#grabber

He despised himself for the hunger he felt, but couldn't put down. You could feel it in the way he held you, that thin line between worship and sacrilege.

Tonight he'd crossed it.

You hadn't even realized the sound came from you. It was the kind that slips out before your brain catches up.

A small, sharp, involuntary gasp when his hips grinded a little too hard into yours, pressure hitting a tender spot he didn't know he'd already bruised.

You weren't loud about it. It was barely more than a stutter of breath.

But Albert heard it... and his whole body jerked to a stop mid-thurst, all momentum dying instantly.

One second he was moving with that feral, pent-up need he hated admitting to...

The next, he was stone-still above and inside you, breath catching, muscles locking, eyes blown wide with dawning horror. Those feverish blues of his were huge. Wild. Already expecting you to flinch.

"Wait— did I—?"

He didn't even finish his sentence. He pulled back from you so fast it was like he'd been burned. The suddenness startled you.

You really hadn't meant to make that sound.

Still, Albert reacted as though someone had poured ice water through his bloodstream.

"…did I hurt you?"

It came out shredded, barely a voice at all.

You tried to reach for him, but he backed farther away. It was instinct, guilt snapping him in half, shoulders curling inward like he was bracing for punishment.

"I didn't mean to— I would never—"

His throat worked around the words but the rest died there.

You sat up, the dull sting at your hip making itself known when you shifted. Not awful or lasting. Just an accident, a slip of strength.

The way you bit back a wince made him go pale enough to look sick. Guilt swallowed him whole. You could see the exact second he decided he shouldn't be touching you at all.

He stayed kneeling on the floor, hands in his hair. A man who'd been convinced all his life that love was just another word for harm.

You slid off the mattress gently, like approaching a wounded animal.

"Albert" you said, voice soft.

He didn't lift his head.

"I'm so— I'm sorry. I don't know what's wrong with me."

His voice cracked. "I don't want to hurt you. I'd rather cut off my own hands."

You knelt in front of him, fingertips barely brushing his temple.

His breath shuddered.

"It was an accident. You didn't lose control, we were both okay with rough this round. You just… felt too much."

Albert swallowed hard, eyes burning.

"But I promised myself I'd never turn into that man."

"You haven't. You aren't."

"I could be... One mistake, and I could be."

You wrapped your arms around him, while still giving him every chance to stop you. And he didn't.

Albert held you back like you were something holy he had scuffed.

"I'll take care of you" he said, barely audible.

"Just let me make it right."

He cleaned the small mark on your hip where his nail had dug too deep like you were made of glass.

He apologized under his breath even when you told him to stop.

He tucked you into bed and sat beside you, stroking your hair with hands that weren't shaking anymore, but kept steady to be good for you.

You fell asleep feeling safe.

Albert stayed awake long after, watching the subtle rise and fall of your chest, quietly promising the dark that he'd never let his shadows reach you again.

The next morning, you woke before he did.

Or at least before he dared to move.

Albert lay stiff beside you, eyes already open, staring at the ceiling like it might deliver a verdict.

The moment you shifted, just a tiny wince as your body reminded you what happened last night, he flinched like he'd been shot.

"You're sore."

It wasn't a question. More like a sentence carried on a dying breath.

You tried to say something casual, light. "Just a bit—"

He was already up, not letting you finish.

Already pacing.

Already spiraling.

By the time you sat up and stretched, he'd fetched half the house.

Warm water.

A basin.

Soft towels.

Tea.

A throw blanket he'd wrung between his hands from sheer nerves.

A tube of bruise cream he apologized for touching because he didn't want to "imply you needed anything."

A tray of food you definitely didn't ask for.

And somehow he still looked like he'd failed a test no one made him take.

"It's not bad at all" you tried again, but he wasn't hearing it.

"No, it shouldn't be anything at all" he whispered, voice cracking. "You shouldn't hurt because of me."

He couldn't sit still.

Every time you blinked, he was in a new corner of the room, wringing a cloth or folding something or unfolding it because he changed his mind.

Finally, he forced himself to stop, kneeling in front of you at the edge of the bed.

"Please… Am I takin' good care of you?"

You cupped his cheek.

"Albert, I'm okay."

He shook his head.

"You winced when you sat up. I hurt you. Let me— I need to make it right."

And that's how you ended up being bathed like the softest, most breakable princess known to mankind.

He filled the tub almost silently, checking the water temperature on his wrist at least three times.

When he helped you into it, he didn't look at your body. He looked at your face, terrified he might see discomfort.

He washed you like you were made of rose petals, every touch featherlight.

Every motion apologetic.

At one point, he just broke completely.

His hands were on your shoulders, sponge forgotten, his forehead dipping toward yours as his breath hitched helplessly.

"I'm so sorry" he blurted. "I don't want to be something that hurts you and causes you pain. I... I fucked it all up."

You touched his jawline, guiding his gaze back to yours.

"You didn't."

He closed his eyes, tears gathering, lashes wet.

"Then why do you look like you're in pain?"

"Because I moved wrong. Because accidents happen. Because you stopped the second I made a sound."

"…I can't forgive myself as easily as you do."

After the bath, he dried you off with the devotion of a monk polishing a relic, wrapped you in soft clothes, and brought you... a second breakfast in bed.

Spoon feeding you like you might perish if you lifted your own hand.

When you laughed he nearly disintegrated into the floorboards.

"Are you laughing at me?" he murmured, a tiny bit wounded but mostly relieved to see you smile.

"A little" you admitted, brushing his hair back. "You're being very dramatic, baby."

"I almost broke you in half" he said quietly. "Drama is the least of my sins."

You pulled him close, letting his forehead rest against your collarbone, his hands curling at your waist and yours at the back of his neck.

"Please forgive yourself, sweet, ridiculous Bert." you said, half serious and half joking, peppering kisses on his forehead and crown.

Albert exhaled.

"I'll do better" he promised.

"Just be here. Okay? That's what I need right now. My sturdy Bert."

"Drop it..." he murmured petulantly.

"Bert. Bert the flirt."

"Don't—"

A smooch.

For the first time all morning, he let himself breathe. One hand smoothing over your leg under the blankets, the other still on your waist.

By evening, the house had gone quiet again, the kind of quiet that settles only when two people finally stop bracing for impact.

You lay curled into his chest, the bedside lamp casting a faint gold halo over both of you, his fingers tracing slow, absent circles over your hip like he's rewriting last night with gentler colors. His breath evened out against your hair and his heartbeat slowed down, calmer.

When you whispered that you loved him, unfocused in your drowsiness but certain in your heart, he didn't cry.

He just held you closer, moving you almost on top of him, and pressed a kiss to your temple as if sealing a promise he'd spend the rest of his life trying to keep.

"I do too... You're Bert's girl, little idiot."

"This could've remained a romantic moment, but no..."

"You started this war."

"Can you rub my back?"

"...Course I can."

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📞 Black Phone Masterlist

Dividers by @strangergraphics.