I still wrestle with the catharsis of acting. I don’t end up playing a lot of likable characters, so I find myself living in a lot of unlikable skin. As a result of that I don’t always feel good. I get a lot more catharsis from taking pictures or painting or making short films. You have some control. I think all art—if it’s good—is a result of really trying to create something that you can’t put into words. Where language ends is where good art begins.
Summary: You & Albert are co-workers at a Hardware Store. He runs deliveries & heavy lifting, you work the floor & register. Quiet man, a bit gruff, but you're always nice to him... which is a problem. Albert catches feelings he never asked for.
A/N: I feel as if I've written Albert like an evil Luke Danes in this fic lmao~ Even the competitor's name tracks, being Chris/Christopher, which initially wasn't intentional, but now it looks like my subconscious played a trick on me.
🍁 big age gap, jealousy, possessiveness, yandere!Al, dom!Al, lots of tension, shy!reader, stalking/obsessive undertones, dirty talk, oral sex (giving & recieving), bodily fluids, got too descriptive in the blowjob scene, penetrative sex, semi-public sex, praise kink, size kink, implied inexperienced!reader, teasing breeding kink for Part 3, Max Shaw cameo
(This picks up exactly where Part 1 left off)
North Denver, October 1978
(...)
You kiss him back. No hesitation. No second thoughts.
Your hands slide up his chest, around his neck, pulling him closer. He tastes like black coffee and winter air and something that is entirely, dangerously Albert.
He breaks the kiss just enough to search your eyes, forehead against yours, breathing rough.
"Again" he growlers.
You don't even have time to answer before he takes your mouth again, harder this time.
His thumb brushes under your jaw, tilting your head up. His other hand slides to your lower back and drags you flush against him, letting you feel every hard inch of him.
There is no question what he wants.
There never has been.
He kisses you like he owns you.
And part of you... dark, selfish, breathless, knows you want to be owned by him.
The store is empty, the fluorescents buzzing overhead, but the world shrinks to this... His mouth devouring yours, his body a wall of heat and muscle pinning you to the counter.
You arch into him, fingers tangling in his clothes, and he makes a low, guttural sound. The kind a man only makes after denying himself for too damn long.
"Albert" you gasp when he finally lets you breathe again, his lips trailing fire down your jaw and neck. He nips there, just hard enough to sting, and you whimper.
"Shut up" he mutters against your skin, but there's no bite in it. Just hunger. "Been waitin' too long for this."
His hands are everywhere.
Rough palms sliding under your shirt, calluses scraping your ribs, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts through your bra.
You shiver, and he notices. Of course he does. He notices everything.
"Like that?" he asks, voice gravel and smoke. Not teasing. Demanding confirmation.
You nod, breathless. "Yes—God, yes."
He hums, then yanks your shirt up and over your head in one swift motion.
The cool air hits your skin, but his mouth follows immediately –hot and insistent– kissing down your collarbone and between your breasts. He unhooks your bra with practiced ease, like he's thought about this a hundred times, then tosses it aside.
You're exposed now, nipples hardening in the chill, but his gaze is scorching. He looks at you like you're something precious and profane, his big hands cupping your breasts, thumbs circling the peaks until you're squirming.
"Beautiful" he says, almost to himself. "Knew you would be."
Then his mouth is on you, sucking and licking, teeth grazing just enough to make you arch off the counter.
You thread your fingers through his hair, tugging, and he growls against your skin, the vibration shooting straight between your legs.
"Albert—please—"
He lifts his head, eyes dark and wild. "What do you want, little one? Say it."
You swallow, heat flooding your cheeks. "You. Touch me... M-more."
His smile is slow, predatory. "Where?"
"Everywhere?"
He chuckles, low and rough, then hooks his fingers in your pants and underwear, dragging them down your legs in one go. You kick off your shoes, stepping out of the fabric, and suddenly you're naked on the goddamn hardware store counter, legs spread for him like an offering.
