Freddie cheated on you, and now he is trying to do anything to have you back.
Part 1: The Aftermath (Freddie POV)
Freddie’s knuckles ached where they pressed into the bar, half-cradling his pint like it was the last fucking thing tethering him to the earth.
And you weren’t his anymore.
Through the smoke-fogged pub window, he’d seen you earlier tonight. Laughing. Head tilted back in that way that used to gut him—soft throat exposed, eyes lit. You weren’t alone. Some bloke had his arm around your waist, easy as anything, and you didn’t push him away. Didn’t even look over your shoulder for him like you used to.
Christ. It was like taking a blade to the ribs. Slow, deliberate.
He drained the pint in one go. Didn’t even taste it. The glass hit the counter too loud and earned him a look from the barman, but Freddie didn’t care. His head was buzzing with images of you—curled in his sheets, breathy and sweet in his ear, wearing his T-shirt and nothing else. How he used to wake to you making tea in his kitchen, humming off-key to some radio tune.
Now you were out there, smiling like he’d never existed. Like he hadn’t wrecked himself for you.
“Staring’s not gonna bring her back, Fred.”
He didn’t even need to turn to know the voice. Jackie. Of fucking course.
He twisted on the stool, blinking at her through the haze. She stood there like she’d been summoned—leather jacket, sharp smirk, that same cool disdain she’d perfected years ago.
“Didn’t know you were back in town,” he muttered, voice rough.
“Didn’t know you’d fuck it up this fast,” she shot back, sliding onto the stool beside him. She didn’t order anything. Just sat there, legs crossed, nails tapping on the counter. “Told you she’d be the one to do it, Fred. Always knew you’d lose her faster than you lost me.”
Freddie flinched. “Don’t start, Jack.”
“Oh, I ain’t starting,” she said, leaning in, voice sharp as glass. “I’m just admiring the carnage. You left me for her—fine. I’d’ve done the same. But what’s this? Two years, and you already pissed it down the drain?”
He wanted to bark at her, tell her to fuck off, but all he could see was you out there. Your laugh bleeding through his skull like a ghost.
Jackie sighed, almost pitying. “Y’know, I almost liked her. She weren’t stupid enough to think she could fix you. Thought maybe that’d keep her around longer.”
Freddie’s jaw worked. “She loved me,” he bit out.
“And you loved her back in your own fucked-up way,” Jackie agreed, shrugging. “Don’t change what you are, Fred. You’re chaos. Always have been. Always will be.”
He stood up too fast, stool screeching across the floor. “Fuck this.”
Jackie just smirked at his back. “Don’t bother callin’ me when she don’t answer, yeah?”
Outside, the night slapped him cold and wet. London drizzle clung to his hair, his jacket. He lit a cigarette, hands shaking.
From here, he could see the glow of the bar you’d been in earlier. He couldn’t help himself. He drifted that way, feet pulling him forward like he was tethered. Through the glass, there you were again—pressed close to that new bloke. His hand on your hip.
Freddie dragged in smoke so deep it burned.
She used to look at me like that.
He saw flashes—your bare legs tangled in his sheets, your voice whispering his name when no one else was around. That quiet morning you kissed his shoulder and murmured, “I love you, Freddie,” like it scared you.
He exhaled a bitter laugh, smoke curling from his lips. Christ, he’d had it all. And he’d pissed it away on a drunken, meaningless fuck he barely remembered.
Now you wouldn’t even take his calls.
He stayed there until your new bloke kissed you, and something inside him snapped clean in two.
“Mine,” he muttered under his breath, voice raw, almost feral. “You’re still mine, darlin’. Don’t care what it takes—I’m getting you back.”
Rain started coming down harder, soaking his hair flat, dripping into his collar. He didn’t move. Just lit another cigarette with trembling fingers and stared.
He remembered the scent of your perfume on his pillow, the taste of your lip gloss after a night out, how you’d smirk and pull away when he kissed you in public just to tease him. He missed the fights almost as much as the making up. He’d give anything to hear you call him a bastard again, eyes blazing, before shoving him against the wall and kissing him until neither of you could breathe.
