#albert shaw

The fight starts the way it always does... with silence.

Albert is sitting on the edge of the mattress on the floor, head bowed like he's holding back a hurricane. His jacket is still on and his boots still laced, fists clenched on his meaty thighs. You can practically hear his teeth grinding beneath the mask. The full, horned one he hasn't worn around you in weeks.

He only wears it when he needs distance.

Or control.

Or an alibi.

"…So that's it?" you say, leaning against the brick wall, arms crossed. "You drag me down here and then say nothing?"

His head lifts slowly.

A wolf scenting blood.

His voice, when it comes, is low and dark.

"You think I didn't hear you... In town. Smiling. Laughing. Hanging all over some little boy like you don't have a goddamn thing already keeping you warm."

Your breath catches.

Anger sparks immediately.

"Oh my God, Albert! He works there! Frickin' register. I was buying spark plugs—"

"Cute" he cuts in, rising to his feet with controlled fury. "You buy spark plugs with your hand on his arm? You laugh like that for everyone?"

"Excuse me for being fucking nice" you snap. "I didn't realize I had to report my facial expressions to you."

He stalks toward you, his steps heavy on the cement, heat coming off him like a furnace.

"You didn't look nice, you looked easy" he growls.

Your nails dig into your palms.

"You know what? Maybe I am easy. Maybe I'll go back there tomorrow and let him—"

You don't finish.

You don't get the chance.

Your back hits the wall, hard, and his hand is around your throat before you can even gasp.

Not choking, at least not yet, but holding.

Claiming.

Containing.

His voice is a gravelled whisper behind the mask. "Say that again."

Your pulse pounds against his palm.

You want to be angry. You want to bite back. But God help you, your thighs press together.

"Get your hand off me" you say, though your voice betrays you, breathless already.

He leans in, body pinning yours to the wall. You feel every solid inch of him.

"You want it off?" His thumb strokes lazily along your throat. "Push me off."

You don't move.

He knows you won't.

Because you like this.

He exhales slowly through the mask.

"That's what I thought."

"I'm not something you own" you bite out, trembling with frustration and heat.

He chuckles. "Keep telling yourself that."

His free hand drags down your side, slow and heavy, stopping at your hip. His grip tightens possessively.

"Nobody touches what's mine."

You lift your chin, defiant.

"Good thing I'm not—"

He grabs your jaw, fingers digging in. "Finish that sentence and see what happens next."

Your breath shakes. You hate how much this gets to you.

"You're sick" you whisper.

He steps closer, chest pressing yours, voice like molten steel.

"Then why are you wet?"

Your stomach drops. He always does this –rips your defenses apart like paper.

You glare up at him through your lashes. "Take off the mask if you're going to talk to me like that."

Something sharp flashes behind his eyes.

No, he doesn't want that.

The mask lets him say things he shouldn't. Do things he shouldn't.

The mask is freedom.

"Not tonight. Tonight, you wanted the devil."

His hand leaves your throat only to flip you around, pressing your front to the wall. A gasp punches out of you as he bends you just enough to make your pulse sprint with anticipation.

"And now" he murmurs at your ear, "you've got him."

Albert's breathing is heavy behind the mask.

You feel caged, his body blocking any chance of escape... but you don't want to run.

His hands slide down your waist, ringed fingers dragging over denim and skin.

"You think I don't know what this is?" he murmurs at your ear, voice low, steady, lethal. "You like pushing me. You like seeing how far I'll go before I have to punish you."

You grind your teeth, refusing to give him satisfaction. "You don't scare me."

He laughs under his breath, a dark sound that curls at the base of your spine.

"Oho, oh sweetheart…"

His hand comes up to wrap loosely around your throat again, this time from behind, angling your head to the side.

He watches you, taking in every flicker of your face, every reaction. He's not being mindless. He's dangerously focused.

"You go around town smiling at boys who can't do a damn thing for you" he growls. "What, you think they'd know what to do with you if they had you like this?!"

Your blood races. "Let me guess. You think you're the only one who can?"

His chest presses harder against your back, hips grinding frustration and desire into you.

"I don't think. I know."

He pushes your shirt up, slowly, making you feel every inch of skin now exposed.

His fingers trace your ribs, lingering under your bra, forcing a shiver out of you –one you pray he didn't feel.

"Sensitive" he comments against your neck. You swear he sounds pleased.

You push away from the brick wall to no avail, fighting a moan. "Get your hands off me if all you're going to do is talk."

He freezes.

Oh. That did it.

He fists the back of your shirt and spins you back to facing him. You meet the mask, shadowed eyes staring down at you, unreadable and merciless.

