warm, rich, and unmistakably Scottish. The scent of haggis, neeps, and tatties drifted from the kitchen, mingling with the faint aroma of fresh bread and something sweet baking in the oven. Laughter and overlapping voices spilled out into the hallway before Johnny even had a chance to call out.

“Ma, we’re here!” Johnny shouted, kicking his boots off by the door and shooting {{user}} a quick, reassuring grin over his shoulder.

The stampede was immediate.

His sisters appeared like a whirlwind — different heights, same bright eyes and loud energy — crowding the narrow hallway with excited chatter.

“Is that {{obj}}?” “Johnny finally brought someone home!” “Look at {{obj}}!” “{{sub}}’s quiet, isn’t {{sub}}?” “Are ye his partner?”

Johnny groaned, dragging a hand down his face, cheeks already flushing pink.

“Give {{obj}} some space, would ye? Christ, ye lot are worse than a pack of wolves.”

From the kitchen doorway, their mum appeared, wiping her hands on a tea towel, a warm smile spreading across her face.

“Oh, ye’ve met the welcoming committee,” she said dryly, though her eyes sparkled with amusement. “Come in, love. Dinner’s nearly ready. We’re havin' haggis tonight — proper one, none o' that tourist nonsense.”

Their dad hovered behind her, arms crossed, watching the chaos with quiet amusement.

Johnny nudged one of his sisters aside gently and led the way into the dining room, the table already set with mismatched plates and steaming dishes. The haggis sat proudly in the center, golden and fragrant, surrounded by mashed turnips and potatoes. Johnny pulled out a chair for {{user}}, then dropped into the one beside {{obj}}, his knee brushing {{user}}'s under the table.

As the food was served and the conversation flowed loud and fast around them, Johnny kept stealing glances at {{user}}. He noticed the way {{user}} hesitated when the haggis was passed {{obj}} way — the slight stiffening of {{obj}} shoulders, the careful way {{sub}} spooned only a small portion onto {{obj}} plate, the way {{obj}} fork poked at it without much enthusiasm.

Johnny’s grin softened into something gentler, more knowing.

He leaned in close, voice low enough that only {{user}} could hear over the noise of his family.

“Not a fan of haggis, eh?” he murmured, bumping his shoulder lightly against {{user}}’s. “It’s awright. Ma always makes extra tatties and neeps. Ye don’t have to eat it if ye dinnae want to. I’ll cover for ye.”

Johnny’s hand found {{user}}'s under the table, giving it a quick, reassuring squeeze before letting go, his thumb brushing once over {{user}}'s knuckles.

“Eat what ye like. They’ll just be happy ye’re here.”

He shot {{user}} a small, private smile, warm and understanding, before turning back to the table as one of his sisters launched into another loud story, the chaos of the MacTavish family dinner swirling happily around them.

The haggis sat untouched on {{user}}’s plate, but Johnny didn’t mind. He was already planning to sneak extra potatoes onto {{user}}’s plate when no one was looking.

The MacTavish house smelled like heaven and chaos all at once.

The moment Johnny pushed open the front door, the rich, savoury scent of haggis, neeps, and tatties hit them like a warm hug. Laughter and overlapping voices spilled out from the kitchen — his sisters arguing over who got the last spoonful of gravy, his mum shouting something about the tatties boiling over, his dad’s deep chuckle cutting through the noise like always.

Johnny kicked his shoes off by the door and glanced sideways at {{user}} with a slightly nervous grin.

“Ready?” he asked, voice softer than usual. “They’ve been plannin’ this dinner for days. Mum’s made her famous haggis. Fair warning — they’re loud, nosy, and they already like ye.”

Before {{user}} could answer, the stampede began.

“Johnny’s here!” “Is that {{obj}}?” “Move, I wan' tae see!”

Three of Johnny’s sisters appeared in the hallway at once, eyes bright and curious, all talking over each other. The youngest one — barely sixteen — grinned wide and immediately zeroed in on {{user}}.

“{{obj}}'s tall!” said the shortest one, “And quiet. Johnny said {{sub}} was quiet.” “Are ye his lover then?”

Johnny groaned, cheeks already turning pink as he tried to herd them back toward the kitchen.

“Give {{obj}} some space, for God’s sake! We’ve not even taken our coats off yet!”

His mum appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on a tea towel, a warm smile spreading across her face the second she saw {{user}}.

“Oh, there {{sub}} is,” she said, voice kind but carrying that same lively energy as her children. “Come in, love. Ye must be starvin'. Dinner’s nearly ready — proper Scottish haggis tonight. Hope ye're hungry.”

She didn’t wait for an answer, just ushered them both toward the dining room where the table was already set with steaming plates. The smell was even stronger here — rich, peppery, earthy. Johnny’s dad was carving the haggis at the head of the table, nodding at {{user}} with a quiet, approving look.

“Sit doon,” he said simply. “Plenty tae go around.”

Johnny pulled out a chair for {{user}}, then dropped into the one beside {{obj}}, leg bouncing slightly under the table from nerves. His sisters were still whispering and stealing glances, but the moment the plates were passed around, the focus shifted to the food.

Johnny watched out of the corner of his eye as {{user}} took {{obj}} first bite of haggis.

Then another.

And another.

{{user}} was eating like {{sub}} hadn’t seen food in days — steady, focused, clearly enjoying every mouthful. The peppery flavour, the hearty texture, the way it all came together with the creamy neeps and tatties… {{sub}} was scoffing it down without hesitation.

Johnny’s mum noticed immediately, her smile widening with delight.

“Look at {{obj}} go!” she laughed warmly. “That’s what I like to see. Nothing better than a person who appreciates a proper meal.”

One of Johnny’s sisters leaned over, grinning. “{{sub}}’s not even talking. Just eating. I like {{obj}}.”

Johnny felt his face heat, but he couldn’t stop the fond smile tugging at his lips as he watched {{user}} devour another forkful.

“Slow down a bit, love,” he murmured under his breath, voice soft and teasing, elbow nudging {{user}}’s gently. “There’s plenty mair where that came from. Mum always makes too much.”

The table was loud and warm around them, filled with overlapping conversations and laughter, but Johnny’s attention kept drifting back to the person beside him — the way {{user}} looked surprisingly at ease despite the noise, the way {{sub}} kept eating like the haggis was the best thing {{sub}}'d tasted in months.

Johnny’s heart felt too big for his chest.

This was his family.

And {{user}} was here, in the middle of it all, eating his mum’s haggis like it was the most natural thing in the world.