A memory hit him—your laugh muffled against his chest after he’d kissed you breathless in his doorway, your hands gripping his jacket like you’d never let go. The warmth of your body pressed to his, the quiet domestic hum of those early mornings when you’d rest your head on his chest and murmur sleepy nonsense that made him grin like an idiot.
He crushed the cigarette under his boot, staring at the bar like it might give him answers. He wanted to march in there, rip you away from that bloke, shove you against the wall and remind you exactly who the fuck you belonged to. His fists clenched tight, knuckles whitening.
Instead, he stayed put, jaw clenched so hard it hurt.
“Not done,” he muttered to himself, breath fogging in the cold air. “Ain’t fuckin’ done. You hear me, love? I’m getting you back.”
The street was empty but for him, rain pelting down, neon from the pub sign casting a sick glow over the wet pavement. He stayed there, ghost-like, until the night bled into silence and you were gone from view, leaving him alone with nothing but rain, smoke, and the wreckage of his own making.
Freddie shoved his hands deep into his pockets, pacing once, twice. He imagined knocking on your door at midnight, imagined you opening it in that robe he bought you, hair messy, eyes wide. He could almost hear himself saying it: Please, love. One more chance. The picture clawed at his insides. He tilted his head back, letting the rain sting his face, muttering, “You ain’t seen the last of me, darlin’. Not by a fuckin’ mile.”
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It started the night Freddie walked out on Jackie.
He hadn’t planned it, not really. He’d gone home drunk, reeking of cigarettes and regret, and stared at the woman he’d married like she was a stranger. He’d loved Jackie once. He knew that. But then you’d come along—sharp-tongued, beautiful, impossible—and he couldn’t get you out of his head. Jackie saw it in his eyes before he even spoke.
“Who is she?” she’d asked, calm but cutting, arms crossed. The kids were asleep upstairs, and that made it worse.
Freddie swallowed hard, dragging a hand down his face. “Don’t, Jack.”
“You think I don’t know?” Her voice cracked. “You’re leaving, aren’t you?”
He hesitated. “I can’t stay, Jack. Not like this.”
Jackie stared at him for a long moment, jaw tight. “Go on, then,” she said finally. “Get out.”
He grabbed a bag and walked out without looking back, the echo of his kids’ laughter haunting him all the way to the door. He hated himself for it, but he still went.
You hadn’t made it easy on him. Not once. That was half the reason he wanted you so bad.
From the beginning, you drew a line in the sand. No blurred lines. No secrets.
“Don’t come near me until you’re done with her,” you’d told him flatly the first time he tried to kiss you outside the pub. “I’m not Jackie. I won’t be your side piece.”
He’d smirked then, that cocky, reckless grin. “Who says I want two, darlin’? I only want you.”
“Then prove it,” you shot back. “Sort your shit out, Freddie. I’m not touching you ‘til you do.”
And you meant it. Every time he swaggered in with that lazy grin, leaning against your counter at the café, tossing some line meant to wear you down, you shot him cold looks. You’d wipe the tables deliberately slow, ignore him until he muttered something under his breath and left. He hated how much it thrilled him.
He followed you after work once, hands in his pockets, calling out, “Oi, love, can’t even walk me home? Thought you liked me a bit.”
You spun on your heel, glare sharp enough to cut. “Sort your divorce, Freddie. I don’t deal in scraps.”
He stood there grinning like a fool even as you stormed off, muttering to himself, “Christ, I love her.”
Another night, he turned up outside your flat with flowers—half-wilted, because of course he’d nicked them from somewhere—and you opened the door just far enough to stare at them.
“Pathetic,” you said dryly, crossing your arms.
“Thought you might like ‘em,” he said, shrugging. “Smelled nice.”
You leaned against the frame, unimpressed. “You reek of whiskey, Freddie. Go home.”