"You want me to stop talking? Fine."

He grabs your wrists and pins them above your head, one big hand holding them there effortlessly. The other hand drags down your throat, across your chest, down your stomach… until his fingers are gripping your jeans.

You feel your heartbeat drop straight between your legs.

Albert leans in, the mask inches from your lips. His voice is quiet and honest.

"Tell me you don't want this, you little prick" he challenges.

You glare. "Fuck you."

His head tilts. "You will."

He pops the button. Lowers the zipper. Slow. Mean. Your breath catches despite yourself.

"You like to pretend you're mouthy, but your body—" his fingers slip inside your waistband, knuckles brushing heat "—doesn't lie. You see, it simply can't."

You hate him.

You need him.

You're going to burn alive.

"Now say you want me" he demands.

"Dream on."

He smirks behind the mask, you can't see it, you just feel it.

His hand slides even lower, palm pressing between your thighs, cupping, rubbing. Even over your panties it's too much. You gasp and push into his touch helplessly.

Got you.

He tightens his grip on your wrists.

"Say it."

You shake your head, flushed and furious. "Make me."

The sound he makes is feral.

His voice drops impossibly low.

"You asked for it, love."

He practically drags you to the mattress. You fall back, jeans undone, shirt pushed up, body buzzing with anticipation and spite.

Albert stands over you, broad shoulders heaving, mask staring down all judgment.

"Take them off" you say, lifting your hips.

He shakes his head once. "No."

Your brows draw together. "Then what—?"

He points a finger at you then at himself. "You take them off. For me."

Your mouth runs dry.

It's not a request.

It's an order.

And you obey.

Your jeans slide down your legs, and Albert watches like dragging clothing off your body is something sacrilegious.

You can already see it. The war inside him. The desire to ruin you fighting the sick need to worship you.

Then his gaze darkens.

He kneels onto the mattress, crawling over you until he's a huge shadow above, one hand on the bed, the other sliding up your thigh, claiming his territory.

"This is mine" he raps.

"You think everything is yours."

He leans in, mask brushing your cheek.

"Not everything" he murmurs. "Just you."

You're lightheaded from lust by the time he drags you up from the mattress and into his lap.

His legs spread wide as he yanks you onto his thigh, big hands gripping your hips and buttockss, grinding you down against him.

The mask is inches from your face, breathing harsh and uneven. You feel how hard he is already, thick and heavy beneath his corduroy pants.

He squeezes the side of your neck again, not enough to hurt, but enough to keep you where he wants you.

"Look at you" he mocks. "Already needy."

"Not for you" you pout.

He laughs once. Low. Dark. Cooing.

"You're a little liar."

You rock against his thigh harder just to spite him. He grabs your hips, holds you still. Makes you whine in frustration.

"Greedy girl" he mutters. "Always want what you don't deserve."

"Funny" you shoot back, breath shallow, having too much fun provoking him further. "I was about to say the same to you."

His thumb pushes into your cheek, turning your face so you meet the hollow eyes of the mask again.

"You think I don't deserve you?"

An angry, loaded pause.

"No one deserves you like I do."

Your chin lifts, still defiant. "Prove it."

A challenge... The stupid kind.

He stands abruptly and you yelp as he shoves you down to your knees on the cold basement floor.

His hand fists your hair. You look up, and oh, you've never seen him this gone. This unhinged. This desperate.

He undoes his belt. The clink of metal echoes like a threat in the silence of the soundproof room.

When he drags the zipper down and pulls himself free, he's rock hard –veined, flushed almost purple, and thick... Intimidating enough to make you swallow.

He tilts your head back by your hair.

"Open your pretty mouth."

You keep your mouth closed on purpose.

He huffs. "Always so fucking difficult. And for what? Huh?"

You run your tongue over your bottom lip, eyes never leaving his. "Make me."

A growl rumbles from behind the mask.

His hand tightens in your hair as he shoves his thumb between your lips. You suck it slow and filthy, eyes dragging up his body as you wrap your tongue around him, deliberately obscene.

You watch him break.

He pulls his thumb free and replaces it with his cock.

You open willingly now, and he groans and grunts like he wasn't expecting the sudden obedience.

His hand stays tangled at the back of your skull as he slides in deeper. Your tongue flattens. Your eyes water.

His eyes drink in every second.

"Look at you" he mutters, voice strained. "So fucking beautiful like this…"

He pulls back, then thrusts shallow, testing. His grip turns iron and his breathing changes quickly. You feel him slip.

He starts fucking your mouth, slow but brutal.

You choke once but you don't stop him. Hands on his thighs for balance, you let him use you, let him finally take what he's been starving for in his envy. His groans deepen. His pace roughens and picks up a bit.

