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You can hear the spanking potential through this picture. Just look at those hands.

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I wanna lick his stubble.

And the hollow of his throat is pornagraphik.

Ryan Gosling in Drive (2011) dir. Nicolas Winding Refn

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Yes. Please.

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🖤 good visual.

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Imagine if he never died and a few years later (college years) there was a sequel where he had a little (a lot of) therapy and then did no evil but just... *acted* like it for the cameras.

"Please, that chick spreads like peanut butter." Horror Character Appreciation - Ryan Gosling as Richard Haywood in Murder by Numbers (2002) dir. Barbet Schroeder

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🖤💀

K I S S O G R A P H Y : ↳ Ryan Gosling

BREAKER HIGH, 1x30 (1998) / Rachel Wilson YOUNG HERCULES, 1x12 (1998) / Katrina Browne THE BELIEVER (2001) / Summer Phoenix THE SLAUGHTER RULE (2002) / Clea DuVall MURDER BY NUMBERS (2002) / Sandra Bullock THE UNITED STATES OF LELAND (2003) / Sherilyn Fenn THE NOTEBOOK (2004) / Rachel McAdams HALF NELSON (2006) / Eleanor Hutchins & Stephanie Bast LARS AND THE REAL GIRL (2007) BLUE VALENTINE (2010) / Michelle Williams ALL GOOD THINGS (2010) / Kirsten Dunst CRAZY, STUPID, LOVE (2011) / Emma Stone DRIVE (2011) / Carey Mulligan THE IDES OF MARCH (2011) / Evan Rachel Wood THE PLACE BEYOND THE PINES (2012) / Eva Mendes GANSTER SQUAD (2013) / Emma Stone LA LA LAND (2016) / Emma Stone SONG TO SONG (2017) / Rooney Mara BLADE RUNNER 2049 (2017) / Ana De Armas/Mackenzie Davis FIRST MAN (2018) / Claire Foy BARBIE (2023) / Scott Evans & Ncuti Gatwa THE FALL GUY (2024) / Emily Blunt

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Drive (2011) dir. Nicolas Winding Refn

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We don't need a saddle, hun. 🤭🤠😉

Ryan Gosling | GQ (2023)

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A Gentleman and A Professional

Chapter Five: White Lie

Summary: It’s hard to tell how it happened. But here you are again, sitting in the hall.

Tags: Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Physical Abuse, Consensual Kink, Hurt/Comfort

A/N: I have no beta. But I hope you enjoy. Link also in the cut.

Chapter One: Innocuous

Chapter Two: Opportunity

Chapter Three: Goodness

Chapter Four: Neighborly

18+ Only - MINORS Do Not Interact

It’s hard to tell how it happened. But here you are again, sitting in the hall.

He’d been furious when he came home, yelling something about two ungrateful whores and what a disappointment life has turned out to be. You greeted him at the door, genuinely confused, but recognized that now was not a time to ask him what he meant. Instead, you maintain a calm neutral air knowing it always worked best. You weren’t expecting him to shove past you, clammy hand pressed into your face as it hit the wall. You slid to the floor, allowing him time and space to pass by. Everything kind of happened quickly – it was even harder to understand what he continued to say as he took a beer from the kitchen and slammed the bedroom door shut.

It felt awful sometimes. You just wanted him to be happy. At one time, you thought perhaps there was something you could do to help him to be happy. But over and over again you saw that he was just… miserable. And you’re helpless to stop it. You hear your therapist’s voice – “It is not your responsibility to manage his emotions – it is his.”

Like most bad habits, you slip into the routine of thinking over and over and over about what he said, trying to understand. It hurts. You understand now that he’d felt disappointment. Likely at the crushed hope of not being invited back to someone’s place. This type of outburst happened from time to time, and you knew it would only be best to give him space. Out of sight, out of mind. You could be safe.

Which brought you out of your reverie and to the present moment.

You can hear the TV through the door – loud enough to know it’s moved on to infomercials but quiet enough that it’s not a disruption. He undoubtedly fell asleep on the couch for the evening. This would make it a challenge for you to enter quietly and tip toe into bed. It its well past two in the morning and you tuck your head between the wall and your shoulder, feeling the weight of sleep slow your heart.

x-+-x-+-x

The dream you find yourself in feels cold. You shift further into the wall and realize it’s not actually a dream.

