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theoriginallastnailinthecoffin · 24 days ago

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A Gentleman and A Professional

Chapter Six: Friendly Enough

Summary: New contact saved.

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

A/N: I have no beta. But I hope you enjoy. Ao3 link also in the cut.

Chapter One: Innocuous

Chapter Two: Opportunity

Chapter Three: Goodness

Chapter Four: Neighborly

Chapter Five: White Lie

18+ Only - MINORS Do Not Interact

You return to your unit shortly after your conversation, the instant-replay of what just happened pausing as you take in your current surroundings.

The flicker of the television lights the room, casting your shadow against the wall as you creep toward your office. Carefully sliding the door shut, you turn to the balcony window and release a sigh at the beautiful city-scape. You’re grateful for each little light left on somewhere in the distance. Since you moved in, they became familiar, comforting. They too – whoever they were – were up and about.

Setting your phone on the little table nearby, you distantly note the soft glow of 3:12 AM. Without a care of being seen, you pop the button of your jeans and slide them past your hips to the floor, an unusual metallic clink hitting the cold wood floor.

Proof.

That your Neighbor offered you space… time… safety.

He is the type of person.

In the dark, you quietly search for the tag and suddenly your face is lit, squinting, as you tap in the numbers. New contact saved.

You shove the tag back into the pocket and ball the jean fabric up around the evidence, dropping it to the ground by the chaise lounge.

Removing your bra without removing your shirt, you get comfortable and snatch up the plush throw blanket, settling into the floral fabric of the chair, snug, with eyes on the pollution-lit horizon.

Your thoughts meander back to earlier and you can somewhat imagine what your Neighbor must look like in his bed, tempting sleep to come for him.

Your eyes unfocused, you can see the breadth of his palms, the thickness of his fingers as he’d ripped open the bandage earlier. The neatly trimmed nails and gentle fingertips. The textured skin there told a story about who he is and suddenly you needed to shove the blanket off your heated skin.

Eyes slipping closed, you feel the memory of his duvet under your own fingertips, soft and maroon, plush like the blanket you grip at your sides now.

It only takes a few moments and a whisper of the same thoughts before you fall asleep.

x-+-x-+-x

And it was a good sleep, short though it may have been.

A vibration comes from somewhere above your head, waking you, but your reach and an aimless swat is enough to silence the sound.

Your first thoughts are of your Neighbor, eyes moving side to side beneath your lids as you imagine him… laid in his bed, sheets caught around his bare body, hand tucked between the back of his head and his pillow as the sun peers through the blinds, warming his skin in a golden glow, arm crooked and bicep curving deliciously as he shifts his lower half restlessly… The sheet is kicked away enough to reveal what is always frustratingly hidden by his thick black cargo pants. The attire you see him in the most.

Your snoozed alarm begins to vibrate needlessly. You are most certainly awake.

You reach up again to view half the screen through a squint. 6:59am. You slept in past your usual coffee time.

A slow, sludgy feeling sinks to the bottom of your gut.

You remember last night. And you remember your coffee plans.

Palms a little clammy, you pull up his contact – “405” – and hit Message.

“Hi there…”

“Good morning, I’m so sorry about last”

“Hey, I know it’s a little later than planned, but do you”

You let your head fall back against the pillow and take a few slow, deep breaths in through your mouth and out through your nose. Enough without feeling lightheaded.

A second later, you type something out and send the message.

You: “Hi there, 405.”

You hear a soft thump beyond the floral wall. Reflexively, you smile. It didn’t take more than a minute for a reply.

Him: “Good morning, 406.”

Worrying your lip between your teeth, you hope against hope.

You: “Are you in need of coffee?”

Him: “I am. Are you?”

A sigh is released.

You: “Eternally.”

Him: “Raspberry or cheese?”

You hear shuffling through the wall. He’s moved to the left... toward his hallway?

But the question catches you off guard. Neither of these flavors are coffee choices…

Confused, but willing to play along, you blink.

You: “Raspberry?”

There isn’t an immediate response. You drop the phone unceremoniously onto your chest to fit in a quick stretch. Arms above your head, a vibration thrums against your skin through the thin fabric of your top. And then another.

Him: “Chocolate it is.”

You smile stupidly at the phone, rereading his message. Cryptic. Cue the stomach growl.