“Home’s here, darlin’,” he shot back without missing a beat. “Just waitin’ on you to let me in.”
And then there were the calls. Late-night, drunken, half-mumbled voicemails: "It’s me, love. Just—wanted to hear your voice, yeah? Pick up, come on." You never did. The next morning, he’d show up sober with a sheepish grin and a coffee in hand, as if trying to erase the memory of his desperate rambling.
He remembered standing outside your flat in the rain one night, pounding on your door. “Come on, love! You know you want me!”
You opened the window above, hair messy from sleep, glaring down at him. “Divorce her first, Freddie!” you yelled, then slammed it shut.
He laughed bitterly in the rain, soaked to the bone, muttering, “Fine. You’ll see.”
When he came back after leaving Jackie, it was different. Sober. Hollow-eyed. Soaked from another downpour but resolute.
“Paperwork’s started,” he rasped at your door. “I’m out, love. Ain’t goin’ back.”
You studied him through the screen. “Why me, Freddie?”
“‘Cause you don’t take my shit,” he said immediately. “You make me want to be better. You make me bleed for it.”
You stared another beat, then stepped aside.
That first kiss was brutal. His hands cupped your jaw, thumbs dragging over your cheekbones as he shoved you against the wall. His mouth was hot, hungry, teeth clashing with yours as he groaned into you. You clawed at his shirt, yanking it over his head.
He pressed you hard to the wall, hips grinding against you, rough voice low in your ear: “Mine now, darlin’. Fuckin’ mine.”
He scooped you up, your legs around his waist, and carried you into the bedroom, kissing you like he couldn’t breathe without it.
He dropped you on the mattress and yanked your clothes off piece by piece, biting kisses down your neck, marking your collarbone. His hands were everywhere—gripping your hips, squeezing your thighs, dragging over your ribs like he needed to feel all of you.
When he pushed into you, he cursed harshly against your mouth. “Christ, you feel good. Tight little thing—fuckin’ made for me.” His thrusts started slow, grinding deep, making you whimper his name until he snapped.
He pinned your wrists to the mattress, hips pounding into you. “Say it,” he growled. “Say you’re mine.”
“I’m yours!” you gasped, and he kissed you filthy, swallowing it like oxygen.
He flipped you onto your hands and knees, one hand fisting in your hair, tugging your head back. “Look at me,” he demanded, hips slamming into yours. You met his gaze in the mirror across the room, wrecked and open. He smirked feral. “That’s it. Fuckin’ perfect.”
The sound of skin against skin filled the room, your cries tangled with his growls. He bent over your back, teeth scraping your shoulder, voice a wrecked whisper. “You’re mine, darlin’. No one else. Ever.”
You came apart around him, trembling, and he followed—burying himself deep, groaning your name like a prayer.
Afterward, slick with sweat, he pulled you onto his chest, kissing your hair, murmuring against your temple. “You made me feel like I weren’t just Freddie the fuck-up… you made me feel like a man.”
You kissed his jaw softly. “That’s ‘cause you are.”
He buried his face in your neck, holding you tighter than he’d ever held anyone. In that moment, he’d have set the world on fire if you’d asked him to.
He’d left everything for you. His wife. His old life. And you made him earn it.
Every filthy, desperate second felt worth it.
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It was stupid. Quick. Meaningless.
Freddie told himself that every time he thought about it—the nameless girl from some pub, a blur of perfume and cheap lipstick. He hadn’t even remembered her name the next morning. A stranger’s flat, tacky wallpaper, ashtrays overflowing on the table. He’d been pissed out of his head, slumped on her sofa one minute and pressed between her legs the next. It wasn’t passion; it wasn’t even lust. It was anger, guilt, and the hollow ache of a man trying to forget himself for ten minutes.
Her laugh was sharp, wrong. Her hands were nothing like yours. Even mid-thrust, he’d closed his eyes and seen your face instead.
