#12 days of goosemas

[goosemas]

2024 Goosemas Collection - Colt Seavers - 512 x 512 icons

[drivinmeinsane]

Miracle : 12 Days of Goosemas

Day One ❆ Officer K / Reader

{12 Days of Goosemas 2024 Masterlist} ※ {Regular Masterlist} ※ {ao3}

❆ Summary: Waking in the middle of the night isn't an uncommon occurrence for K, but you're always there to bring him back to his baseline. ❆ Rating: No mature content. ❆ Content/Tags: K survives, symptoms of PTSD, comfort, no use of Y/N ❆ Word Count: 1933 ❆ Author's Note: This is loosely connected to Somebody to You. Reading is not required, but might provide some additional context!

He opens his eyes in the subdued gloom only to be nearly blinded by the faint glow of his own irises as they take on the scant light from the curtain covered window and reflect it. They dart from side to side, desperately seeking the source of what woke him. His heart is hammering against the cathedral of his rib cage with such force he worries that it will manage to wake you.

The replicant lays paralyzed, fingers itching for a weapon he no longer carries. There had been a tracker in his old blaster. He’d left it behind with his badge when he defected all those months ago. There had also been a tracking device in him, sank deep between the knobs of his spine as if he were no better than an old world animal. The scar that its removal left behind is a small thing in appearance. Pressing a finger against it would reveal a gnarled twist of torn tissue underneath the surface of the skin. He seeks it out sometimes, bears down on it so hard with his fingers that he leaves mottled bruises in his wake of his touch. He needs to know that his freedom is not a dream he has made up in his own mind while looking down the barrel of the interviewer’s camera awaiting the moment that he finally will be found defective.

There’s a shuffle outside the front door followed by the light pitch of giggling. It’s only the next door neighbors passing by to get into their own unit.

They’re harmless.

K has shared many a cordial nod with them since you both moved into this run-down complex together. Your previous roommate, an unerringly patient replicant, had gotten tired of the way you were dancing around each other and had politely demanded that relationship developments happen in an entirely different building so that he wouldn’t have to bear witness to the awkward flirtation and love that poured out of K like an unstaunched wound. The Nexus 9 figured he owed Gradus that much and had shyly presented you with a list of apartments to choose from.

Clinging to the knowledge that the noise that had woken him was not from a threat, he tries to force himself to relax. It’s a futile endeavor, his shoulders remain tense. K’s body stubbornly refuses to settle. It is convinced that conflict is going to arrive in a messy tangle that means the death of everything he has come to care for.

He turns his head, considers the slumbering form of you at his side. The desire to take you in his arms and draw you tightly to the broad expanse of his chest is nearly overwhelming, but his conscious stops him. Your rest is far more important to him than his unsettled nerves. Both of you have been working long hours to afford the cost of living. He knows that you fall into bed each night weighed down by exhaustion.

Instead, K chooses to distance himself. He eases out of bed, taking pains to not shift the mattress too much. His feet make contact with the inhospitable surface of the laminate floor. He’s grateful for the thick socks that serve as a barrier between it and his skin. They had been a gift from an unlikely friend.

As he moves to the bedroom door, he realizes that the concept of having friendship with others beyond indifferent work relationships is still foreign to him. Companions were not something meant for his kind. His Madam had kindly reminded him of that fact time and time again during his servitude.

K had been cut free of his growth bag, devoid of contact starting on the day of his inception. He’d simply assumed that he would be retired the same way. Alone. Friendless. At best, accompanied only by the disinterested eyes of an impartial observer who was waiting to call in biohazard to hose his viscera down the floor drain hidden underneath one of the rubber mats padding the floor of the interviewing room.

He pushes the bedroom door open and shuts it silently behind him. The replicant keeps the hinges well oiled in preparation for nights like this one.

The living room is bathed in soft, multi-color hues. It’s familiar, almost soothing. He skirts around the furniture on his way to the kitchen. Once there, he pulls a glass down from the cabinet before filling it from a pitcher kept in the fridge. Tap water runs murky and rust orange here before clearing to a metallic tasting liquid. Filtration is all but a necessity in a world that has been poisoned by greed.

Turning, he puts his back against it and considered the living room while he takes a careful mouthful of water. It tastes like coins against his tongue. For a choking moment, K is taken back to the flavor of another replicant’s blood flecking against his teeth as he pleads for his struggling target’s submission while he cuts out the replicant’s eye.

He swallows hard around the sudden lump in his throat. He’s gripping onto the loose material of his pants, pulling the fabric taut over his thigh as he tries to return to baseline. His eyes lock onto the main source of light in the adjoining room as if were the lens of the interviewer’s camera.

The flickering string of rainbow lights wrapped around the tattered fake tree you’d brought home one evening after work sits proudly in the corner on their hand-me-down side table. You’d been so happy that night and the nights after. He tries to focus on the memories, pushing aside the afterimage of a future he’d never had. There are moments where he feels wrong—when the tissue gives a phantom snag at his unmarked side and he feels so cold and so tired. There is a nagging idea in his mind that he was meant for another fate, not the one he’d somehow received. It had to catch up with him eventually.

“K?” Your voice is thick with sleep.

He looks away from the tree to find you standing in the doorway to the bedroom. It takes him back to the times Joi would interrupt his downward spirals.

K has not activated her in a long time. Her emanator is kept wrapped in a thin piece of cloth and tucked away in his cigarette box. Real life holds appeal for him now. He doesn’t need to embrace a simulacrum for something he thought unattainable. There is no more pretend. He is K and you are you. And the both of you are happy despite the odds.

Not trusting himself to speak for fear that his voice will betray the inexplicable current of terror persistently pumping through his veins, he inclines his head in greeting.

The silence does little to deter you and you move to his side. Warm fingers work their way underneath his clenched hand. K allows you to gently pry his grip free from his pant leg, leaving creased fabric behind. The sensation of skin on skin is enough that he has to close his eyes.

“What’s got you up this late?” you prod. Your fingertips rub over his knuckles, lingering on the scars that have been pounded into them. He can only heal so much. At the end of the day, K is still made of flesh and bone. The replicant knows that his body is a faded ledger of brutality. Both given and received.

K shakes his head. He sets the glass of water on the water with a twist of his arm. “I heard a noise in the hall and I thought it was something it wasn’t.”

“Oh, honey…”

He risks a glance sideways at your face. Your expression is strangely sad. It’s still novel that someone real could feel an emotion other than disdain for him.

Lightly, you tug at his hand. He goes willingly, allowing you to guide him to the sagging couch where he takes a seat at your wordless prompting. He sits quietly as you take the handwoven blanket off the back of it and drape it over his lap. Before you withdraw, you brush a hand over his jaw, down the side of his neck, and finally stopping at his shoulder.

“I’ll be right back,” you say, giving the tense span of muscle and sinew a squeeze.

As he watches you return to the kitchen, K does his best to let himself go limp against the back of the couch. His spine is seemingly made of granite and refuses to bend. Seeking distraction, he turns his head to look at the ornaments decorating the faux branches at his side. Most of them were made by hand. Some are crocheted bits of fiber made into snowflakes and stars. Others are shaped twists of foil that have been painted.