Your bleary vision tells you that you’ve been out for while longer than just a few minutes. It doesn’t take long for you to sense there’s someone nearby and your eyes snap wide, alert.

"Hi.”

Your Neighbor seems to have arrived home from work. He doesn’t appear to have made it to his door yet.

You sit upright and just look at him. You had nothing right now. No playfulness, no pleasantness, no cheer. Just a sigh. He looks so good.

He reaches down in front of you, to give you a hand to stand up. You do as your told, a little wobbly on your feet and he motions to his unit. "Come on." Your legs carry you behind him before you’ve even given yourself permission.

His apartment is dark with just one light left on. He hangs his keys on hook, and motions for you to sit on the edge of his bed. You do, glancing around. The layout of the apartment looks very different from yours. The bag is dropped down on the bed and he removes a small first aid kit. He draws a chair from the breakfast nook to face you, where you squint to see a hunk of metal sitting along side a few tools and a small bottle of what might be oil. Your attention is pulled back to him as he closes the gap. In the quiet unfamiliar place, your waking mind finally checks in with your body and you realize your left cheek stings, a bit swollen.

Understanding dawns on you.

And there is so much shame.

He needs to understand. “It’s okay, I’m fine –“

“I know.” Your Neighbor opens a bottle of antiseptic.

“You don’t need to do this.”

It could be so much worse. Why didn’t I just go out on the porch? Why did I have to fucking sit in the hall where anyone could find me ?

He says nothing and sits forward, your knees now between his.

You can feel the warmth radiating off of him and a small but visible shiver runs through you.

 “I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head softly, pulling on black gloves before he takes out a cotton pad and two steri-strips.

"May I?" Gesturing to your cheek.

You give him a small nod. His touch is gentle and deliberate, his focus intent.

Pale blue hues amongst the dark in his irises. 

How practiced he seems to be in cleaning up wounds.

You lazily trace his profile from the bridge and the tip of his nose to his lips.

Aftercare, after all, is part of his expertise too right?

Reminding yourself that it’s rude to stare, you look over at the metal project on the table and wonder if it belongs inside the car you saw. You feel your body respond with a smile as you realize something. He is the type of person.

You never wince.

When he speaks again, his voice is much quieter. There’s restraint there.

"Do you want me to do something about it?"

He is not referring to the injury, but rather the person who might have caused it. The person whose voice he has surely heard through your shared walls before.

How could I be so fucking stupid.

Imagining the worst scenarios playing out, you shake your head, “Please, no." Too firm, it sounds like a command. “I’m sorry."

He smooths the second steri-strip in place, fingertips light against your cheek. He pauses after, either considering his patchwork or something else.

You watch him slowly stand and retrieve something from the doorway. He pauses at the breakfast nook to write something and returns to his seat in front of you. There is a tag you recognize from the first day you moved in.

He holds it up for you to take. You do and look it over.

"I have another space for work.” He peels the gloves off, one at a time. “You can use it anytime you want. To work, to sleep. Tell him you're house sitting for a friend or a coworker."

Words spill from you - "I can't-"

"–it's there if you want to." Still so gentle.

The cut of a second key in your palm confuses you. You look up at him.

“There’s two?"

He tilts his head to the front door.

"No, this is –"

"If you need to." He repeats, encouraging.

If my husband ever found these… You feel sick.

I’ll tell him I’m bringing them to the building's lost and found.

Pressure builds behind your eyes and releases when you flip the tag over and see he's written what could only be his phone number. The digits are marred through your vision as you process the situation.

You reference the writing silently with a gesture. He shares a small, blurry, but comforting smile.

"If you need something else."

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I'm saving this vision and planning several chapters ahead. 🙃

No filter ever needed. #ryangosling

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This Dean look is my fucking kink. I wanna kiss his cute little face off.

then gag on his Misfits shirt in the rain and let him "paint my face" like a skeleton hahahaha

sorry. i can't help myself.

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no one:

the ryan gosling in my brain: ˢᵖᶦᶜʸ ᵐᵃʳᵍᵃʳᶦᵗᵃˢ

[theoriginallastnailinthecoffin]

A Gentleman and A Professional

Chapter Four: Neighborly

Summary: You decide tonight would be sushi night.

Tags: Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Physical Abuse, Consensual Kink, Hurt/Comfort

A/N: I have no beta. But I hope you enjoy. Link also in the cut.