When it was over, he’d pulled his jeans back on, sick to his stomach. He didn’t even look at her when he left. The rain outside felt cleaner than her touch.
He thought he could bury it. That you’d never know.
But when you found out, everything split apart.
You didn’t yell. Didn’t throw anything. Didn’t give him the storm he craved. Instead, you stood there, steady, quiet, like you’d already mourned him.
Two words. They knocked the air out of him.
He lunged forward, hands trembling. “No, no, love—listen to me, yeah? I was pissed out me head. It didn’t mean a bloody thing. She didn’t mean a bloody thing.”
Your stare didn’t soften. “It doesn’t matter. You let it happen. We’re done.”
His chest burned. “Don’t—don’t you dare fuckin’ walk out on me!” His voice cracked, raw panic leaking out. “I left everythin’ for you!”
“And then you threw it away,” you said flatly, brushing past him. Coat. Bag. Keys. Clean break.
He followed, heart in his throat. “Please! I swear to God I’ll never—”
You turned, eyes sharp enough to cut. “We’re done, Freddie. Don’t call me.”
The silence after you left was suffocating. Your tea mug still on the counter. Your scent clinging to his pillow. He sat on the bed, head in his hands, staring at the empty spot beside him.
He called. Voicemail. Again. And again. First drunk: “Please… just come home.” Then sober: “Love, I’ll fix it. I’ll do anythin’ you want.”
He played your old voicemails on repeat. That one where you’d laughed mid-sentence. The last one, casual and warm: “Be home soon. Don’t forget the milk.” It gutted him.
The pubs swallowed him whole. Night after night, hunched over cheap whiskey until the taste barely burned. He picked fights over nothing—spilled drinks, shoulders brushed too roughly—and swung until his fists split. The first time, he barely remembered what started it; he only remembered the crunch of his knuckles on bone and how good it felt to hit something that wasn’t himself. The second fight was worse—two blokes at once, Freddie laughing through blood in his teeth, swinging wild until they left him in a heap on the floor.
He craved it. The sting of split skin, the ache in his ribs, the dizzy hum in his skull—it was the only thing sharp enough to drown out thoughts of you. He wanted the pain because it felt deserved. He’d provoke it on purpose: bump shoulders, mutter insults, anything to get someone to swing first.
More than once, he woke sprawled in an alley, rain soaking through his clothes, head pounding from blows he couldn’t remember. His mates stopped dragging him home. He became a fixture—Freddie Jackson, bruised and bitter, a wreck slouched in the corner booth with another empty bottle.
Jackie spotted him outside the Queen’s Arms one night, crouched beside him, cigarette in hand. “Told you she’d be the one,” she said, exhaling smoke. “Always said you’d lose her faster than me.”
He barked a laugh without humor. “She won’t even look at me.”
“Would you?” Jackie smirked bitterly. “She’s got sense.”
He didn’t answer. He just stared at the pavement, jaw clenched.
He haunted your street like a ghost. Drove there after midnight, parked far enough not to be seen, headlights off, staring at your window like it was holy. Sometimes he walked past instead, slow, hands shoved deep in his pockets, the rain dripping from his hair as he imagined you just beyond those walls.
He knew your routines. Lights in the kitchen flicking on at seven. Curtains drawn tight by midnight. He memorized them like scripture. Sometimes he swore he saw a silhouette move—a shadow that looked like you—and he’d stand there frozen for an hour, chest aching.
Once, he lingered until dawn, cigarette burnt down to his fingers, just to see if you’d step out for work. When you did, he ducked behind his car like a coward, watching you walk away without a clue he was there.
When he wasn’t there, he looked through your old letters, photos, and keepsakes on repeat. Your laugh in the kitchen while you teased him about burning toast. You in his T-shirt, hair messy, grinning like you owned the room. He lingered on them until the lamplight went out, then sat alone in the dark, staring at nothing.
He lay awake imagining it all: your nails clawing his back, breath hot against his ear, the way you’d moan his name. He woke trembling, fists gripping empty sheets.