His stomach unclenches as he remembers the way you’d encouraged him to join you and Gradus at the table. He’d given in and taken a place for himself only to be further surprised when you had pushed scraps at him and asked him to join the two of you in making decorations. Working with his hands to create rather than destroy had felt right.

Two replicants and an organic make up a ragtag bunch by any metric, but it is more family than he’d ever dreamed possible.

“Here you go.” Your voice cuts into his thoughts as you appear at his knees.

He looks away from the horse he’d clumsily made of foil and painted to look like the one he saw in his fake memories. You’d told him to put it near the top—in a place of honor.

You have two mugs of steaming tea clasped in one hand, and in the other, a battered book. Not his alcohol stained copy of Pale Fire, but something else. Something that doesn’t stalk the halls of his mind like Nabokov’s work does. There is no tall white fountain waiting for him in the novel you’re holding.

“Thank you,” he says as he takes one of the mugs—the one painted with an array of flowers he wonders the names of. “You don’t have to stay up with me,” he adds, worried.

“But I want to,” you counter and sit down next to him, resting your cheek against his shoulder.

The chipped ceramic is warm against his fingertips, but it feels chilly in comparison to the heat of your body tucked against the length of his side. You put the book on his covered lap before taking a corner of the blanket for yourself and pressing impossibly closer. His heart rate has slowed to something steady. The nervous muscles are relaxing under the attentive presence.

Automatically, his fingers trace over the cover, skimming through the pages until he finds the bookmark nestled along the spine. His mouth traces the shapes of the words, voice rising and falling with the careful intonation, and he allows himself to lose his worries in the story of another world. He accepts the miracle you’ve given him by loving him in return. Long after you set your empty mug aside at the base of the little fake tree as if it were a present and gone lax against him in your slumber, he reads. He reads until his eyes grow heavy and his voice hoarse. Until he has no choice but to place the book and the mug aside and draw you into his arms.

Morning will find you both stiff-backed and achy, but for now, you sleep interlinked.

[danime25]

Silent Night

ao3 //normal masterlist // christmas masterlist

*Summary: Lars and his real girl go to a Christmas party hosted by one of his coworkers

*Rating: +18 for explicit mature content

*Content/Tags: Semi-public blowjob, female dom aspects, orgasm control, holiday party

*Status: Oneshot/Complete

“Welcome!” His coworker greeted the couple standing in the entryway, “Oh this must be the girl you’ve been talking about at work! Lars has said so much about you.”

“Only good things, I hope.” She giggled, hiding her smile behind the back of her hand. Lars looked at his girlfriend with a smile and nodded

“Well come on in.” Their host motioned for them to come in. They walk into the entryway and Lars takes their coats, throwing them into the convenient pile next to the door. She pressed a hand against his back firmly. While the host and her husband walked back into the living room she whispered into Lars ear,

“You remember our rules Lars?”

“Yes.” He shivered

“Good. Let me hear them.”

“I’m yours. I only listen to you.”

“Yes.” She bit the bottom of her lip as he said it in neediest borderline whiny voice

“I can’t react.”

“Yes.”

“I’m subservient to you.”

“Such a good boy.” Her hand works its way underneath his hair and over his ear. She pulled a tiny remote from out of her purse and discreetly pressed the power button. Lars crossed his feet as the toy inside of him slowly pulsed away. It was too slow to really get him worked up, but he knew it’d be uncomfortable for him when she flipped it any higher. “Let’s go have some fun now, okay?”

“Yes dear,” He replied, pressing his lips onto her forehead. With a gentle graze of her hand across his cheek, he wrapped his arm around her back and began to introduce her around the party.

“I’m going to get us a drink, okay?” She broke away from him and flicked the vibrator up two levels. She looked over her shoulder carefully and saw the way that Lars squirmed as he tried to finish his thought. She grinned as she heard his voice catch in the back of his throat, and poured herself a cup of the communal punch. She came back and handed a beer off to Lars who thanked her quietly. She leaned up against Lars, making him shift again to open his stance up a little bit more. His arm hooked back around her and his fingers dug into her side as she “accidentally” turned the vibrator up one more setting. “Did you want some food, love?”

“I’m fine.” His teeth were gritted as he tried to say those words. “You get something if you need to.”

“Okay.” She smiled and kissed his cheek, “I’ll go in a moment.”

“Okay.” He went to sit down at the side of the room. Just somewhere he could get away with letting his eyes roll to the back of his head and suppress a moan. She stood over him and feigned concern for his condition. He crossed his legs and took a sip from the can. He looked at the can and jittered a bit.

“You’re not doing a very good job.” She whispered, “You want to cum when we get home, don’t you?”

“Yes.” He bit down on his lip

“Then act like it.”

“Okay.” He stood back up and she turned it up again for him. He desperately resisted the urge to rut against the wall. She saw the sweat starting to collect at his hairline and smiled as she kissed him. His lips quivered ever so lightly as she broke the contact. He needed more of her. She still had at least two more levels to go up on the vibrator before she got tired of toying with Lars, but Lars couldn’t focus on anything but his need to have her hands roaming all over his body. Her touch. Her breath swept along his skin. He whimpered and felt himself start to leak into his boxers. His eyes went wide and tried to think of something chaste to make sure he didn’t displease her.

“Oh honey.” She rubbed his back, “You normally last so much longer, but I guess you couldn’t help yourself.”

“I couldn’t…” He whined

“Let’s get back to the car.” She moaned into his ear and he practically ran to grab their coats. She made the rounds across the party to apologize, and said Lars just wasn’t feeling too well. He wrapped her coat around her shoulders and they said a quick ‘bye’ to the host. He walked down the steps leading to the driveway and she turned it up one more level as he made a dash to the car. He unlocked the door to the back and she slid in next to him. Her hand rested in the center of his lap as she leaned in to give his cheek a quick peck. She playfully palmed his bulge in the jeans just to see how close he was to cumming. He let out a grunt and bucked up into her hand. She smiled and slowly unzipped his fly, letting his cock pop out of his pants. She lowered herself so her mouth could wrap around his dick. The warmth of her mouth made him pull on her hair as her head bobbed up and down and back again. He leaned back against the seat more and bucked his hips up carefully. She used her hands to keep his body down, and looked up at him. From the way his moans kept getting broken by needy breaths, she knew he was close. She kept at her current tempo until Lars threw his head back and moaned as he felt a bead of cum drip from his dick and onto her tongue. She swallowed every last drop until Lars was soft again. She pulled away, laid her head on his shoulder and rested a hand over Lars’ belly. He carefully zipped himself back up before wrapping his arms tightly around her.

“Love you Lars.” She smiled

“Love you too.” He kissed her head and fixed her hair, turning it into a beautiful waterfall across his sweater. He kissed her head once more before letting his eyes flutter shut. She’d probably have to drive the two of them home, but he felt safe with her.