He steps back just enough to look and the way his gaze rakes over you makes you clench around nothing.
"Fuck" he breathes. "Look at you."
Then he's between your thighs, those big palms gripping your hips, pulling you to the edge. He drops to his knees... Albert Shaw, on his knees for you... The sight alone nearly undoes you.
"Been dreaming about this" he admits, voice muffled as he kisses your inner thigh. "Tastin' you. Makin' you mine."
His breath ghosts over your core, hot and teasing, and you whine. "Albert—"
"Patience" he says, but there's none in him either.
His tongue drags through your folds, slow and deliberate, and you cry out.
He eats you like a starving man. Lapping, sucking, fingers digging into your thighs to hold you open. No mercy. No hesitation. He finds your clit and circles it with the flat of his tongue, then sucks hard, and stars burst behind your eyes.
"Oh God—fuck—"
He hums against you and slides a thick finger inside you. Then two. Curling them just right, pumping in time with his mouth.
You're a mess, writhing, moaning, hands still fisted in his hair. The counter is hard under your back, the air smells like sawdust and sex, and none of it matters because he's unraveling you, piece by piece.
"Albert—I'm gonna—"
"Yeah, I know... Come for me" he growls, not stopping. "Let me taste it."
You shatter.
Back arching, thighs shaking, a broken cry tearing from your throat. He works you through it, tongue gentling but fingers relentless, until you're pushing at his shoulders from the overload.
He stands, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes locked on yours. "Good girl."
You're panting, boneless, but you reach for his belt anyway. "Your turn."
He catches your wrist, gentle but firm. "Not here. Not like this."
You blink. "What?"
He glances at the windows –still unshuttered, the street outside dim but visible.
"Store's not closed proper. Anyone could walk by."
Heat floods you again, this time embarrassment mixed with thrill.
"Oh shit—"
He smirks, faint but real.
"Didn't think about that, did you?"
You shake your head, laughing weakly.
"No. You... distracted me."
"Good." He helps you down, steadying you when your legs wobble. "Get dressed. I'll handle the shutters."
You pull on your clothes, watching him move –efficient, gruff as ever.
He flips the sign to CLOSED, pulls down the roller shutters with a metallic clank that echoes through the empty store. Locks the door. Turns off the main lights, leaving just the dim backroom glow.
When he comes back, you're leaning against the counter, heart still racing.
He doesn't say anything, just crowds you again, lifts you back onto the edge like you weigh nothing. Because to him, you don't.
"Now" he says, voice low. "Where were we?"
You unbuckle his belt this time, hands shaking with anticipation. He lets you, watching with that heavy gaze. His pants hit the floor, and you free him... Thick, hard, veined.
Your mouth waters.
But he shakes his head.
"Later. Need to be inside you now."
He steps between your legs, lining up, and pushes in slow, inch by delicious inch, stretching you until you're full and shaking.
"Fuck" he hisses, forehead dropping against yours. "So tight... You're perfect, sweetheart."
You wrap your legs around him, urging him deeper. "Move—please—"
He does.
Slow at first, savoring, then harder. Thrusts that rattle the counter, his hands bruising your hips. He fucks you like he's claiming every inch of your being, and you let him –clinging, moaning his name.
" Mine" he growls with each snap of his hips. "Not his. Not anyone's."
"Yes—yours—"
He fucks you harder, thrusts turning erratic, breath ragged against your ear.
"Gonna—fuck—mark you" he growls, voice fraying.
At the last second he pulls out, hand wrapping around his slick cock.
He strokes once, twice, then comes with a low, broken moan, thick ropes painting your breats, your stomach, dripping hot and sticky across your skin. You watch, mesmerized, the way it pulses out of him, the way his abs clench with each spurt.
He doesn't let you catch your breath.
His thumb finds your clit, which still is swollen and sensitive. He circles it firm and relentless.
"Come again" he orders, voice rough but steady. "Want to feel you shake while you're covered in me."
You do.