One night, drunk and soaked through, he went to your door. Knocked soft. “Love,” he whispered, forehead pressed to the wood. “It’s me. Please.”
He knocked harder. “Please, love. I’ll fuckin’ beg. Just open the door.”
He slid down, back to the wood, rain dripping off him. He stayed there all night, muttering broken promises: “I’ll quit drinkin’… I’ll fuckin’ change… just—just don’t leave me like this.”
When morning came, he dragged himself up, hollow-eyed. He stared at his reflection in a shop window: bruised jaw, split lip, dead stare.
“I’ll get you back,” he muttered, voice wrecked. “Don’t care how bad it hurts. You’re mine. Always fuckin’ mine.”
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Part 4: Obsession & Regret
Freddie’s world had shrunk to a singular focus: you and the haunting memory of what he had lost. Everything else blurred into an indistinct haze. Days and nights bled together, each one a stifling emptiness that echoed with your absence—the thought of you stationed in the forefront of his mind, a ghost that wouldn’t fade. He felt like he was drowning in this void, gasping for air amidst the memories, yet he couldn’t bring himself to stop searching for you.
He began stalking your haunts as if compelled by some uncontrollable force. The familiar pubs where your laughter once echoed, the streets you strolled down carefree after work, and even the corner shop where you used to buy your cigarettes became landmarks in his self-imposed pilgrimage. He would lurk in the shadows, cigarette in hand, collar turned up, with rain cascading from the brim of his flat cap, his eyes scanning every unfamiliar face. Sometimes, he would catch a glimpse of someone who bore a fleeting resemblance to you. Just a moment of hope before reality crashed down and twisted his gut into knots.
One evening at the Queen’s Arms, Jackie found him again, slumped over the bar, looking like a shell of the man he used to be.
“You’re pathetic,” she said, her tone not harsh but filled with a bemused incredulity. “What’s it feel like, Fred? Wanting someone who’s not coming back?”
Freddie drained his glass in one swift motion and slammed it back down onto the bar with force. “Feels like dying, Jack.”
She smirked, leaning back against the bar. “And yet, here you are, still breathing.”
He shot her a glare, his jaw clenched tightly. “Not for long if I keep drinking like this.”
Jackie released a deliberate exhale of smoke in his direction. “You deserve it. I never thought I’d say it, but she’s smarter than I gave her credit for.”
“Don’t talk about her.”
Jackie’s grin turned sharper, more predatory. “Why not? You can’t seem to stop talking about her. You haunt her street more than you ever haunted your own bloody house.”
Frustration boiled within him, and he slammed his empty glass on the countertop so hard that it rattled. “Watch your mouth, Jack.”
She laughed, an unyielding sound that rang out in the dim atmosphere. “You don’t scare me. You never did.”
As the weeks turned into a blur of reckless abandon, the fights grew more intense. He actively sought them out, prowling into darkened pubs, looking for excuses to unleash his pent-up frustration. Just a shove. A dirty look. That was all it took for him to explode. He’d throw the first punch, losing himself in a frenzy of chaos, laughing through the pain of bloodied knuckles and the rush of adrenaline until someone finally yanked him away. The initial battles left him with bruised skin and swollen eyes. By the fourth or fifth confrontation, he had stopped counting; every injury became just another reminder that he was still alive and still feeling something.
He found a perverse kind of pleasure in the ache coursing through his body. It was a stark contrast to the numbness that had enveloped him since you left. Even a busted rib wouldn’t deter him—it would only encourage him to push harder, to swing with more ferocity and abandon. One night, he found himself ambushed outside a pub—three guys leering down at him. Despite the pain, he fought back with manic energy, grinning madly, spitting blood until they finally left him crumpled in the alley. He let darkness take him, cheek pressed against the cold, wet stone, rain soaking him to the bone.
When dawn broke, he dragged himself to his feet, every joint protesting in agony, and made his way straight back to your street. He stood outside your window for a solid hour, swaying with fatigue and loss, cigarette burned down to the filter and forgotten as he stared up, yearning like a man pleading for salvation.