[theghostpinesmusic]

Ahead of their looming summer tour, Goose posted one last (?) video from the April Capitol Theatre run the other day: "Tumble" from 4/10. As I've written about before, I like "Tumble" a lot as a song, both in its "fast" and "slow" arrangements, but even longer versions of the tune tend to stretch out into dance-party territory rather than exploring heretofore unplumbed Depths Of Jam. But hey, this is Cotter's first live-concert "Tumble" and it's twenty-four minutes long: how better to put off doing actual work for another hour than listening to this again and writing words about it?

Unlike the version of "Tumble" from Goosemas X, this version is decidedly the "fast" arrangement all the way through. It's a pretty standard reading of the composed section, all told, though it's always fun to watch Peter make those super-quick transitions from guitar to keys and back again. The minor-key, "Stash"-y parts of the tune feel a bit more percussion-focused than they used to be, which is cool. Also, I think but am not sure that Peter is playing Ezra Koenig's guitar during this set (Ezra and two other members of Vampire Weekend would join Goose on stage later in the night).

The song finishes and moves into jam territory at 5:17 (literally punctuated by that loud-ass smoke machine again). Sometimes there'll be a little noodling around on the song's closing chords next, but here we immediately drop into a super-funky two-guitar jam. I love hearing Rick and Peter play off of each other in situations like this. It's nice of Peter to come out from behind the keys for a face-to-face showdown. The fact that he then proceeds to hide behind Cotter's kit for awhile is just extra fun. During Peter's little road trip, some give-and-take between Rick and Trevor develops and it is also pretty, pretty cool.

I really dig Rick's tone around the 9:00 mark, especially shortly after when he starts repeating that little ascending riff.

For my money, the quality, variety, and control of his tone has suddenly vastly improved since 2023. For what it's worth, I'm not at all on the whole "the new guitar/new amp SUCKS" bandwagon that's formed since he made some big gear changes in late '22 and then in April '23. Sometimes I'm in the mood for the old PRS sound and sometimes the DeLuis sound really works better for me but, ultimately, it's all gravy as far as I'm concerned (fun fact, though: I was in attendance for the last PRS show and the first DeLuis show, both at the Warfield). That said, I think they both had their downsides: the PRS often struggled to cut through the mix and to differentiate itself from Peter's guitar especially, and the DeLuis had a tendency to overwhelm the rest of the band (especially live as opposed to over livestreams or on SBD recordings). Recently, though, it looks to me like in addition to whatever other changes he's made, Rick's now playing through two Fender Deluxe Twin Reverb amps and they sound wonderful to me. To be fair, the Twin Reverb is also the amp that I own and play through 95% of the time, so I may be biased. But goddamn, it sounds good.

Anyway, self-indulgent guitar tone digression over!

I thought the light rig for the Cap run was a little...weird? But at moments like 9:20 it really shines. I mean, literally but also figuratively.

Rick's fuzzier, more aggressive tone finally pushes the whole band to pull back a bit starting at 10:10, and we get this really rhythm-heavy space anchored by a repeating figure that he keeps playing on guitar. Trevor sounds fantastically growly here.

Ultimately, this darker space serves a transition to something a bit more upbeat but also more ethereal, and by 11:00 we're fully enmeshed in it. Peter moves to the Vibe shortly after, which feels like both the obvious and perfect choice.

Also, by the 12:00 mark I take back every negative thing I've ever said about this light setup.

One of the things that this more patient "New Goose" has brought to a lot of their jams is using that patience to fully explore some of these more almost-ambient but delicate, gorgeous spaces. It's not that the band didn't have the capacity to do this before Cotter or something: one of my all-time favorite jams of theirs is the "Borne" from 4/25/23 in Eugene, and it's a quintessential example of the form, in my opinion. But this sort of improvisation seems to come more easily to the band in 2024: there are a few great examples from Ted Tapes 2024, one or two examples from those YouTube "Gemini" jams, the "Borne" and "Chateau Jam" from The Chateau Sessions do it a bit, and even though I've been mostly covering the more raucous jams from the Cap run, there are other examples besides this "Tumble" from there as well.

Anyway, it's great. It feels like spaces like this one really pull out Rick's jazz influences, a facet of his playing that I feel often gets lost when the band is just crushing peak after peak. The bit that starts at 13:00 in particular is a great example of this. Also, Cotter is just super fun to watch play (13:40 or so for an example).

Anyway, the jazzgasm finally comes to an end at 16:12 with a super smooth segue into something that initially sounds a bit like Deodato's "2001"/"Also Sprach Zarathustra." Not a huge stretch, I suppose, as the band covered that tune as recently as...2019, I think? I'm gonna be lazy and not look it up for once.

Rick continues being completely on fire for this section, looping a melody around and around and back on itself for a minute or two before transitioning into some funk chording. The chording meshes really well with the staccato stuff that Peter starts laying down on the Vibe, and Cotter's cymbal-centric playing is a great background for it all.

Rick busts back into solo mode at 19:50 with a very Allman Bros. tone, and Pete shifts over to the organ. Here, Trevor takes a bit more of a forward role, and, well, if you wanted some peak jamming in your "Tumble," this is your time.

Holy crap, there is this bit at 21:15 where Rick is just noodling away and Trevor is utterly destroying the building by alternating between two notes, and it's fantastic.

We get a classic bit of unhinged tension injected into the jam at 22:00 and emerge on the other side in the key of "Tumble" again, and then at 23:00 the band brings it home with the ending of the song proper.

Okay, so that was way better than I remembered, and certainly not a "typical" version of the tune. This is why I love revisiting these things!

Also, I definitely have to go work now.

One more Phish jam for y'all next time, and that'll likely be the last for awhile as Goose fully takes over my music-listening life until June 30th.

[drivinmeinsane]

Thank you for the tag! I have quite a few WIPS, especially with things temporarily on hold for a holiday drabble collection... Whoops.

12 Days of Goosemas: Drabble Collection 5 Times Ken Called Driver His Boyfriend: Driver x Ken Doll Dissection Day (Dead Dove): Ken x Reader Face Surfing: Colt x Reader Finger that Wound (Dead Dove): Driver x Reader Forgive Me: Six x Reader Gladiator: Holland x Healy Get that Fick (fish dick): Holland x Healy Groping on the Beach: Colt x Reader History Repeats Itself: Driver x Reader I Know What You Are: Driver x Reader I Want You to be the One (Dead Dove): Henry x Sam Let's go Catch a Killer: Holland x Healy License and Registration: Driver x Reader Mirror: K x Six Put on a Show (Yikes): Seb x Reader Sequel to I do Nothing but Think of You (mutual stalking): Driver x Reader Sorry I Almost Hit You with my Car: Driver x Ken You Won't Resuscitate: K x David Loki Wild Country Final Chapter: Six x Reader

I never know who to tag so let it be my partner in crime, @danime25.

Thanks so much for tagging me @savageandwise

RULES: post the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, and then post a little snippet or tell them something about it! and then tag as many people as you have WIPs.

Madferit: The Novel

1. Chapter 154

LMPYITP: The Random Passages

1. Currently Untitled but could possibly be called Dear Sir or Madam, Will You Read My Book…

2. I Said, “Stand Up! Don’t Sit Back Down!”

Patience

1. Chapter 2

This was a lot of fun to do!

