#12 days of goosemas

[goosemas]

2024 Goosemas Collection - Colt Seavers - 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."

[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

[goosemas]

2024 Goosemas Collection - Lars Lindstrom - 512 x 512 icons

[goosemas]

2024 Goosemas Collection - Officer K - 512 x 512 icons

[goosemas]

2024 Goosemas Collection - Sierra Six - 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.

[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]

Snowstorm ※ 12 Days of Goosemas

Day Ten ※ Colt Seavers / Reader

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

※ Summary: You and Colt discover that some gambles don't pay off.

※ Rating: No mature content.

※ Content/Tags: Cuddling for Warmth, Ill-advised Winter Safety Practices, Fluff/Humor

※ Word count: 1998

※ Status: Oneshot/Complete

Despite your layers, you’re shivering enough that your teeth feel like they’re going to rattle right out of your skull. It’s hard to imagine that the weather is going to take a turn for the worse when it’s already cold enough in the warehouse that everyone’s breath is visible in front of their faces. This far north by the Great Lakes is always a gamble this time of year. This movie production is certainly not winning the lottery. 

“Alright crew, let's wrap this up,” calls the team lead. 

Everyone picks up speed, finishing their tasks so they can separate into pairs and small groups to carpool back to their temporary housing. Automatically, you gravitate towards Colt. The two of you have been working off and on together for years on various movie sets. Being around him comes as easily and naturally as breathing. It was a massive relief when you were assigned to share an airbnb for the couple months you’re going to be spending here. 

“This sucks, huh?” You comment, helping him to roll up an impact mat. 

He laughs, breath clouding the air. “Yeah, it super sucks.”

The rest of the crew files out while the two of you work, alternating between sweating and freezing. Securing all the impact mats for storage is a miserable task, but it gets done. The building is empty aside from Colt and you. 

The stunt guy straightens up, groaning as his back loudly pops. “Ready to bounce on outta here?”

“I’ve never been more ready for anything in my life.”

At the door, the two of you take the time to adjust your layers. Colt wraps your scarf around your head teasingly after offering to help you put it on. You give him a scathing look between the layers of material before you break and the two of you start laughing. Colt is wiping at his eyes, still chuckling a little, when you shove the door open. 

The cold air immediately tears right through your clothes. The hollow thud and click of the door closing and locking behind you both sounds ominous. Colt offers his arm to you and you take it, resigning yourself to the weather conditions. The snow is coming down heavily, making it difficult to see across the sprawling parking. 

Your Lord of the Rings worthy journey to Colt’s truck starts out easily enough, until you wipe out on a snow-covered patch of ice. If it wasn’t for the death grip you have on each other's arms, you would bust your ass right then and there. Instead, you and Colt end up doing a weird dance to try to stay upright. 

“Maybe we should consider a career in couples ice skating. Maybe retire from the stunts biz.” Colt suggests, breathing heavily from the unexpected exertion.

“Toddler level, maybe,” you grumble back, foot skidding again. You hate the fact that the stunt crew has to park clear out of the way on the very fringes of the parking lot. 

You risk a glance at your coworker. His gaze is focused intently on the ground. Snowflakes are collecting in his beard and in his shaggy hair, making his blue eyes appear even bluer. After what feels like an age of taking minuscule steps across a frozen wasteland, you finally spot his garishly colored truck through the snow. You’ve never been happier to see the yellow and brown eyesore. 

Colt helps you up into the passenger seat. Once you're settled, he pushes his tuck keys into your hand. You pass him the windshield scraper in return. It was a new purchase after having to use the airbnb’s dustpan the first morning the two of you had walked out to the vehicle to find it under a thick layer of snow. 

“Start her for me?”

Mumbling an affirmative, you lean over and slot the key into the ignition switch and twist. The truck sparks to life with a smooth rumble. Meanwhile, Colt skirts around the edge of the vehicle. He’s scraping at the windshield, chiseling the packed snow in sheets. He suddenly slips, hitting his sternum on the truck’s grille guard. Upon seeing your horrified expression through the cleared glass, he flashes you a thumbs up and a grimace. You give him the same in return.

Working faster now, he finishes the windshield and makes sure that the side windows and mirrors are clear. He knocks the scraper clean before opening the door and heaving himself into the truck. The stunt man tosses it at your feet onto the already cluttered floorboard. The cold air that followed him into the cab does neither of you any favors.