His nights stretched on endlessly, blurred memories of pubs filled with smoke and whiskey, and the steady patter of rain at all hours. He drifted past your workplace, positioning himself across the street, leaning against lampposts while your laughter danced on the wind as you left with your friends, oblivious to the turmoil gnawing at him. His fists clenched tightly in his coat pockets, trembling with a mixture of longing and anger. He wanted to step out, wanted to cross that street and stop you, but he always hesitated, remaining cloaked in invisibility.
He followed your routine like a man obsessed. He knew the exact moment you’d leave your apartment in the mornings, where you’d stop to get coffee, and the precise time you hopped on the bus. He committed every detail to memory, knowing that understanding your routine would somehow keep you alive in his shattered mind. The sound of your laughter in a crowd became a siren call that snapped his attention, sending his heart racing. He followed that sound every time, even when it turned out not to be you.
At times, he trailed at a distance, the weight of his boots echoing on the rain-slick pavement, heart pounding in his chest. He kept close enough to hear your voice as it floated on the breeze, yet far enough to remain just outside your awareness. Other times, he lingered outside your door long after you vanished inside, fixating on the entrance as if willing it to open. He observed every detail—the gentle tilt of your head when you listened, the way your hair danced with the wind and brushed your cheek, the lingering glances from men who caught sight of you. His jaw clenched so tightly it felt like it might crack. Every glance directed at you made him want to lash out, to break their noses for even looking in your direction.
He took to smoking more, chain-smoking until his lungs burned and the acrid taste of ash lingered far too long on his tongue. He would sometimes extinguish one cigarette only to light another without pause, using the action as a way to fill the unbearable silence and distract himself from spiralling thoughts.
At night, his dreams overflowed with images of you. He saw you riding him slowly, your nails digging into his chest, head thrown back in uninhibited abandon, breathless moans spilling from your lips like music he had desperately missed. He could feel the heat of your thighs wrapping around his hips, the tightness of your body enveloping him every time he pushed deeper. Every detail was etched into his mind—the glide of your lips along his jaw, your hair cascading into your face until he brushed it aside, kissing you fiercely.
“Freddie,” you’d gasped, your nails raking down his body. “God, you feel—”
He would grip your hips with a possessive strength. “Mine,” he growled, thrusting up into you with palpable urgency. “Say it.”
“I’m yours,” you’d moaned, completely undone, his power over you evident. He would pin you down, driving into you with a raw, desperate intensity, kissing you as if he hoped to consume you completely.
He would wake from these dreams in a cold sweat, heart racing, painfully hard, sheets twisted around his legs in a tangle. He would drag his hands down his face in frustration, cursing into the dark, voice hoarse: “I’m losing my fucking mind.”
For hours afterwards, he lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling, heart pounding with the weight of his obsession and the relentless memories of you flooding his thoughts.
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Part 5: The Confrontation
London was soaked in rain, pavements slick and shining under the lamplight. You pulled your coat tighter, head down, boots splashing in puddles when his voice cracked the silence.
Your stomach sank. That voice. You turned slowly and there he was—Freddie, looking like death dragged out the gutter. Rain in his hair, split lip, coat swinging open, knuckles torn up raw. His eyes were wild, bloodshot, locked on you like he’d found his last shot at living.
“Don’t you fuckin’ start,” you snapped, arm out like a warning.
He stepped forward, palms up. “Nah, nah, don’t do me like this. I’ll do anythin’, yeah? Any fuckin’ thing. I’ll knock the booze, stop fightin’. I’ll fuckin’ marry ya tomorrow if that’s what you want. Just don’t—don’t turn your back on me, not again.”
Your laugh was sharp, bitter. “Where was all this when you were out stickin’ it where it didn’t belong, huh?”