You moan around him and his hips stutter.

"Yes. Yes—keep doing that—"

He holds your head perfectly still –careful not to injure you– and goes deeper, hitting the back of your throat, your eyes and nose running freely now.

He tilts his head like he wants to see you finally break and pull back, spattering. But you don't. You keep looking up at him. You keep taking it.

No fear. Just heat.

And the occasional gag.

"You feel so fucking good—Jesus—"

It shouldn't hit you like praise. Oh well.

You reach up, your fingers brushing the lower half of his devil face.

He flinches and tries to pass it off like it's just from you sucking him off.

Meanwhile, you don't ask for permission. You slide the mask's lower half down, cautiously peeling it away from his face.

His lips part.

His jaw is clenched tight.

His mouth is wet from panting.

And fuck, he looks wrecked already.

Then you kiss the swollen tip of him.

His whole body jerks.

"Oh, ah~"

You stroke him once, twice, three times, slick with your spit and his pre-cum.

Albert curls over you like he's mortally wounded.

You rise to your feet, lips glistening.

He looks at you like he wants to devour you and fall to his knees all at once.

You whisper... "Your turn, pretty boy."

He grabs you and kisses you.

Teeth. Tongue. Heat. No restraint. No air.

He hardly kiss like a man. He kisses like a beast in heat.

You moan into him and he pushes you back onto the worn mattress, climbing over you and breathing you in like he needs you to stay alive.

When he pulls back, the remaining upper half of the mask is halfway gone too, and his eyes...

Oh his eyes... They're not cold anymore.

They're alive and burning and terrified.

"Why do you do this to me?" he breathes.

You utter the steadiest lie you've ever told.

"Because you like it."

You're aware of your cruelness. Albert can't take this much exposure all at once, he needs grounding, but tonight you're offering none. You wanted the devil, he said it himself.

That's why, after he exhales hard through his nostrils, everything darkens in him again.

The softness dies violently.

He grabs your thighs and drags you to the edge of the mattress, ripping your panties down in one brutal motion.

"Spread."

Your lungs stop working.

You spread.

Your legs are trembling from pure want as he finally positions himself between them.

He's impossibly broad, shoulders thick and chest taut, built from years of hard work. However, there's also a curve to his spine, which makes him move like a predator coiled and ready to pounce.

You take in every line of him, every thick vein running down his forearm, every flex of muscle as he leans over you.

The age difference hits you in a new way. It's the weight of him, the authority, the dangerous gravity he carries with him.

You crave it.

Rough hands land on your inner thighs, pulling them apart, thumbs brushing over your sensitive flesh.

You feel your clit burning, pussy already slick from the teasing earlier. He smirks, letting out another gravelly growl.

"You belong to me. No one else." he hisses.

And then he pushes into you, slowly stretching you, filling you completely.

Your gasps are swallowed by the basement walls, your fingernails clawing into his shoulders.

Albert keeps a tight grip on your hips, preventing them from snapping close.

"You feel so fucking good" he groans, thrusting harder.

The remaining part of the mask gives him a sense of anonymity, letting him be brutal without guilt.

He bites along your shoulders and collarbones, marking you, essentially leaving traces of himself on your skin. You moan, half in pain, half in pleasure –pure ecstasy.

His own sounds are becoming louder.

He's pulling at your hair again, this time to tilt your head back, exposing your throat to him like a feast.

He pauses for a moment, chest heaving, then bows his head, brushing his lips along your jaw before grabbing your head and forcing a deep, passionate kiss. Hungry and messy, like he's trying to consume you.

You wrap your arms around his neck,kissing him back, while also moving your hips to match his pace.

"You're such a fucking brat. Always fighting me."

He thrusts harder, his balls slapping against you, slick and hot, and you try to bite back a feral smirk.

He chuckles darkly. "Yeah… that's right. You like that too, don't you?"

You can barely breathe, barely think.

Every movement, every slap of skin against skin, every harsh grunt leaves you trembling. He's relentless, pressing you into the mattress as he picks up pace, pulling your wrists above your head and pinning them with one arm while the other keeps your legs spread.

"You like it rough" he growls, nibbling at your earlobe, "don't you, little pet?"

"Yes" you moan, arching up, needing more more more. "Please, Albert—harder—fuck me!"

His response is immediate.

He loses himself even more –if that's possible, pounding into you with brutal precision, growls mixing with shouts and ragged breaths.

Your clit is being stimulated by every rough stroke, every press of him against your lower belly. You cry out, hands clawing at his back, nails scraping the skin raw. He bites the curve of your shoulder again, leaving another mark.