A sharp cry tearing out as the second orgasm crashes through you, thighs trembling, clit throbbing under his callused touch.
He keeps the pressure steady until you're almost sobbing, overstimulated, pushing weakly at his wrist.
Only then does he ease off, breathing hard, eyes dark with satisfaction as he looks at the wreck he's made of you.
"Mine" he murmurs, smearing his cum across your skin with his fingertips. "Mine all over"
After, he holds you ,surprisingly tender, kissing your temple as you both catch your breath.
"Go home with me tonight?" he asks, quiet.
You nod.
"Yeah."
The next morning hits like a hangover.
Sore muscles, bruised lips and marked hips, the memory of Albert's hands burned into your skin. You show up to work just a few minutes after him, as to not raise any eyebrows, still wondering if it'll be awkward all the same.
It's not.
He nods at you from the stockroom, same moody "Morning" but his eyes linger warm, possessive. Like a secret shared.
Chris is there too, leaning on the counter, oblivious as ever.
"Hey, superstar. You look... wrecked. Rough night?"
You flush.
"Something like that."
Albert pauses in the aisle, listening. Always listening.
Chris doesn't notice. Never does.
"Well, perk up. Big news. I got that transfer. Moving to the new branch next week. Better pay, closer to my new girl's place."
Your stomach twists. Relief? Guilt?
"Oh. Congrats?"
He grins.
"Yeah. Means you'll miss my charm. But hey, farewell drinks Friday? You in?"
Before you can answer, Albert appears, stacking boxes nearby.
Too nearby.
"She's busy" he says flatly.
Chris laughs.
"Excuse me? Since when do you speak for her?"
Albert doesn't look up.
"Since she doesn't want to go."
You shoot him a look, half amused, half exasperated. "Albert—"
Chris raises a brow.
"Whoa. First-name basis now? What'd I miss?"
"Nothing," you say quickly. "And yeah, Chris—drinks sound fun. For old times' sake."
Albert's jaw clenches, but he says nothing. Just works harder, boxes slamming a little too loud.
Later, alone in the paint aisle, he corners you.
"Why?"
You sigh. "He's leaving. It's polite."
"He wants more than drinks" his voice is low, edged.
"You're jealous again."
"Possessive" he corrects, stepping closer. "Big difference."
You tilt your chin.
"Prove it."
He kisses you, right there in the aisle, where anyone could walk by. But no one does.
The day drags.
Customers trickle in, mostly men fixing up houses for winter. A few linger too long at the register, eyes dipping to your chest, compliments laced with suggestion.
"Nice smile, sweetheart. You single?"
You laugh it off. "T-taken, actually."
Albert watches from across the store, eyes stormy. Later, he mutters "Should've let me handle 'em."
You roll your eyes. "They're harmless."
"Not to me."
It's sweet, in a twisted way. His protectiveness. Like you're something fragile he needs to guard.
Then Max shows up.
The bell jangles and in walks a man with a grin that splits his face. Talkative, waving like he owns the place.
"Al! Brother! Where's the big guy hiding?"
Albert freezes, shoulders tensing.
"Max. What are you doing here?"
Max claps him on the back, ignoring the stiffness.
"Can't visit my own kin? Heard you work here. Thought I'd drop by, see if you need a hand. Or a beer after."
Albert grunts. "Working."
Max spots you, eyes lighting up.
"Well hello. You must be the pretty one keeping this place running. Max Shaw, Al's better-lookin' brother."
You smile. "Y/n. Nice to meet you."
Max chats endlessly. Stories about their childhood, Albert's magician phase, how Al was always the quiet one but smart as a whip.
Albert endures it with one-word replies, but you catch him softening, just a bit.
In the backroom later, Max digs in his pocket 'till he finds an old wallet photo. It's grainy, faded.
"Look at this hippie. Al in his twenties... Long ass hair, thinkin' he was hot shit."
You take it.
Young Albert. Sharp features, long wavy hair framing his face, that same intense stare. A pretty boy, but rough around the edges. Your heart flips.