He winced, shoulders tense. “I was a stupid bastard—”
“Bastard’s right!” You jabbed a finger at him, heat rising in your chest. “You fuckin’ shattered us, Freddie! You wrecked everythin’!”
He followed, splashing through puddles. “Tell me how to fix it then! Go on! You want me crawlin’? I’ll crawl!” He dropped to his knees right there in the rain, hands out, soaking. “Look at me, darlin’. I’m beggin’ you. Ain’t got a bit of pride left.”
“Get up!” you hissed, glancing around. Lights flicked on in windows. “You’re makin’ a bloody scene!”
“I am a scene!” His shout split the air. He slammed his fist into the ground, knuckles bursting fresh. “I’m a fuckin’ state without ya! You hear me? Nothin’!”
“Good!” you fired back, voice sharp. “You should feel it, ‘cos I fuckin’ did when you wrecked me!”
“I KNOW!” He tilted his head back, roaring at the sky. “I FUCKED UP! I FUCKED UP AND I’LL SAY IT ‘TIL THE WHOLE STREET HEARS!” He turned, yelling to the dark: “I CHEATED ON THE ONLY WOMAN I EVER LOVED AND I’M BEGGIN’ HER TO COME BACK!”
“Jesus Christ, Freddie!” Mortified, you spun and stormed off.
His boots pounded after you. “Oi! Don’t walk off from me, love!”
You spun, eyes blazing. “What d’you want me to say, huh? That I still love you? Fine! I fuckin’ do! But that ain’t enough! Love don’t mean shit when I can’t trust you!”
He froze, dripping. “Then I’ll make you trust me, swear down. I’ll earn it, brick by brick.”
You shook your head, rain streaming down your face. “I don’t care if you drink, Freddie. I don’t care if you fight every geezer in London. You can scrap all night and come home bloody, I don’t give a toss. But you cheat again?” Your voice trembled, sharp and clear. “I’m gone. I’ll pack up, move out, leave London behind so I don’t have to breathe the same air as you. I’ll find me a bloke who won’t do me dirty, who won’t smash me up like you did. You hear me?” You jabbed a finger at his chest. “I love you, yeah, but don’t you dare think I can’t replace you. I’ve done it before. Don’t push me to do it again.”
He flinched like the words stung deep, rain dripping off his chin. “You ain’t replacin’ me,” he growled low, stepping closer, voice rough. “There ain’t a man out there loves you like I do, fights for you like I do. No one bleeds for ya like I fuckin’ would.”
Your chest heaved, breath ragged. “Then stop givin’ me reasons to leave!”
He closed the gap in two strides, hands rough but steady as he caught yours. “I won’t, love. Swear on my life. I’ll prove it every day ‘til you ain’t got a doubt left in ya.”
You stared him down, defiant. “And hear me right now, Freddie. You fuck this up? I swear I’ll be gone. I’ll move, I’ll vanish, and you’ll be stuck here screamin’ in the rain to no one. I’ll wipe you clean outta my life.”
“I fuckin’ will!” He spun, shouting loud enough to shake the street. “YOU HEAR THAT? SHE’S MINE! I’M HERS! IF I FUCK IT AGAIN, I’LL WALK OUTTA HERE MYSELF!”
Curtains twitched. Neighbours stared. Still he didn’t care, pointing at you. “You hear me, love? You hold the knife now. One slip and you cut me off. I’ll let the whole world know I deserve it if I do. I’ll never stop shoutin’ it ‘til you believe me.”
You trembled, glaring but softening, soaked to the bone. “You better mean every word, Freddie.”
He stepped in, close enough that you felt his heat. “I do. I’ll chain myself to ya if I’ve gotta. Won’t so much as look at anyone else. You’re it. I ain’t losin’ you again, not for a single bloody thing. You’re all I want, all I fuckin’ need.”
Your voice cracked, fierce still. “You fuck this up, I’m gone. I’ll build a life without you, and you’ll be just a ghost I spit outta my memory.”
He breathed hard, jaw tight, then whispered rough. “That ain’t happenin’. Not on my fuckin’ watch.”