I tag (with no pressure to do this of course) @waketheewitch @headshrinker94 @heresthestorymorningglory @liamgallgherlover

[goosemas]

2024 Goosemas Collection - Holland March - 512 x 512 icons

[drivinmeinsane]

Snow ※ 12 Days of Goosemas

Day Four ※ Sierra Six / Reader

{12 Days of Goosemas Masterlist} ※ {Regular Masterlist} ※ {ao3}

※ Summary: You expected a quiet night in, but that changes when you follow a trail into the trees.

※ Rating: No mature content.

※ Content/Tags: Pre-relationship, Treatment of injuries, Caretaking

※ Word count: 1920

※ Status: Oneshot/Complete

Of course you notice that the log basket by the fireplace is empty when you’re already sprawled out on the couch, remote in hand, Christmas tree plugged in, and fully prepared to settle in for the night. You grumble as you get up and pull on your boots and your coat. Grabbing your flashlight, you open the back door and step out into the cold. You’re nearly to the shed when the beam of light picks up something unusual in its field. You come to a complete stop and examine the ground with a growing sense of horror.

The snow is churned up, something had clearly come through here recently enough. Probably within the past hour or so while you had been snugly tucked into your remotely located home. You can make out footprints. Human, likely belonging to a tall male judging from the size and the distance apart. They’re messy like the maker had been stumbling along. Your flashlight picks up dark blotches on the white. Blood. You look up, frantically scanning your surroundings for a sign of who might have left this path across your yard. There’s nothing other than the trail that leads off into the woods. 

You silently backtrack to your home to grab the hunting rifle leaning against the wall in the coat closet, an assurance for living out in the middle of nowhere in the wooded hills. Feeling like a side character in a cheaply stereotypical horror movie, you go back outside to follow the trail. Flashlight off now that you’re in pursuit. You desperately want to nope out of the situation, but there is no one else around for miles to handle this. You push follow the path into the thicket. There’s a shape huddled at the base of a tree not far into the brush. 

The moonlight is blocked by the branches, so you resignedly turn your flashlight on to illuminate the figure. It reveals a man dressed in bloodstained street clothes. He’s slumped forward so you can’t see his face, but his jeans are covered in a mixture of blood and snow. Some of the blood is glossy, fresh, but most of it is frozen. He is only wearing a thin windbreaker for warmth. There’s a gun resting on his lap. His fingers are slack around it, not even holding onto the weapon. They look waxy and stiff. Only his labored breathing lets you know that he’s alive. 

“Hey.” He doesn’t respond to your slightly hesitant yell so you nudge his foot with the tip of your boot and try again, louder. “Hey!”

No movement, or any awareness of you at all. He just continues breathing like each exhale might be his last. Emergency services are at least forty-five minutes away, if they are even able to get through the snow at all tonight. 

Gritting your teeth, you inch forward to kick the man’s outstretched leg. “Hey!”

That finally gets a response. The stranger groans and lifts his head up. He squints against the bright light you have pointed at his face and raises a shaky hand to block it. You shift so you’re pointing the rifle at him in case he gets it in his head to make any sudden movements. 

“Put your other hand up too,” you order him. He complies, leaving the handgun on his lap. You can barely hear your voice over the pounding of your own heart. “What are you doing out here? You’re on my land.”

His mouth works a couple of times before he’s able to speak. When he does, his voice is hoarse. “Sorry. I got turned around.”

“Yeah? Why are you so messed up if you just ‘got turned around’?”

“Had to jump out of a moving car. The people I was with didn’t appreciate that much.” He sounds so serious that you raise your eyebrows in disbelief. 

“Are you going to be trouble for me?”

“Probably not.”

“Are you going to hurt me?”

“No.” His answer is immediate, out of his mouth before your question has the chance to linger in the air.

Against your better judgment, you take his word at face value and tuck your rifle under your arm, pointed away at him. His handgun gets stowed in your waistband before you help him to his feet and sling his arm over your shoulder. The arm not occupied by your own gun gets wrapped around him. Your knees nearly buckle under the weight of him. It’s slow going to your back door. He seems to be intermittently losing consciousness. On the second of the three steps leading to the small porch, his foot drags and slips out from under him. He nearly takes the both of you down. 

“C’mon,” you grit out and bodily haul him up the final stair.

The stranger slumps in your hold as you get the door open and all but drag him into your kitchen. He comes to enough to stagger through to the living room. You more or less drop him onto the couch. He sags limply into the cushions like a puppet with its strings severed.

“Can I call for medical help or do you need me to try to do a patch job?”

“Please don’t call anyone. I’ll be fine.”

You exhale hard, nerves jangling. Patch job it is. “Sit tight.” 

Leaving him alone and dripping melting snow all over your couch, you gather a couple towels and the medical kit that you keep well stocked for emergencies. He is exactly as you left him when you come back in the room laden down like a pack pony. You put the supplies on the seat next to him. 

“What’s your name?”

“Six.”

You want to comment on how that’s obviously not a real name, but you bite your tongue and swallow the words down. It’s not your business. Keeping him from dying on your couch is your business. 

Without any further preamble, you wrestle him out of his wet clothing, leaving him in just the underwear you don’t dare to touch. Once he is stripped naked, you start examining his body to find the source of the blood. You find it immediately, but your eyes can’t help but take in the rest of him. Six, as he calls himself, is muscular, but you knew that from how heavy he was over your shoulder and in the circle of his arm, but it’s the expanse of his injuries that is more notable. It’s unsettling. He’s marked with old scars and fresher ones that are still uncomfortably raw and pink. You don’t think you want to know what this strange man does for a living. It looks as though several people have tried to kill him over the years, admittedly with limited success if his presence in your home is any indication.

Ignoring the rest of his body, you focus on the sizable gash in his size. A bullet must have burned its way across his side at a close range judging from the singeing around the edges of the wound. It’s still sluggishly bleeding, but it’s thankfully shallow enough to not be fatal in the short term. You wet a piece of gauze with disinfectant and press it against the wound. Six does not so much as flinch. He looks resigned to the pain when you glance at his face to gauge his reaction. You pinch the sides of the injury together and secure it with several meticulously placed butterfly bandages to keep it closed. Holding a thick gauze pad on the wound with your hand, you wind vet wrap around his abdomen to hold it in place. It should serve to put pressure on it to restrict the chance of bleeding and further trauma to the sight.

You’re relieved to discover that the rest of his injuries are minor in comparison. He has a slightly sprained wrist that you stabilize with more vet wrap. Unfortunately, he is covered in scrapes and abrasions. All you can do for them is to put a large band-aid on the worst of the road rash. It’s next to a tattoo that says something in Greek. Your stranger appears to be more well-versed in literature than you might have expected, not just a thug despite the obviously prison quality tattoos. 