Chapter One: Innocuous

Chapter Two: Opportunity

Chapter Three: Goodness

18+ Only - MINORS Do Not Interact

The sun is dipping lower and lower, golden light changing everything around you.

One of the selling points of this apartment had been the balcony access from your office. Not every apartment on this side of the building had a balcony – they came with a price – and when the realtor mentioned this was the last one available, you’d been so excited to commit and make the most of the space. There were little planters with pretty little yellow and orange flowers and a little pot where you grew peppermint for tea. A charming floral iron table with chairs – true bistro vibes – sat left of center with a lounging chair off to the right.

The phone buzzes in your hand and you swipe on the random notification.

You decide tonight would be sushi night. Scrolling the delivery menu, you dismissed your interest in the peach soju and add the peach tea to your cart. Once upon a time you were tempted to order-in a bottle, but the evening didn’t turn out how you’d hoped. Your husband was not nearly as predictable as you were and you couldn’t move fast enough in your state that night.

x-+-x-+x

Carrying the bag through the hall and back to your office, you unlocked the balcony door and slid it shut with an elbow.

It was the perfect temperature as the weather shifted from summer to autumn. You were an absolute child when it came to Halloween and you’d already decided to decorate this weekend.

With a deep inhale, you caught the scent of cool evening air and something faint. A dark shape caught your eye to the left.

Your Neighbor was out on his balcony as well, and well-occupied with something it seems. Not wanting to startle him, you set your food down on the table and gently drag the chair backward, the sound gaining his attention. He turns to stand and give you a warm smile.

“Hey there, neighbor.”

“Hey there to you, too.” You blame the weather for your playful tone as you open the brown bag.

“Dinner?” A man of few words.

“Sushi.”

“Is it from that place down the road?”

“Sure is.” You wiggle a wasabi packet in the air before ripping it open.

“I knew you had good taste.” He smirks, wiping his hands on a small dark towel.

You short circuit for a second –

“What are you up to?” You commend yourself. Conversational, not too personal.

You crack open the plastic container of sushi and search the bag. You grimace. They always give you two pairs of chopsticks.

He lifts the rag and it’s this moment you realize he is holding a bit of rope. “I have to head to work soon, so I’m just preparing a few things.”

You’re already taking a bite as he says this and you’re thankful it’s polite to cover your mouth as you chew because of course. It’s Friday. He’s even in his black tee and his black ball cap. You tamp down a smile as your undisciplined mind begins to wonder exactly how he’ll be using the rope later.

He returns to massaging the rope with the rag, watching you struggle to chew, his smile soft.

After a swallow, you show him the container of sushi – “I always order extra – if you’re leaving soon, you’re more than welcome to have some.”

He holds up an oil-slicked palm – “My hands are a little dirty.”

Your body doesn’t allow you time to think. If it did, you’d register the warmth in your cheeks and the need to –

You dip your fingers into the brown bag searching for the second pair of chopsticks and break them apart, the exertion of force surprisingly therapeutic. Grabbing a piece at the end of the roll, you stand and carry it to the edge of the balcony, reaching out in his direction. Your hand is unusually steady.

He laughs, stepping forward and leans against the half-wall between you. You contemplate again just how close the balconies are. You’re only three or four feet away. Two when he does that.

“This will be a feat.” You mutter as you concentrate all your might on delivering the sushi into his mouth and not dropping the chopsticks.

He chews and muffles a grunt. “I didn’t give myself enough time after work to do this” – he gestures to the rope, “Thank you. You’re a godsend.” You return his smile, eyes downcast.

Being this close, this friendly… There needs to be a limit somewhere.

You spend a few quiet moments of taking a bite and sharing a bite, leaning against the edge of the balcony as you look out at the roofs of the nearby buildings.

You occasionally glance over to see him rub oil into the rope, carefully massaging the woven fibers along it’s full length. You’re certain anyone else seeing this might ask what he’s doing, but you decide to take a different approach.

“You mentioned you’re heading into work soon?”

“I have a part-time. Mostly evening shifts.”

“Ah. Mr. Night Owl.” You quip the reference to your last conversation and he nods. “So, every night?”

“Not quite. Every Friday, and some nights here and there, depending on demand.”

“Is it stunts too?” You pray your naivete is convincing. “For the movies?” You add for good measure.