Him: “Balcony in 15?”

Your fingertips flex against the ribbed casing of your phone as you consider the most appropriate response.

“Yes, Sir.” is your confirmation.

Restraint was becoming less and less of your strong suit.

You darken the screen and irrationally send out a prayer that he won’t read into your response.

You immediately stand and wrap the blanket around your shoulders, pinched between your fingers somehow, with your phone sharing the awkward grip. You press an ear to the wood of your office door. After a moment, it’s pulled open and you head for the bedroom closet. A warm and respectably cozy fall outfit is pulled on and you click off the closet light.

Each step is quieted by the persistent commercials and your husband’s generous snoring. With a glance at the several cans laying at his feet, you determine he’ll be out for at least another few hours. Long enough for you to go grab a coffee and enjoy your usual Saturday morning on the balcony before returning inside to start up breakfast for him.

A flare of guilt lights your insides.

What am I doing?

This is wrong.

As you make your way down the hall, you catch something white in the mirror in passing, and do a double take.

Taking in your appearance, you vividly recall the entirety of last night but find a numbness attempting to settle in to your limbs. Is it wrong?

As one commercial turns into another, you walk back to your office, slipping the door shut and locking it as tightly as your jaw.

Unfurling the jeans shoved under the lounge, you quietly slip the keys from the pocket and clip them along side the ones on your work lanyard.

You grab a marker and darken the penned phone number on the tag and scratch your own unit number over the original digits – unit 366 – deftly removing it from the ring. Now wrapped in a tissue, you drop it into the trashcan beside your desk.

What the hell am I doing?

A buzz from your phone in your pocket prompts you to grab the blanket from the chair and pull open the glass door.

There’s a subtle but freezing breeze, which will be refreshing soon.

Just once you finish wrapping yourself in the blanket. Not unlike a dessert crepe.

Once you step out, your Neighbor is caught carefully inching a cup of coffee along the warbled glass surface of your bistro table with the tips of his fingers. It’s is a hard task to not note his lean denim jacket clad torso leaned daringly over the tiny gap between your balconies… the curve of the back pockets on his dark wash jeans prompting you to bite your lip.

Once his apparent mission impossible is completed, he glances up to you, a youthful smugness expertly restrained.

The silence lingers between you two, each taking the unexpected freedom to observe the other while feeling observed by the other.

If you were not fascinated by the taper of his waist, the plain buckle, and the strained denim, you would notice that your inhales and exhales are a bit heavier. Intrusive thoughts winning. And you’re not entirely sure it’s not written on your face.

Mercifully, he is the first to break the tension, smiling wide.

“Here.”

Your eyes return to focus and he holds out a small bag for you to take, the familiar scent permeating the paper. A similar bag sits on his patio table.

“You said raspberry, so.”

You’re not trying to be coy – you’re sure it’s for you – but there’s genuine disbelief as you take the bag. “For me?”

He takes a sip of his own cup, grinning into the lid.

You track his features, from the slight squint of his eyes to the barely there stubble turned soft in the morning light.

The fantasy from this morning ricochets unhelpfully inside you.

“Please.” He gestures to your table.

You take your seat and find a subtle wealth of gratitude toward him for his thoughtfulness.

Sitting in the chilled city air, you hold dear the warmth of the paperboard cup with every rustle of the wax paper beneath your treat. From what you could see, he chose a cheese danish, but the coffee orders remained unknown.

Braving the billowing steam of your own, you gently sip to figure out what he chose for you.

The espresso perks your senses as a smooth chocolate coats your tongue. Mocha.

You let out a quiet “Mm” punctuating the next few sips.

Sweet caffeine is exactly what you needed this morning.

And the pastry is just yum.

The raspberry filling clings to your lips after every bite and as d i s c r e e t l y as you can, you savor licking them clean each time.

Half way through though and this heathen-like habit has gained his attention.

Feeling watched, and clearly on a sugar high, you guiltily and intensely justify your lewd food reactions with more absurdity.

“I’m sorry, this is just the absolute worst breakfast ever. I can’t handle it.”

His eyes are mirthful and expressive before slipping into a deadpan.

“I don’t believe you.”

Before he can commit to a dramatic sip for emphasis, he huffs a laugh, his eyes crinkled in the corners.