Injuries aside, the man feels concerningly cold due to the exposure to the freezing temperatures and not insignificant blood loss. You realize that if you had been more prepared and hadn’t needed to restock your log barrel, he would have likely succumbed to the elements right outside of your home. The thought of finding his body in the morning makes you shiver reflexively. You push that line of thinking aside and pick up one of the towels. You hold it in both hands and rub his extremities in between your cloth covered palms, trying to encourage circulation back into his body. It works. His fingers lose their waxy appearance and his body temperature seems to level back out. He starts shivering, a good sign that means there is no more need to worry about hypothermia. You take the fresher towel and dry his sodden hair before wiping his torso clean. His shivering gradually subsides as you work. He’s dozing off, breath whistling through his nose. Some of the tension has left his face. 

Once you’re finished with him, you finally fetch the logs from the shed. On your way, you take the time to disturb the tracks. Even though it’s still snowing, you do not want to take the chance that they will be discernible by a hostile party. Knowing that you will be cleaning up anyway after you put your unexpected guest to bed, you don’t take any great pains to avoid tracking more snow into the house. 

You drop your armful of logs into the basket and put a couple of them into the fireplace. They should last a while. You approach the couch, catching Six awake but not alert. He’s staring blankly at your Christmas tree, seemingly captivated by it. His eyes redirect unsteadily to you when you’re close enough to touch him. The man squints like he’s having a hard time seeing through his exhaustion.

“You an angel?”

You almost laugh, but he sounds so tired and so sincere. “No,” you tell him gently. He mumbles something unintelligible in response.

Crouching at his side, you take hold of his legs and guide him until he’s laying down, curled on his non-injured side on the cushions. Six manages to lift his head enough for you to shove a decorative pillow under it. His eyes slip closed when you cover him with the throw blankets that you always keep in the living room. You practically tuck him in. Just before you withdraw, you impulsively smooth his hair back and press a kiss to his forehead. Something in your heart tells you that he could use the comforting gesture. 

You pull away, satisfied that he’ll make it through the night and that you will be able to get some food into him in the morning. Just as you turn to leave to start cleaning up the mess that has been left in the wake of his arrival, you’re brought to a halt. Six’s fingers are wrapped around your wrist just long enough to make you pause before he lets go. 

“Thank you,” he says, muffled against the pillow.

Your face softens and you feel the corners of your lips rise in a smile. “You’re welcome."

[drivinmeinsane]

Family : 12 Days of Goosemas

Day Three ❆ Sierra Six / Reader

{12 Days of Goosemas 2024 Masterlist} ※ {Regular Masterlist} ※ {ao3}

❆ Summary: Your tenant might be a mystery, but he's one you want to try to solve forever. ❆ Rating: No mature content. ❆ Content/Tags: Domesticity, Fluff, Pre-relationship, Confessions, Six is 100% Claire's adoptive father, Use of "Court" as an alias, Set sometime post-movie canon, No use of Y/N ❆ Word Count: 1447

It’s too damn early for anyone to be functioning, but here you are—awake and making a beeline for the nearest source of easily obtainable caffeine. The faintest scuffle in the room barely lit by the first touches of dawn alert you to someone else’s presence. You are not alone.

“Good morning, Court,” you say reflexively. There is no one else it could be.

You stop to flick the light switch, flooding the room with artificial light. A yawn pulls itself from your jaws, keeping you cemented in place and prompting you to stretch your arms over your head in a spine-relieving pop. Content but still ready to sag to the floor in a crumpled heap as a sign of another sleepless night, you move the rest of the way into the kitchen to join the tall man at the coffee pot.

“’Morning,” he finally returns once you’re close enough to feel the warmth radiating from him.

His voice is still rough from a night of disuse. You’re forced to blink away the thought of hearing that near-growl pressed against your own throat after a night spent in bed together. Your thoughts about your tenant have become an inappropriate, tangled snare from all the months that he and his daughter have been staying in your spare bedrooms.

Cautioning yourself with the information that you barely know this man hasn’t put a damper on your growing feelings, even if getting a potentially real name out of him had been like pulling teeth after a weeks’ long oral surgery. He only ever pays in cash and dodges questions as though answering them would sink a bullet in him from an ever-watching sniper. Despite the red flags, you’re helplessly attracted to what you do know about him.

He’s unfathomably kind—the perfect gentleman in the way that he goodnaturedly accepts the potshots his daughter takes at him and assists you with tasks around the run-down bed and breakfast that you had inherited. He dotes on Claire without question and has seemingly expanded his orbit of care to include you. It all makes you want them to stay. Forever. The thought of the father-daughter duo moving out is enough to make you feel ill.

“What’s on the agenda today, boss?” he asks, breaking into your thoughts. He further scrambles them by leaning around you to take the sugar jar down from the cupboard. He feels scalding hot against your back. A thick arm brushes against your shoulder, the tendons in the backs of his wide hand flexing as he wraps his fingers around the container. You suppress the urge to lean back against his broad chest and instead clear your throat.

“Want to help me get the decorations out of storage? There’s some cookies in it for it if you do.”

“Deal.” His answer is abrupt. This man has a sweet tooth a mile long and an insatiable appetite for whatever has been put in front of him. Court always eats like he’s known starvation and might experience it again at any moment. It makes you wonder what kind of life he has led before winding up on your doorstep.

───※ ·❆· ※───

The task is far more of a hassle than you had thought it would be. You’re forced to stand to the side while Court squeezes himself into one of the many narrow gaps in the maze of junk that fills the attic. Your relative had been one hell of a hoarder. You’ve already made several trips. This is the final foray into the packrats’ nest.

An unintelligible grumble of words reaches your ears and you crane your neck. You catch a glimpse of your tenant. He is in the midst of crawling over a battered luggage trunk.

“You okay back there?” you call out.

“Sure,” he answers back. Then a pause, “Wait, how many cookies are we talking?”

“As many as you want.”

“Peanut butter?”

“If that’s what you want.”

In response, Court renews his efforts to get to the back of the attic. There’s clattering, a choked off yelp as he hits his elbow on some long-forgotten object, and then he’s emerging from the depths. The worn box containing the Christmas tree is propped onto one shoulder. Success.

You can’t resist teasing him once you’re out of the forlorn attic. You flutter one hand dramatically at your face and pretend to swoon after he hauls himself and the box down the rickety ladder. “Oh my, such a big, strong man out here saving Christmas,” you say, suitably breathy and awed.

You’re rewarded by Court flushing down to his chest. The pink of his skin only makes his blue eyes even more prominent. He gives a token groan at the theatrics, but still shyly averts his gaze. It’s always been easy for you to fluster the tall man.

In blushing silence, he carries the box down to the bed and breakfast’s sitting room where he sets it down with a low grunt. Something must be pulling at his side. You’ve seen him favor his left on occasion. You kneel down at his side to assist him. Together, the two of you pull the relic out of its cardboard casket and attempt to wrestle the wire branches into something nearing presentable. The two of you have just crammed it nicely in the corner when Claire’s footsteps hammer loudly on the stairs.

She busts into the room with a cheery, “Good morni—Wow, you guys have been busy and not in a fun way,” she adds with an exaggerated waggle of her eyebrows after taking in the boxes and tote bins scattered around the room.