"Wow" you breathe. "You were... gorgeous."
Albert snatches it back, flushing.
"Was nothin' special. Hair was stupid."
Max laughs.
"See? Humble to a fault. But the ladies loved it back then. I mean—Not only the ladies—"
Albert shoots him a look.
"Enough."
Max winks at you before leaving.
"Take care of him, yeah? He needs it."
That night, at Albert's place —a modest house on the edge of town, smelling like wood polish and solitude— you trace his jaw in bed, post another round of slow, possessive sex.
"You were hot with long hair" you tease.
He snorts. "Ugly phase."
"Liar." You kiss him. "I would've folded instantly."
His eyes darken.
"You fold now."
"True." You pause. "Chris's farewell tomorrow... You okay with it?"
He tenses.
"No. But go. Then come back to me."
You nod. "Always."
The farewell is mercifully tame.
Beers at Grillby's, Chris hugging you too long, whispering "If things change, call me."
You pull away.
"Won't."
Back at Albert's, he doesn't ask.
Just takes you to bed, slower this time, whispering "my little thing" like a prayer. His hands mapping your body like he owns every curve, every stretch mark, line, scar, bruise, and every little piece of you.
You're both stripped bare now, sheets tangled around your legs in the dim bedroom.
Blue afternoon light filters through old curtains, turning everything dreamy... His broad shoulders, the faint scars on his knuckles, the dark trail of hair leading down his stomach.
The room smells like him.
Clean sweat, wood polish, nicotine that never quite washes out, and the faint musk between his thighs that makes your mouth water.
He's sitting against the headboard, legs spread, cock already half-hard again from the slow kisses and wandering hands on the drive over. Thick, heavy, flushed dark at the tip. A bead of precum glistens there, catching the light.
You kneel between his thighs, nervous but aching to taste him. Your hands rest on his muscled legs –coarse hair under your palms, warm skin.
He looks down at you, eyes hooded, patient in a way that makes your cheeks flush.
"Never done this much?" he asks, voice low and confident, but not mocking.
You shake your head, cheeks burning even worse now.
"Not… not really. Not like this."
He reaches down, cups your jaw. Thumb traces your bottom lip.
"Then go slow. No rush. Just feel me."
You lean in.
The scent hits you first. Faint salt along with the warm, heavy musk of his balls as you nuzzle closer.
You press a tentative kiss to the base, then drag your tongue up the underside, slow, exploratory. His cock jumps against your lips, a thick vein pulsing.
"Good" he breathes, hand sliding into your hair not to push, just hold. "Lick around the head. Taste me."
You obey.
Tongue swirling over the slit, collecting the salty bead.
He groans –a deep, satisfied rumble in his chest. His cock twitches hard, growing heavier in your mouth as you take the tip past your lips, sucking gently.
"Fuck— Yeah, like that." His hips shift, just a tiny rock. "Don't rush. Let it get sloppy."
In response, your lips stretch around him, tongue going flat, and yes, it's messy, spit slicking down the shaft.
You pull off to breathe, strings of saliva connecting your mouth to the glistening head, then dive back down — slurping softly, wet sounds filling the quiet room.
His balls draw up tight when you cup them, rolling them gently and feeling the soft, heavy weight, the coarse hair tickling your palm.
He groans again, longer this time, head tipping back against the wood.
"Christ, baby… look at you. Takin' me so sweet."
You hum around him, vibration making his cock jump in your mouth, and he curses under his breath. His hand tightens in your hair.
You bob slower, deeper when you can, cheeks hollowing, spit dripping down your chin and pooling at the base.
His thighs tremble under your hands.
"Eyes up" he rasps.
You look.
His gaze is molten in the dim light. He watches you like you're the only real thing in the world, thumb brushing your cheek where it bulges around him.
"Beautiful" he murmurs. "My good girl."
You moan around his length, the praise shooting straight between your legs.