Disarming. Charming. Sweet.

Last night, you’d felt a level of vulnerability you were not sure you could come back from. He’d seen you, exposed. But as he crumples his wrapper into a ball, and holds open a palm for yours across the space between you, you feel like… maybe… maybe that’s okay.

He wordlessly stands and enters his apartment to – you assume – throw the garbage away.

Upon his return, he sits back down, watching the wind comb through the vibrant leaves and rush them across the sidewalk and street below you both. It gives you time to take him in. The gentle smile he wears tells you... he is very aware of what you’re doing.

He wets his lip and passes a thumb over the mouth of the coffee cup.

Your discipline falters. You should feel shame. About this. About yesterday and last night. About each of your Friday nights.

You acutely feel the pull of the bandage on your cheek.

What if he knew? What if my husband knew? What if he woke up to find us out here?

You swallow dryly.

He was out cold. And it’s just breakfast. We aren’t even on the same balcony… Of course, that wouldn’t matter, given the way it might look to him.

The door is locked.

A shiver runs through you and you tighten your grip on the blanket around you. Clearing your throat, you continue the conversation.

“How was work last night?” Sounds friendly enough.

His gaze shifts backward toward you, an easy but subtle smile sliding into place. A beat passes before his reply.

“Nothing too exciting happened.”

You resist the small urge to scoff in literal disbelief.

Is he being funny? It was incredible.

“Oh.” You dig a nail into the ribbed paperboard sleeve on your cup, touching the little crescent indentations. “That’s good then, I guess?”

Another beat passes.

“I took a little inspiration from you.”

At these words, your attention shifts a sharp ninety degrees.

You nearly side eye him. “...inspiration?”

“The red rope.”

“Oh.” You swallow.

Composure must be maintained at all cost.

He smiles to himself, as if pleased by the memory. “I think the color added a little something extra.”

Brazen!

It was either the espresso or the calories kicking in. There was literally no fucking way he was making you sweat like this.

Searching for some neutral question or unassuming remark, you try to preempt and remove the timidity from your voice.

“Did it… work? Or look nice?”

You internally wince when you hear your voice. Those were not normal questions.

“I mean, what was it used for?”

You’re not ready for him to smile wider.

“Suspension.”

Your blood thickens.

“Actually…” He shifts in his seat, taking something from his back pocket. “I don’t always sleep well after work. I try to keep my hands busy until I pass out.”

He holds out what appears to be a bit of the red rope. “It’s yours, if you want it.”

His words create a small but veritable and familiar whirlpool of fire within you, threatening to grow. You covertly allow your fingers to slip past the cuff of your sweater and you pinch the delicate skin there, determined to reenter your body. It seems to work.

Leaning forward, you take the bracelet and notice several intricate knots made of the outer sheath, beautiful and strong in their detail. The bracelet is continuous, and slips over your hand easily, hanging loosely just a bit.

“C’mere.”

You obey. He carefully pulls two knotted ends, tightening the rope around your wrist, slipping a finger between the fibers and your skin to check your comfort. Your eyes are on his as he notices a red mark on the inside of your wrist and he passes his thumb over the mark in a brief, soothing movement.

You breathe a soft thank you and change the subject without actually changing the subject. “Do you have to work today too?”

“I do.” He sits back, tucking a hand into one of the pockets of his denim jacket. “This afternoon.”

“Is it dangerous?”

“Not very.” He opens and closes the other fist against the patio table’s laminated surface. He grins up at you, “I just make it look dangerous.”

There is no way in Hell he needs to know that you are, in fact, intimately aware of how dangerous it looks. But if he was willing to talk about it…

Here's a curve ball.

“Curious...” You say, touching the decorative knots on your wrist, tone discretely coy.

Either you’re remarking on his “methods,” or your own thoughts on the matter… You let that be up for interpretation.

“Yeah?”

His amusement is clear as day.

“Yeah.”

And your interest is as well.

#driver 2011 #drive 2011 #ryan gosling #ryan gosling fanfiction #fem reader #x reader #afab reader #Adelina Norn #A Gentleman and A Professional

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theoriginallastnailinthecoffin · 4 months ago

Text

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."

#drive 2011 #ryan gosling fanfiction #fem reader #x reader #driver 2011 #ryan gosling #afab reader #Adelina Norn

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