A quick glance at Court reveals him fidgeting with a twisted artificial branch. He is gamely trying to ignore his daughter’s commentary. It makes you smile, even as something other than amusement flutters in your chest.

“Your dad helped drag it all out. Do you want to do me a favor and help decorate?”

Her eyes light up. “Yes, yes, absolutely.”

“Have at it,” you sat with a gesture at the waiting containers and Claire immediately leaps into action.

Court and you step back to give her room to work as she starts digging through the mess. You slip into the kitchen to retrieve your lukewarm mugs of coffee. You offer Court his and he takes it a murmured thanks. Neither of you make any effort to avoid the minute brush of your fingers.

“Will you being going to see family?”

He shrugs. “She’s all the family I got left,” he says with a gesture at the girl untangling a strand of lights. A fond smile teases the corner of his mouth before fading away. His focus shifts to you and he leans down, suddenly intimate. “How about you? Are you taking off to see your folks?”

You studiously avoid mapping the contours of his nose with your eyes and take a swig of coffee. “No… the relatives that are still around… Well, we’re not really close.”

The man at your side nods, silent. You get a peek behind his carefully amiable mask to see that there is the hardened edge grief set into his face. It’s still raw, still too fresh to acknowledge with any candor. For both of your sakes, you shake off your melancholy and reach over with your free hand. You slap Court playfully on his—frankly—massive bicep.

“Do you want to play house this Christmas?”

A long pause follows. Your fingers clench around your mug, knuckles bleaching under the pressure. It stretches on for so long that you feel your stomach drop.

Shit, you think, I shouldn’t have said that.

You’re on the verge of opening your mouth to beg forgiveness when he speaks.

“I might not be playing by the end of it.”

Oh… Oh. It’s your turn to feel your face flush.

“I wouldn’t mind that,” you confess. At his raised eyebrow, you continue, “It being for real.”

A heavy hand finds a home on the back of your neck as Court draws you in, forehead to forehead. His nose brushes against yours. For a dizzying moment, you think he’s going to kiss you.

“You want to to be a family with me?” he asks. His breath is hot against your lips.

You nod, nearly sick with longing. You feel like you’re burning up.

“Use your words,” he prompts, voice low.

“Yes. I want that. I want you to stay. I want us to be a family.”

He gives you a praising squeeze that makes you shiver. He withdraws from your space with a crooked smile, hand dropping back down to his side.

“Then let’s be one.”

<- previous day // next day ->

[goosemas]

2024 Goosemas Collection - Lars Lindstrom - 512 x 512 icons

[drivinmeinsane]

Here's the masterpost for my contribution to 2024's 12 Days of Goosemas. Due to my packed schedule and the truly horrifying amounts of overtime I've been putting in at work, this year's works going to be wildly self-indulgent. Only my absolute favorite RyGos characters have made the cut for the prompts.

I hope ya'll enjoy. I know I'm going to have fun!

Day One ❆ { Miracle } ❆ Officer K x Reader Day Two ❆ { Stranded } ❆ Driver x Reader Day Three ❆ { Family } ❆ Sierra Six x Reader Day Four ❆ { Lights } ❆ Henry Letham x Reader Day Five ❆ { Joy } ❆ Holland March x Jackson Healy (collab w/ @danime25) 18+ Day Six ❆ { Alone } ❆ Colt Seavers x Reader 18+ Day Seven ❆ { Tradition } ❆ Sierra Six x Reader 18+ Day Eight ❆ { Snow } ❆ Driver x Ken Day Nine ❆ { Mistletoe } ❆ Officer K x Reader Day Ten ❆ { Warmth } ❆ Driver x Reader 18+ Day Eleven ❆ { Meal } ❆ Colt Seavers x Reader 18+ Day Twelve ❆ { Gift } ❆ Officer K x Sierra Six * Day Thirteen ❆ { Free Space } ❆ Colt Seavers x Tom Ryder 18+

❆ NON-SEASONAL MASTERLIST ❆

[drivinmeinsane]

Stranded : 12 Days of Goosemas

Day Two ❆ Driver / Reader

{12 Days of Goosemas 2024 Masterlist} ※ {Regular Masterlist} ※ {ao3}

❆ Summary: A little car trouble gives you and Driver a moment alone before you visit your family for the holidays. ❆ Rating: No mature content. ❆ Content/Tags: domesticity, holiday travel, fluff, no use of Y/N ❆ Word Count: 1551 ❆ Author's Note: Pulling so much overtime at work kicked my ass in December and is still kicking it with no end of these 70+ hour weeks in sight, but I'm sure we can muster up a little seasonal coziness in January for some overdue Goosemas prompt fills. 🤞

Your eyes are like starlig-

“Nope,” you mutter under your breath and twist at the knob to change the station—abruptly cutting off yet another Christmas song crooning over the old speakers.

Much to your chagrin, the Malibu is too old for a CD player by about a decade, leaving you at the mercy of whatever radio stations Driver’s beloved ‘73 can pick up through its warped antenna. In a bid for sanity, you have made a game out of dodging all the holiday tunes that have floated across the airwaves. Working a shitty job during December is enough to make almost anyone want to leap out of a moving vehicle at the first jingle of bells.

Your dramatic reactions and desperate lunges at the dial have coaxed a few lopsided smiles out of Driver as he takes you up north for your annual family gathering for the season. The mechanic’s presence behind the wheel is a welcome comfort. Even more welcome is the hand resting on your thigh. Each movement of his thumb back and forth over your clothed skin softens the tense lines of your back until you’re tucked into your seat like it’s a comfortable armchair.

The peace is shattered when the car starts jerking—stuttering like an old woman in her death throes. Driver pulls his previously relaxed hand off your thigh and drops it onto the stick. You don’t have time to do more than let out a startled gasp at the sudden jostling. He ignores your surprise as he shifts down in gear, struggling to keep the wheel steady. The Chevy bucks against his efforts, fighting him with every rotation of her tires.

Driver takes to the shoulder. The action forces the vehicle’s momentum to slow as the wheels catch on the snow that has been pushed to the side of the road by the snowplows that have been working since before the rise of the sun to make the miles upon miles of pavement traversable.

You barely hear him let out a frustrated exhale of air while the car idles roughly in park before he kills the engine. The resulting silence is loud without the crackle of the old radio and the persistent hum of the engine. Driver leans down and fiddles with the loose wires hanging down underneath the steering column. He’s talked about getting a lower dash panel, but still hasn’t found one that will properly fit.

Eventually, the sound of the hood popping free from its latch reaches your ears through the solid body and glass of the car.

Without a word, Driver pushes the keys to the Malibu into your hand for safekeeping. The rabbit’s foot is soft in your palm. He’s giving you his luck.

The wind that darts into the car after he opens the door is cold enough to bite at you through your layers. Despite her state of constant repair and modification, the vehicle does have a good heater and you already miss it. You tug your coat tighter around yourself.

You wince in sympathy while you watch the mechanic round the front of his car. He always runs cold, layering up even in the heat of the West Coast. You’re surprised that you can’t see him shivering in his jackets through the rapidly fogging windshield.