“Kind of. But not quite.” He finishes the tail end of what must be 15 feet, tying a knot, and cutting the end neatly with a knife from his back pocket.

You spot a bag on the chair behind him, several bundles of rope visible inside and you know he notices this. Anyone seeing that amount of colorful rope might have serious questions, so you feel the need to feign curiosity and ask, “Rope?”

He looks up at you, expression unreadable.

Several heartbeats pass.

Nervous, you decide to change the topic and lift another piece of sushi up, partially in apology and partially to get him to stop looking at you like that.

He tilts his head with a huff of a laugh, amused, before he politely declines.

“They’re very pretty." You shift your gaze away from his mouth and nod toward the bag. “I really like that shade of red though.” It was a deep red, and clearly well cared for – it looked soft. You envision the stark contrast of it’s color against your skin before you can think better of it.

“Good to know.”

His words jerk your attention upward.

He smiles. Like he is just now realizing something and has made a decision.

In panic, you decide to not touch that comment and throw a curve ball by turning to deadhead a few of the flowers nearby.

In your periphery, he gently coils the rope into a tidy hank and drops it into the bag with the others.

Over your shoulder you hear, “Will you be getting coffee tomorrow morning?"

You don’t turn. Am I imagining this? Your brows raise. "Yeah.”

Act cool, not rude. You shrug. “I’m a creature of habit."

Your focus remains on the soft petals.

"Would you like company?"

Okay, not my imagination. You turn to get a better read but see he is wearing that expression again.

You tread lightly.

“If you’re offering.”

He nods his reply.

“I would.” You admit aloud to yourself.

“I’ll see you bright and early then, neighbor.” The reappearance of his smile causes mild whiplash and you laugh through it.

Turning back to the flowers, he collects his things to bring inside.

“Don’t stay up too late,” comes a stage whisper as he slides the glass door shut.

You release another laugh, loud enough for him to surely hear from inside.

If I do, it’s all your fault.

x-+-x-+-x

Sitting in the dark, the stream has just begun.

The model is beautiful, patient and prone as your Neighbor drops the bag you saw not more than one hour earlier by her feet.

Your jaw slackens when he reveals the supple red rope.

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A Gentleman and A Professional

Chapter Three: Goodness

Summary: You don’t know what you should say, but it doesn’t matter. He fills the space and leads you.

Tags: Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Physical Abuse, Consensual Kink, Hurt/Comfort

A/N: I have no beta. But I hope you enjoy. Link also in the cut.

Chapter One: Innocuous

Chapter Two: Opportunity

Chapter Four: Neighborly

18+ Only - MINORS Do Not Interact

It’s clear he’s slowed his pace to match yours. Each step brought the apartment complex closer. For the briefest moment, you allow yourself to pretend that what you’re doing is acceptable. You feel the weight of your arm pressed into his, his body solid and warm against yours.

Is this what it’s like? You couldn’t define the “it” but you knew it was a feeling, some sensation, some thing you needed to feel on some shameful, simple human level. A conversation topic for you and your therapist to jaw over. If you could ever admit to it.

He slowly pulled his hand from his pocket to part with you and grabbed the front door, holding it wide. You smiled a quiet “thank you” as you stepped through.

The sound of laughter filled the hall. The ladies in the front office bantered with an older gentleman at the desk.

Continuing up the stairs, one of the older ladies called out, “Welcome back, hun!”

You looked up to return the greeting, but saw your neighbor throwing her a charming, genuinely bashful smile and a small wave.

“Good morning, Gloria. I hope Mittens is well.”

“She is, thank you sugar!”

The sight before you was so sweet you could ignore the two butterflies warring around inside you as he ducked his head.

You heard another woman chastise Gloria, voices distant – “He could be your grandson, behave yourself!” “Hush Maria! He’s such a good boy!”

You climbed the stairs beside him and approached the elevator in silence, smiles firmly affixed to each of your faces.

You chanced a glance at him and felt a third butterfly enter the fray.

The elevator ride was quiet after he pressed the fourth floor.

For a moment you lost yourself in time, wondering what came next. You hoped your husband was still asleep.

You eyed your neighbor’s reflection in the fingerprinted brass panels of the lift as he moved. The jacket came off, draped across his arm. His shoulders, wide. His hands, strong. His thighs, muscular. His eyes--

His eyes shifted to meet yours in the reflection.