“You think we’re good, Colt?” You ask, watching him pull off his gloves and tuck them into his sun visor for safekeeping.

“Hope so. If it doesn't get worse we should be fine,” he says with a shrug only to yelp when his bare hands come in contact with the steering wheel. “Shit, that’s cold!”

With the heat on full blast, Colt backs out of the parking lot and then you’re off to the airbnb. He handles the truck expertly. While not used to driving in what is essentially a blizzard, the man has done enough crazy stunts to keep from skidding all over the road. That and his monstrosity of a vehicle with its sizable off-roading tires makes the trip go a little easier. 

“Colt…” You say, worried. The weather is getting worse, much worse. The truck is struggling to maintain traction.

“Yeah, I know, sweetheart.” Both of you are so glued to the increasingly limited visibility and heavier snowfall that neither of you acknowledge the unintentional endearment Colt lets slip.

Spotting a ihop coming up, he makes the choice to pull into the empty lot. There’s no way he’s going to be able to push through. The weather is just too bad for his vehicle. The restaurant is clearly closed. This isn’t the southern part of the United States where there’s a Waffle House around to keep its doors open no matter the situation.

“There’s no way a tow truck is going to be able to get out here, is there?” You comment rhetorically. 

Beside you, Colt groans when he can’t get reception on his cell phone. “Looks like we’re going to be here until the plows come through. Might be in the morning.”

You sigh and settle into your seat. Both of your phone batteries are too low to risk running them down by idly scrolling through old saved pictures. It’s going to be a long night. 

To pass the time, you decide to lean over and rummage through the pile of trash and receipts on the floorboard. Like his apartment, he does not keep his truck clean or organized. You spend the next couple hours going through his receipts and judging him for his purchases. It’s mostly “Another Bonsai tree?” and “Just how much do you love this fast food place?” while your best friend does his damndest to defend himself as though he’s in front of an imaginary jury. 

Eventually, the light fades too much to see the small text. Colt has long since turned off the truck. As the sun dips below the horizon, it gets colder in the cab. 

You shiver and Colt notices. “C’mere.”

You slide across the bench seat and underneath his offered arm. He’s warm but the meager contact is too scant to do much. You seem to take turns shivering against one another. 

“It’s a shame we don’t have a tauntaun,” he says suddenly. 

You turn your face into the side of his chest to smother a groan at the reference. “I’d give anything for a hot drink right now.”

Colt makes a sound in agreement and slides down in his seat, struggling to get comfortable. His knee hits the steering wheel and you feel his pained exhale. “Yeah, I would too.”

A particularly vicious wind tears over the truck. It feels like it bypasses the layers of barely insulated metal entirely. The two of you clutch at each other in response. The lack of light isn’t helping it feel any warmer or cozier. Snow has entirely covered the windshield and the windows are fogged up from your breath and body heat. 

“I’ll turn on the truck for a sec to run the heater, but then I guess we oughta try to get some sleep.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

You don’t separate when Colt turns the key. The warm air is luxurious against your cold face. You nearly shove your fingers into the vent. He turns the truck off once you’re both sufficiently warmed. Now comes the difficult part, navigating where to put your bodies for sleep. The temperature has ruined any semblance of personal space. 

“Wanna be on top?” 

“If you insist on bottoming, stunt guy.”

“Oh, I always insist.”

Nearly hitting your head on the cab’s roof, you manage to shove yourself off of the bench seat enough for Colt to wedge himself into the short space. You can barely make out his shape. His hands find you and he guides you on top of himself. He hisses sharply and puts a hand over your kneecap when you graze it dangerously close to his crotch. 

“I don't have plans for kids any time soon, but I’d like to keep my options open,” he jokes.

Finally, you are settled on top of him. It’s incredibly uncomfortable for both of you. He’s got his knees drawn up, shins against the door. Your left knee is wedged between his hip and the seat as you lay with your cheek on his shoulder. His arms are up and around you. Yours are tucked alongside his torso with your hands under his shoulders. You feel like a pair of pretzels.

You lay in silence, listening to the winter storm outside. Both of you start to shiver again.

“I know it’s silly but-”

“This sucks so-” you accidentally start at the same time. “Go ahead,” you encourage. 