While he works, you pull out your phone out of your pocket and flip it open with a satisfying click of the hinges. No bars. The signal doesn’t improve upon extending the antenna.

“Shit,” you groan, putting the phone away.

A faint sense of worry starts worming its way into your mind. If Driver can’t fix whatever problem has the old car acting up, it’s going to be a long wait until either someone else comes along or your family sends out the cavalry hours after the two of you were due to arrive.

In the effort to dispel your growing concern, you pop open the glove compartment and poke through the items. The space is mostly empty. There is the insurance information, an unopened air freshener, and a chipped screwdriver. Some takeout menus… a map and a pen. There is nothing of note to be found, nothing that screams personal value or sentimentality.

Would it kill this man to allow himself a little clutter?

Movement catches your eye and you startle into shutting the compartment as you see a flicker of your partner dropping to his knees in the snow in front of the vehicle. He falls completely out of sight. You unbuckle your seat belt and open the door with a creak that makes your jaw clench with the sheer volume of the sound in the snow-muffled quietness.

“How’s it going?”

Driver has worked himself underneath the front of the car, you realize as you move to stand by one of the headlights. You pass concerned eyes over him from the thighs down. Snow and asphalt salt are doing their best to soak into his clothes.

“Complicated.”

Dropping into a squat beside him, you wobble slightly on the uneven surface and steady yourself by grabbing his knee. He doesn’t startle at the unexpected touch. The two of you are long past any wariness.

“Want any help?”

“Toolbag, please,” comes the reply. You have to strain to hear him over the wind.

Easy enough, you decide and stand up to inch your way around the car. You lean against the cold metal to keep from slipping and making Driver drag you back up the embankment should you slide right off the road’s shoulder.

You twist the key in the lock of the trunk and pull out the heavy bag once the lid opens. It feels as though he has crammed the entire contents of a mechanic’s shop inside the confines of the bulging leather.

The bag lands with a thud when you complete the slightly perilous journey back to Driver’s side. It nudges against his leg. Before you can ask what he needs from it, his hand shoots out and he fishes out a tool by touch alone before withdrawing the appendage back out of sight. Clanking noises and the scraping of metal against metal ensue for just a moment.

He emerges from underneath the Malibu, holding onto a metal cylinder. His hair is mussed and your eyes drift and latch onto the band of his bare stomach from where his jackets have rucked up. The skin turns a pretty pink in the cold, triggering him to shove the thick material down with chilled hands. He rolls onto his knees and picks up the tool bag as he rises to his feet with a crunch of salt and snow.

“Go sit. Just need to clean this out,” he says, slightly raising the object he’s holding. It looks like something pulled out of a pile of scrap in junkyard,

“What’s that?,” you ask. You’re already opening the passenger side door, not needing to be told twice to get out of the air so frigid that your breath steams with every release of your lungs.

“Fuel cylinder.”

“Cool.” What he said means absolutely nothing to you. As you smile at the mechanic, you make a mental note to ask him for details. It’ll be worth it to see him get that soft sparkle in those blue eyes and actually talk.

The leather has cooled slightly in your brief absence. Settling into the seat is a process of suppressed hisses at the temperature and the relief of being out of the wind. It’s not long before Driver is throwing himself back behind the wheel and tossing a clean rag onto the dashboard followed by a less grimy looking part. It’s streaked with moisture from where it was hastily scrubbed with snow and wiped off.

‘’s cold,” he says, close to complaining as he ever gets. “How ‘bout your family moves somewhere warmer?”

You laugh. “They like it up here, besides, if they did, I would have less opportunities to do this…”

His questioning look turns into the widened eyes of mild outrage as you lean over the gear shift and put one cold hand under the hems of his layered clothing to press it against the warm expanse of his stomach. He exhales, sharp, catching your wrist in one large hand. He makes no effort to actually end the contact. His fingers are even icier than yours.

“Might as well get the other one over here,” he says, dry.

You take him up on his suggestion and proceed to work your left hand higher up on his body than your captured right. The winter sunlight is strong enough through the windows that the fine trail of hair on his abdomen lights up gold.

“You should probably warm yours up too,” you remark, leaning over even further.

Driver meets you in the middle with an eager kiss. His free hand skates over your coat, fingers seeking the edge of the garment to find your heat of your bare flesh. You hum appreciatively into his mouth at his efforts. You won’t be able to touch him as much as you’d like around your family without raising some eyebrows and being that couple. It would be a shame to not make the most out of your time while you wait for the cylinder to dry.

<- previous day // next day ->

[goosemas]

2024 Goosemas Collection - Officer K - 512 x 512 icons

[goosemas]

2024 Goosemas Collection - Sierra Six - 512 x 512 icons

[goosemas]

2024 Goosemas Collection - Henry Letham - 512 x 512 icons

[goosemas]

Happy winter, everyone! Welcome to the 12 Days of Goosemas event for 2024. I had enough fun with this concept last year that I have decided to offer it up in a free-to-participate format this year.

As with the year prior, this will be collections of 12 works pertaining to characters played by Ryan Gosling. Not all of these works may necessarily be Christmas themed, but all the provided prompts are intended to be set in the month of December and have some seasonal vibes!

❅ The Prompts ❅

Day One ❆ { Miracle } Day Two ❆ { Stranded } Day Three ❆ { Family } Day Four ❆ { Lights } Day Five ❆ { Joy } Day Six ❆ { Alone } Day Seven ❆ { Tradition } Day Eight ❆ { Snow } Day Nine ❆ { Mistletoe } Day Ten ❆ { Warmth } Day Eleven ❆ { Meal } Day Twelve ❆ { Gift } * Day Thirteen ❆ { Free Space }

❅ Information ❅

❆ Goosemas is a twelve day event celebrating Ryan Gosling and the characters that he has played. The event spans from December 13 to December 24th. There is a thirteenth optional day (noted as "Free Space") for those who would like to share their self-prompted work on Christmas day.

❆ All works must be centralized on characters played by Ryan Gosling and (at least loosely) follow the provided prompts to be part of the 12 Days of Goosemas event.

❆ Any medium is allowed. While fanfictions might be main focus; art, edits, and other form of creativity is welcomed. AI generated content is not.

❆ Despite the name of the event, the works that you create during the 12 Days of Goosemas do not need to be "Christmas related" in the traditional sense. You are welcome to incorporate the winter holiday you celebrate or to turn the prompt into a winter situation/activity if holidays celebrations aren't your thing.

❆ To be featured (have your post reblogged to the event page), be sure to put @goosemas in your post and/or throw a #goosemas2024 in the tags.

❆ This event is managed by @drivinmeinsane (Bee). Feel free to reach out with any questions, concerns, and comments.