He twitches again, hard, and you feel the warning pulse.
"Gonna come" he warns, voice strained. "Where do you want it?"
You pull off just enough to whisper, hoarse, "Mouth."
His breath hitches, and he lets go.
Hot pulses flood your tongue, thick, salty and slightly bitter. You swallow what you can, the rest spilling from the corners of your mouth as he keeps coming, cock jerking with each spurt.
When he's spent, you pull off slowly, licking him clean with gentle laps over the sensitive head until he shudders and tugs you up by the arms.
He kisses you deep, tasting himself on your tongue, groaning into your mouth like he can't get enough.
Then he pulls you down beside him, arm heavy across your waist, fingers already drifting to trace lazy circles over your stomach.
"One day" he murmurs against your hair, voice darker now, edged with promise, "gonna fill you up proper. Make it stick. Right here." His palm presses flat, warm and possessive. "Gonna keep you full of me till it takes."
Your breath catches, want and shiver twisting together.
He kisses your temple.
"But not tonight. Tonight I just wanna feel you shake around my head again."
Sunlight slants through the thin blinds the next morning. Pale October gold, weak and cold.
You wake first, more sore than ever before. Thighs and breasts tender from his grip, and a faint ache between your legs that makes you smile into the pillow.
Albert's still asleep beside you, arm heavy across your lower back like he pins you there even in dreams. His breathing is deep and steady.
You slip out carefully, not wanting to wake him yet.
His flannel shirt is crumpled on the floor where he tossed it last night. You pick it up — soft, worn cotton, woodsmoke residue dancing around your nostrils. It's huge on you, sleeves swallowing your hands, hem brushing mid-thigh. You button it halfway, leave the rest open, and pad barefoot down the hall.
The house is quiet, modest. Creaky wood floors and old furniture. No frills. Just lived-in.
A single photo on a side table.
Young Albert again, this time with an arm slung around Max. Albert with his long hair, sharpness softened by youth. You trace the frame with your finger, smiling at how different he was. How he probably never thought anyone would look twice.
You wander into the kitchen, which is small and functional.
Coffee pot on the counter, half-full from yesterday. You pour a mug, black and burnt like he always leaves for you at work, and lean against the sink sipping it.
The shirt rides up when you move, cool air kissing bare skin. You feel exposed, but not unsafe.
Footsteps behind you. Familiar.
Albert appears in the doorway, pants low on his hips, no shirt. His eyes rake over you, already hungry.
He takes in the way his flannel drapes your body, the bare legs, the way your hair's mussed from his hands and not just sleep.
"Morning" he rasps, voice sleep-rough.
You turn, mug in hand.
"Morning. Hope you don't mind... I borrowed this."
He steps closer, crowding without touching yet.
"Looks better on you." His gaze drops to where the shirt gaps open, showing the curve of your breast, the faint bruises he left last night. "Much. Better."
You set the mug down.
"Fits like a dress."
"Damn near is."
He reaches out, fingers catching the hem, tugging it down just enough to brush your thigh. Then up again, deliberate. "Walking around my house like this... you're askin' for trouble, little one."
Heat pools low in your belly.
"Maybe I am."
He hums, low and approving. Pulls you against him, chest to chest, where his skin warms yours and his heartbeat is steady under your palm.
"Keep it" he murmurs against your hair. "Wear it whenever you're here. Want you smelling like me all the time."
You tilt your head up.
"Possessive much?"
"Very."
His hand slides under the shirt, palm on your ass, pressing you closer. "And you're mine in it."
The kiss is slower this time.
Lazy morning heat, coffee on your tongue, his groan vibrating through you. When he breaks it, his fingers drift to your stomach again, tracing lazy circles over the soft skin.
Last night's promise wrapped in quiet domesticity –you in his shirt, barefoot in his kitchen, his hand claiming the future right there on your skin.
Thank you for reading!! Hope I did this justice, since a lot of you wanted it to happen, myself included 🧡🍂🔧