You hear him swallow. He seems stiff, nervous all of a sudden. “I know it’s silly, but uh… skin to skin contact works. With us both wearing jackets we can’t share body heat as well. So maybe if we… Wow, I promise I’m not trying to come onto you.”

“Okay.” You say gently.  

Sitting up in his lap, his hands fall from your back to the sides of your hips. You unzip your jacket. You’re instantly colder. Underneath you, you feel Colt’s breath hitch and pick up the pace. You put your hands on his amble chest and find his coat zipper and tug it down. His fingers twitch, but they don’t make any move to stop you. You push his shirt up over his pectorals, all the way to his neck. You don’t touch his bare skin with your fingers. His hands find the hem of your shirt and together you draw it up to your collarbone. Both of you are bared in the truck cabin. 

The man leaves you holding your shirt in place while his hands move to your back. He guides you into laying down on top of him. Your friend sucks in a breath and exhales slowly as inch by inch you make contact. Your bare skin colliding is sinfully warm. 

You sigh into his neck, resisting the urge to press a kiss against it even as the stubble of his jaw grazes your face. He pulls his jacket up and over you as much as he can. His hold on you is tight, comforting. The direct contact of his body provides much more heat than between the layers. You’re not as cold as you were before. 

“Heck of a holiday season, huh?” You mumble, already beginning to drift off.

Colt hums in agreement. Before you slip entirely under into the oblivion of sleep, you swear you feel a kiss pressed to your forehead and a low “Sweet dreams.” that rumbles against your chest.

[goosemas]

2024 Goosemas Collection - Ken - 512 x 512 icons

[goosemas]

2024 Goosemas Collection - Driver - 512 x 512 icons

[goosemas]

2024 Goosemas Collection - Sebastian Wilder - 512 x 512 icons

[drivinmeinsane]

Hot Chocolate ※ 12 Days of Goosemas

Day One ※ Officer K / Reader

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

※ Summary: It has taken months of trading and seeking but you finally have all the ingredients for a special surprise just in time for the winter holiday.

※ Rating: No mature content.

※ Content/Tags: K survives, Fluff, Established Relationship, Generic Winter Holiday

※ Word count: 1480

※ Status: Oneshot/Complete

Gnawing on your lip, you examine the careful line up of ingredients on the counter in front of you. Cocoa powder, honey from K’s bees, salt, milk, vanilla extract, and marshmallows. All real, not fabricated, and painstakingly collected. You’re all too aware of the cost of the items. Everything has to be perfect and it has to rely on your faded memories of a paper recipe card from your childhood. It, along with the rest of the recipe cards in your family’s possession, had eventually been used as tinder for a fire. You sigh, more of a growl than a quiet exhalation of air. 

“I told you not to fuss,” K says from the other room, his voice gradually getting louder as he comes to stand in the doorway. He leans on the frame, finger marking his place in the paperback he’s holding.

You look over at him and are about to lean to block his line of sight to your kitchen project when you realize that his eyes are solely focused on you. Warmth bubbles up in your chest. “And I asked you to stay on the couch.”

He shrugs, unbothered. You approach him, knowing that he will be a silent observer until he gets a scrap of attention. K never asks for it directly. You’re barely to him before the replicant extends his arms and pulls you to his broad chest. You encircle his waist and find comfort in his warmth. Heat is a rarity this time of year. Central heat belongs only to the wealthy. He allows you to turn the two of you so his back is to the kitchen and to the surprise that you’re so worried about. Thankful for his patience, you press a kiss against his collarbone where the neck of his shirt has loosened up enough with age to expose it. K shivers and his arms tighten around your body, but one of his hands comes up to cradle the side of your face. His fingertips gently trace the shell of your ear.

“What are you working on, sweetheart?”

“It’s a surprise,” you say, closing your eyes contentedly.

K is all but petting you. His fingers leave trails of heat in their wake as they course new paths over your skin. The weight of his gaze bores into you, equally heated. He always looks at you like he cannot believe you’re present, tangible, able to to be touched. Filled with regret, you extract yourself from his embrace. His hand lingers, sliding across your jaw as you take a step back to gain much needed distance. If you weren’t careful, you would spend the rest of the holiday in his arms. Not a bad thing, but you want to give him even a small token of your affection in the form of a new experience. You’ve spent many hours discussing the flavors of different foods with him. He had been limited to the tasteless, synthetically produced excuse for food from his inception date to the time Deckard gathered his body off the stairs outside Satelline Labs.