[drivinmeinsane]

Lights : 12 Days of Goosemas

Day Four ❆ Henry Letham / Reader

{12 Days of Goosemas 2024 Masterlist} ※ {Regular Masterlist} ※ {ao3}

❆ Summary: Something about Henry Letham makes you feel as though you are a traveler in a vivid dream. ❆ Rating: No mature content. ❆ Content/Tags: Mention of suicidal ideation, Mention of self inflicted injury, Pre-relationship, Art student!Reader, No use of Y/N ❆ Word Count: 1537

Henry carries a cloud with him—a strange, dream-like aura that warps your reality and twists your thoughts until you don’t know which way is up. It’s enough of a sensation to cause even the most mundane interactions with him to be a strange affair. He is a reoccurring figure in your life, often appearing up in places where you would expect to find an art student—be it in eclectic coffee shops, rarity bookstores, or the discount bins of Columbia’s nearest craft store undertaking the quest for something that can be used in a last minute assignment you’d all been given in one of your classes. More than once, you’ve caught sight of his lowered head in a subway car or spotted the cherry-red end of his lit cigarette while he sneaks a smoke in the dark alcove of a thrift store you chanced to visit.

He is not unlike a ghost. He haunts the chambers of your mind with a persistence that none of your other classmates could achieve. More and more, you’ve been catching yourself thinking of him.

It only makes sense that you see a flicker of a dark coat sleeve followed by the wafting scent of tobacco smoke as a lean figure darts past into an alleyway, all long limbs and dangerously delicate wrists. Your specter has manifested into your shaky reality.

“Henry?” you call, reflexively taking a step to follow after your presumed more-than-an-aquaintance-but-not-quite-close-enough-to-be-friends friend. Your camera is clutched in your hands. The bag that normally holds it is dangling empty over your shoulder. For now, your project is set aside in the pursuit of something you’re not sure is real.

The man in question materializes in front of you out of the growing gloom caused by the sun’s decent below the towering efforts of humanity to live and work among the clouds for an ever higher view. For a foolish moment, you feel as though you summoned him into being with your voice alone.

He looks tired—worn down to the bone in a way you can hardly comprehend.

Who died? you wonder in the deep recesses of your mind, though you would never dare to give it voice.

“I haven’t seen you in class for a while. How have you been?”

Blue eyes trail over your face, mapping it into shapes replicable by human hand. His fingers twitch on the strap of the satchel digging into one narrow shoulder. The other—unburdened—one rises in a halfhearted shrug. His gaze drifts and he lights a cigarette as if he were a sleepwalker, vacant and hollowed into a mere shell.

“Looking for anything in particular?” he asks, a question in return for yours.

Your mind stumbles, struggling to make sense of his meaning. It clicks. He is drawing your camera into the conversational focus.

“Oh,” you say, words tasting clumsy on your tongue, “I was going to take some shots of that old apartment building over on Empire.”

“Any special reason why?” He says it with a tone of someone who had been taught to express polite interest.

“Chanukah.”

Comprehension dawns on that pale face. With genuine interest softening the starved angles, he asks, “Matthewson’s lighting project?”

You flash him a smile, pleased that he’s caught on so quickly. At the start of your shared courses at Columbia, he had always been one of the first to raise a hand and enter the fray in a debate or to provide an insightful remark. As the semesters have passed by, though, he’s seemed to grow more subdued. His sleeves have grown longer and his layers more numerous even during the warm months as he became more hunched into himself. The Henry that you had met has all but disappeared all-together in these past few weeks.

It’s nice to see a glimpse of his old self, to pay witness to the young man that had had such a spark of life in him. Impulsively, you make a decision.

“Want to come with me?”

Henry stands silent, rolling his thoughts over in his mind. His expression is carefully blank until he surrenders with slight tilt of his head. “Sure.”

His answer surprises you. You had really expected him to find a reason to fade into the growing night. You can’t help but smile at him, honestly happy that he has chosen to accompany you.

“Alright,” you say, “Let’s get a move on then. They’re going to start lighting the candles soon.”

Without allowing yourself to think too deeply about what you’re about to do lest your nerves get the better of you., you slide your arm around Henry’s. The two of you are locked arm in arm. There’s an irrational part of you that worries he will fade away somewhere between here and your destination if you don’t touch him. He stiffens as though he might pull away, but in another surprise of the evening, he relaxes into the contact.

The artist feels cold as a corpse and too thin. Thinking back all those semesters ago, Henry hadn’t ever been anything but slender, but it’s all too clear that he has not been taken care of himself for quite some time now. You can’t bring yourself to remark on it. It’s not your place.

Silently, arms linked, the two of you make your way down the block and across the intersection that gives way into the borough that is home to the apartment building you’re seeking.

“There!” you say just as Henry utters a soft, “Is that…?”

The old structure is a small thing nestled among the much larger and newer buildings crowding in on either side. The sleek, modern surfaces of the fresher builds are doing their best to swallow up any semblance of individuality, to consume it into the sea of inoffensively bland architecture. How dare anyone have a non-sanitized vision in the modern age.

Art is dying , you think, distant , becoming too commercial and here, in brick and mortar and steel, it has suffered the most.

“It’s sad, isn’t it?” Henry say s in a way that has you wondering if you had aired your pessimism over the steady roar of traffic and the sporadic honks of impatient drivers. All around, the sea of humanity floods on either side of you as if you were of no more consequence than two pebbles in a stream. In this moment, you feel so small. So insignificant.

“At least that’s still standing,” you reply and break the delicate connection between you and Henry. The space against your ribs where his arm had nestled feels empty now. It almost aches.

“Sometimes staying upright is the hardest thing in the world,” you hear him say, disjointed. It’s a dreamy statement, suitable for the night that has taken hold of the city.

There’s a part of you that expects to wake up any moment slumped over your battered desk, having stayed up too late in the effort to meet a deadline. Nothing about this experience feels real, not even the uneven concrete under your feet.

Humming in agreement, you raise your camera to your face and press your eye against the viewfinder. You adjust your stance on the pavement, unbothered by the bodies bumping against you. Even if you can’t see him, you can still feel Henry at your side. He is matching you step by step as you get into position. You might be insignificant in this world, but you are not alone, not in this brief moment.

In the dark, illuminated by thousands of lights, you work. You let the long exposure of the camera tick down after pressing the shutter button. It captures the flurry of the motion in the streets, on the sidewalks, in the windows, smearing into a blur representing mankind’s restless race to the end. But in the heart of the shot towers the steadfast visage of the apartments across the street in front of you. The gently flickering candles of the menorahs are set in crisp lines among the chaos. Despite the changes of the world, there are pockets of tradition that remain despite every attempt to wipe them away.

You lower the camera. Pleased with the images burned into the film, you turn to Henry with a grin. You’re startled to find him already looking at you with considering eyes. His lips are twisted into a thoughtful frown.

Before you can ask him what’s wrong, he beats you to the punch.

“I was going to kill myself,” he says, not any more concerned than if he were commenting about the color of paint he might like to use, “Tonight. At midnight.”

Your stomach swoops unpleasantly. You grasp at his sleeve in shocked silence. What is there to say? What should you say?

He slides out of your hold like sealant dripping off a canvas. There’s something almost tender—almost apologetic —in the way he brushes a thumb over your knuckles as he lowers your hand back down to your side.

“I’ll see in class Monday,” he adds, and then he’s gone as though he were no more substantial or tangible than the puff of your breath in the cold night air.

You will yourself to wake up.

You don’t.

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