Caught, you let your attention trail up the series of back-lit buttons and over to the expired inspection notice, committed to the ruse.

The soft ding unexpectedly drew the metal doors open, and the butterflies were released, as a darker shade of reality settled into place.

In this moment, there were no words for what you thought, what you wanted, what you did not want but you could not bring yourself to move.

Your Neighbor cautiously steps in front of you, and your chin drifts upward to his sudden much too close presence.

He replicates that sweet smile from earlier, held loose on his lips, eyes gentle as his six-foot form fills the door way.

“We should do this again.” You feel the warmth of his words, the intention a visceral manipulation, a caress to your heart. Careful.

“I’d like that.” So, so much.

He smiles again.

So much it’s too much.

Nerves pull your gaze downward. You’ve spent too much time in the elevator. The ladies at the front saw you together. Suddenly your conscience tells you walking down the hall together is too incriminating –

He tsks to himself, bringing your attention back to the moment and to the vascularity of his hands. Gently patting at random pockets, eyes locked on yours.

“I think I forgot my mail key down stairs earlier.” That’s a new one – a lie with a kind, assuring smile.

You don’t know what you should say, but it doesn’t matter. He fills the space and leads you.

“I really enjoyed your company.” A slow smile. “Thank you.”

You only truly realize what he’s doing when he steps aside and holds his arm out to keep the metal doors from closing. He’s giving you an out.

There’s a bittersweet pain in your chest, sudden sharp and brief.

You carefully step through the doors past him and look back. This time you match his gaze and hold it, communicating more than you intended as the doors begin to slip closed.

“The pleasure was all mine.”

He smiles like he knows.

“Until we meet again, neighbor.”

The doors close on his words. You walk to your unit alone.

x-+-x-+-x

Days passed and by this time you’ve come clean to your therapist. She listened to your efforts to describe this ‘Neighbor,’ punctuated by furrowed brows and pauses as you gathered your thoughts. You belatedly realized that it was in fact these very details that told her what you really thought and what you felt when your brain could not find the words.

“There is no fault in recognizing someone else’s goodness.” She – of course – was referring to how he’d opened the door for you and how he’d greeted you at the café – and continued. “Nor does it mean you are unfaithful if you appreciate someone else’s attractiveness.” At no point had you mentioned how absolutely disgustingly hot he was.

You bit your tongue. It was so much more than that. But her words were a salve and the guilt-infested wounds from self-flagellation began to heal. He was genuinely really kind. You felt like you could be friends. If that’s what he wanted.

Men and women cannot just be friends. They secretly want to fuck and always end up fucking. Your husbands words rang clear as the first day he’d said them. When you told that story to your therapist she wore the most compassionate “make it make sense, my dear” expression. Enjoying the physiques of both men and women further complicated things and you realized he couldn’t accuse you of infidelity if there was no one else in your life.

You were so grateful to have her in your life.

x-+-x-+-x

Friday crept up again.

As you brushed your teeth, you eyed your cream chiffon blouse. Most days you made it to the office, but today you chose the comfort of your own quiet office. A half-assed mental health day. Still, you dressed yourself to impress yourself, mumbling the mantra you’ll feel more put together.

A familiar notifying ping sounded from your nightstand. You knew what it said. It was Friday.

Rinsing your toothbrush, you recalled his last stream.

The girl was sat on a sybian saddle, ankles shackled to the floor. Her hands were bound behind her back, her hair braided into the rope around her wrists, eyes pointed to the ceiling. Overstimulated, she kept leaning back, so he placed two small clamps on her nipples with long delicate chains that ended in his grip. When she’d lean back, he’d tighten his fist just enough, tugging the sensitive skin forward to bring her back into position. When she came, crying, he wiped her tears and slide his fingers into her mouth. Then you came.

Placing your toothbrush back in the holder, you imagined what it would feel like to be one of the girls.

Pouring cream into your coffee, you considered a tentative yes/no/maybe list.

Sitting at your desk by the sliding glass doors, eyeing his balcony and yours nearly touching, you wondered how many times he could push you over the edge.

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The color and the placement. I'm eternally feral.

🩸 🩸 🩸 🩸

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fnnnggh.

Ryan Gosling as Luke Glanton The Place Beyond the Pines (2012) dir. Derek Cianfrance