Catching his free hand as it falls from your face, you give it a firm squeeze that he returns, careful to not crush your considerably more fragile bones in his grasp. His eyes are darting, examining every facet of your features. You bring his hand to your lips and give it a soft kiss across the scarred knuckles before letting it go.

“I won’t be long, honey. Put something festive on?”

He nods, relieved to have a task. You retreat back to the kitchen while he starts to flip through the collection of records that you and K have slowly been building together since he came into your life all those months ago. As with most of the objects in your shared home, they were scavenged from defunct buildings or traded for.

Turning on the burner, you place a pan with milk on the slowly heating element. You let the milk reach a near simmer before turning it off and slowly add the cocoa powder and salt to the liquid. You whisk it thoroughly, breaking up any clumps, and stir in the vanilla extract and then a reasonable dollop of honey. You scoop up a little bit into a spoon, blow on it, and sample. You add another pinch of cocoa powder before gathering up a second shallow spoonful and having checking it again. It tastes good, real.

From the other room, you hear music start to play. It sounds like the opening notes to Jingle Bells. You smile. Of course he chose the Frank Sinatra album. 

You move the pan to a potholder on the counter and take a mug down from the cupboard. You’re careful when pouring the hot chocolate into it, not wanting to waste a single drop. It is just enough to fill the mug with a finger’s width of space left for the marshmallows. You pick up the pillowy shapes with your fingers and gently deposit them on the surface. They float on top of the concoction like the seabirds you and K saw over the edge of the sea wall during a calm morning not so long ago.

Before making your way to the living room, you pick up the mug. Its chipped porcelain is warm against your knuckles when they brush against the side of it. K is sitting on the couch, drumming his fingers on his knee. He’s watching the record leisurely spin.

“Honey,” you say, coming to a stop in front of him.

He looks up at you with a crooked smile. “Darling.”

“Happy Holiday,” you say, offering him the still steaming mug, “Here. Be careful. It’s hot.”

The replicant takes it from you with a steady hand. He peers curiously into the vessel and pokes at one of the marshmallows with an exploratory finger. “What did you make?”

“Hot chocolate,” you tell him.

K brings the mug to his face, inhaling the scent deeply. He presses his lips to the edge of the cup and takes a pull. He doesn’t swallow right away and insteads lets the hot chocolate sit in his mouth for a brief moment, savoring the flavor. His eyes slip closed when he swallows but when he opens them, he looks dazzled. He rushes to take another drink of it. 

“Thank you,” he says once he has swallowed the second sip.

“Anything for you.”

The former LAPD officer reaches out with the hand not holding the mug and draws you to him, not standing. You come to rest on your knees between his spread legs. He leans forward and tips your head up with a still calloused hand, once from a firearm, now from farming a few select crops and tending to bees. You meet his gaze and hook your arms around the outsides of his thighs. You’re waiting for him to make the next move and he doesn’t disappoint.

He leans over further and presses a kiss to your mouth. His lips are hot against your own, and he tastes of sugar and chocolate. You can’t help but brush your tongue against the seam of his lips, swiping your tongue against his when he willingly opens for you. You’re fighting to not pant into his mouth and instead force yourself to withdraw, consoling yourself by sucking on his bottom lip. His grip on your chin tights slightly, just on the edge of too tight. He pulls away. You rise onto your knees to chase after him but he sits up just enough that you can’t capture his mouth in another kiss 

His blue eyes scan your face, tenderness etched onto his features. His lips are kiss-swollen and glossy. “What can I do for you?”

“Read to me?” You ask. You get to your feet, using his sturdy legs as an aid. You take a seat on the couch next to him.

“Such a simple request, sweetheart,” he says softly, picking up the book he was holding when he sought you out earlier. He shows the cover to you and you nod your approval before shifting so that you’re pressed against his side. You are all but curled up in his lap. 

K puts one arm around you, holding you close. His body temperature runs slightly higher than yours and you sigh into the warmth of him. He parts the pages of the book with his free hand. The book is splayed open on his knee. He seeks out the first page and upon finding it, he begins to speak.

“‘And still I dream he treads the lawn, Walking ghostly in the dew, Pierced by my glad singing through,’” K reads steadily. The soft tones of the album playing on the restored record intertwine with his voice. He reads long after the needle reaches the end, long after you’ve dozed off against him.