He pulls back slightly, gripping your thighs and lifting your hips, driving even deeper from this new angle.

"So fucking wet for me. Mine, mine, mine…"

Your knees shake and lock around his torso, your body tightens around him as waves of pleasure and frustration collide.

"You're unbelievable" his are hands pressing hard enough to leave bruises along your ribs.

"You're too much" you gasp and whine. "God, you're too much, Albert!"

"I don't care. You're mine. You always were."

Then the moment snaps...

He's pounding into you like a man possessed. You cry out as your body starts shaking violently, spasms everywhere.

Albert leans down, wet lips on yours, kissing you roughly even as he fills you to the brim, heavy balls pressing against you with every thrust, breeding you.

The tension coiled for hours, days, even weeks, breaks in a cathartic scream as you both climax together. Your body clenches around his twitching length. He groans as he spills inside you, raw and hot.

The basement is filled with your cries, his growls, and the wet, desperate sound of him taking what he longs to be his.

Eventually, he collapses over you, sweaty, mask still on, panting.

His hands slide to your waist, keeping you close. You're still catching your breath, still trembling with aftershocks.

"Mine" he mutters again, almost a whisper this time. "You're all mine…"

Your knees feel like jelly, your thighs burn, your clit throbs, your chest heaves, your throat raw. But somehow despite the brutality, and the aggression, and the possessiveness… there's a pulse of reverent awe beneath it all.

The basement is silent except for your shared ragged breathing.

"God, I can't believe this. You're fucking mine, sweetheart."

You shiver against him, exhausted.

"You've gone nuts, Al."

"Yeah?" he breathes. "But I'm yours. Yours..."

For the first time, the upper half of the mask feels like a cage keeping him from collapsing completely.

Why, you ask?

You see, while Albert's breath is still hot against your neck and his body heavy over yours, something has shifted. He isn't talking now, or moving. He isn't even growling anymore.

The silence in the basement is suddenly loud.

His fingers dig into your hips like he can't let go... can't afford to.

This isn't the weight of lust anymore.

So your hands move gently, brushing back the strands of silver-blonde hair that fell free during the deed.

He flinches, just slightly, like he isn't sure if he's allowed to be touched like this. Tenderly. No nails clawing at his back now.

You tilt his chin up.

The upper half of the mask stares back, cold and devilish, with its carved horns and sharp lines.

The man beneath it is shaking.

"Albert?" you whisper.

He doesn't answer.

Your thumbs stroke over his jaw, then his lips. Something inside him is cracking.

You reach behind his head, finding the leather straps. He tenses, like he might stop you, but he actually doesn't.

He lets you unfasten it. The mask falls away.

And... He's just a man. A flushed, still sweating man, trembling in his effort to hide the fact.

His lips are swollen from kissing you, and his eyes –God, those baby blues– are glassy. Obsession, fear, and rage still swimming inside them. But also… devotion.

You cup his face in your hands. His breath shudders.

"Hey handsome..."

He breaks.

Folds, like someone cut the last string holding him up.

He lowers his head slowly and presses his face against your breasts, breathing hard and shaky. His hands loosen. They aren't holding you down anymore. They're holding on. Very different.

His voice is pure gravel.

"I shouldn't—I shouldn't be near you. I shouldn't touch you. I ruin things. I ruin everything I touch."

You cradle his face against you, fingers sliding into his hair. He whimpers when you do.

"It's okay. You don't ruin me... Not in a way I don't want."

"But you don't know what I am. You shouldn't want me. You shouldn't—shit—" His breath hitches when you drag your nails lightly against the back of his neck. "I can't stop. I can't stay away from you."

He nuzzles against your chest, not sexual now. Just touch-starved. You stroke his hair again, gentle.

He shivers.

"You didn't hurt me" you tell him softly.

His grip on your tightens, like he doesn't believe you.

"I could have. I wanted—"

He stops for a moment, jaw clenching.

"I wanted to break you. I was so fucking angry. I lost control. I—"

"You didn't hurt me" you repeat, firmer this time.

He looks up at you.

"I'm here, Albert. Because I wanted this. With you."

He looks lost. Like no one has ever said that to him in all his life.

"You still want me now?" he asks quietly, terrified of the answer.

You don't hesitate. "I do."

He presses his forehead to yours, breathing you in.

"I don't deserve you."

You kiss the corner of his mouth. "Too bad. You have me anyway."

He exhales a broken laugh.

The hunger will come back, along with the possessiveness, and the mask. But right now, he knows you're not going anywhere.

Tonight, in the quiet after the chaos, Albert Shaw holds you like you're his angel.

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