#but my ghoap fic has my attention rn

[erosology]

just popping up here to let y’all know that i have the sweetest most beautiful most thoughtful most amazing girlfriend and every time i look up at the stars i see her face kthnxbai

[moongreenlight]

WIP Wednesday except it's Thursday and I'm using this as an excuse to post something without the imaginary pressure of getting a full fic out. :D

800-ish word excerpt from my Ghoap x Reader nutcracker AU that I meant to finish around Christmas.

The orchestra has picked up about half a beat too fast and the conductor seems not to have noticed.

Too busy salivating at the legs of one of the snowflake girls a few spots to your left. His baton is getting lazy. Long, drawn out flicks and swishes like he’s casting spells instead of directing. Strange, you think. If anything they should be slowing down to match his tempo.

Maybe it’s the strings? They’re nipping into the winds and forcing the entire group forward. It throws off a girl in front of you. She’s younger by a handful of years. Doesn’t quite have the music- even at the right tempo- committed to memory. She drops her arm a full count too early. Even from behind you can hear her curse.

This seems to rouse him. He jerks his head back to center and starts flicking the tip of the baton back on beat. He’s a stern man. He’s got coal-black eyes that seem to house the staggering power to burn a hole straight through someone bone and all. You swear you can hear flesh crackling and sizzling as he casts his gaze out over the stage. It takes a moment, but he’s able to herd the group back onto a single track. Dancers and musicians alike.

Someone has either put too much or too little rosin on their shoes. It’s difficult to pinpoint, but there’s a terrible squeaking sound from somewhere on the stage that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up. Like nails on a chalkboard. It gets worse during the final round of turns.

And then, by some miracle, intermission. Big cloth curtains draw together. Kicking up dust and loose sparkles and large pieces of fake snow that adhere themselves to your skin. Kept snug in place by the sheen of sweat that collected under the brutal heat of the spotlights and the effort it took to dance for nearly forty minutes straight.

Imogene, the girl who’d just recently championed the superlative of biggest blunder to date, was now heavily crying into the arms of her older sister.

You relish the few moments you get to catch your breath before the mistress comes and begins to shoo you and the other girls offstage. She’s far more stern than the conductor. And unfortunately less handsome, though they share the same deep-set frown lines that cage their mouths. You catch her give a shaking Imogene a whack to the ear before you can duck backstage.

In your hurry to whip your head back around for fear of meeting the same fate, you run directly into someone’s back. You’re quick to hiss out an apology, but it’s drowned out by the sound of a man speaking terribly muddy French.

“- gorgeous. Even caught the orchestra’s attention.” (please pretend this is French I forgot to translate it and I'm too lazy rn)

The girl he’s talking to, Sophie, giggles and he sways slightly from her batting him in the chest.

“Excuse me.”

It comes out a bit more stiff than you mean it to. He doesn’t wait for Sophie to dismiss herself before turning around.

John MacTavish is one of the few men in the company, but even without such slim options, you feel he would still be a standout.

He’s not from France, though it’s not uncommon for members to have made pilgrimage to join such a prestigious group. His accent is horrible, any potential ruined by his upbringing somewhere in Scotland, though he earns himself a few points with native speakers for his enthusiasm.

He’s also granted the cushion of patience because of his undeniable good looks. He’s got great blue eyes that emote just as well as he does. Shining and laughing along with him like they’ve got personalities to match. He’s big. Tall and muscular, which -again- isn’t uncommon what with all the lifts and spins and acrobatics he does, but he packs on muscle in a way not many other male dancers have the capacity to do.

You’re sure it’s a nightmare to source costumes for him. He’s tore the back panel out of his jacket twice this season alone and you’re only about three-quarters of the way through.

He’s gorgeous and he knows it, which makes him insufferable. He’s charming and got fantastic whit, sure, but he’s perverse and a habitual letcher so it all seems to cancel out.

His great beauty makes him the popular option for most all of the company and the patrons of the opera house alike. It’s become a running joke that you’ve not really served your time unless you’ve had a go with John.

Your participation is left widely up to speculation.

“Sorry, hen.”

If he noticed your rigidity, he doesn’t bring it up. Instead he leans down and takes you by the wrists. Brings his face close to yours and plants a kiss on the right corner of your mouth.

“Jesus, John.”

You scramble away, much to his delight.

“Always forget if it’s right or left first.”

He’s snickering like he’s clever. It takes some legitimate effort to wrench your arms out of the manacles that are his hands.

“Funny.”

You say flatly as you shoulder past him, wiping at the corner of your mouth with the heel of your palm.

“I thought so.”