You stared, rain running down both your faces, his hands gripping yours tight. Finally, you bit out, “One chance. Don’t waste it.”
He crushed his mouth to yours, teeth and desperation, holding you like a man starved. You shoved him back, then yanked him closer, both soaked, both trembling.
“This don’t mean I’m back,” you murmured against his lips.
He smirked, bruised and feral. “Then I’ll fight ‘til you are, love. Loud enough so no one forgets. I’ll make damn sure you never doubt me again.”
And when he kissed you again, you let him. This time, you didn’t pull away, not even as he whispered, low and guttural, “Mine. Always fuckin’ mine, love.”
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Rain was still dripping from your hair when he shoved the door shut, lock snapping loud. Before you could even speak, his hands were on you—pinning you back against it, his mouth crushing down on yours, teeth, tongue, breath all tangled and feral.
“Been dyin’ for this,” he growled, biting your lip hard enough to sting, dragging your bottom lip between his teeth before sucking it wet. His hands slid down—rough palms cupping your arse, squeezing tight, hoisting you up until your legs wrapped round his hips.
“Shut up, love,” he rasped against your mouth, grinding up between your thighs so you could feel him, thick and hot even through soaked denim. “You don’t even know what you’ve done to me.”
He pressed you harder to the door, fingers tangled in your hair as he kissed you like he was starving, filthy wet sounds filling the quiet flat. Your coat hit the floor in seconds, then his hands were under your top, yanking it up, dragging it off rough enough to pop seams. His mouth latched onto your throat, sucking bruises deep, teeth grazing sharp.
“Mine,” he muttered against your skin, nipping along your collarbone. “Always fuckin’ mine.”
Your hands scrabbled at his shirt, shoving it up and over his head, nails dragging down his chest. He hissed.
“Yeah, scratch me up, darlin’. Mark me so I remember every fuckin’ second I nearly lost you.”
He palmed your tits, thumbs brushing over your nipples through your bra, then tugged it down, exposing you to the chill and his hot mouth. He sucked a nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue, teeth biting lightly before he switched sides, growling deep in his chest when you arched into him.
“Freddie,” you gasped, hips grinding down on him.
“Fuckin’ love that,” he muttered, fingers already sliding beneath your skirt, yanking your knickers aside. He groaned filthy when his fingers found you soaked. “Look at that—fuckin’ drenched for me. You missed this cock, yeah?”
You glared down at him, breathless. “Shut up.”
He smirked wickedly, sinking two thick fingers inside you without warning. You gasped, clenching hard around him as his thumb pressed to your clit, rubbing tight circles.
“Say you didn’t miss me,” he taunted, voice low and rough in your ear. “Go on. Say it while you’re squeezin’ my fingers like that.”
Your head thunked back against the door, a ragged moan ripping out of you.
“That’s it,” he rasped, pumping his fingers harder, thumb relentless. “Gonna make you come before I even get my cock in you, love. Want you drippin’ for me.”
Your nails dug into his shoulders as heat coiled tight in your belly, his mouth sucking bruises on your neck.
“Let go, darlin’. Fuckin’ soak my hand.”
Your orgasm hit sharp, legs trembling, cunt fluttering around his fingers as you cried out. He groaned low, fucking you through it, thumb working your clit until you squirmed.
“Good girl,” he praised, filthy and breathless, fingers dragging out wet. He shoved them into his mouth, sucking them clean with a groan. “Sweetest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever tasted.”
Before you could catch your breath, he was unbuckling his belt, jeans shoved down just enough to free his cock—thick, heavy, flushed, leaking. He stroked himself once, eyes dark.
“You ready for me, love?”
He lined up and thrust in deep in one brutal stroke, burying himself to the hilt. You choked on a scream, nails clawing his back.
“Fuck me,” he groaned, forehead pressed to yours, hips snapping. “So fuckin’ tight for me—like you were made for this cock, darlin’.”
His pace was relentless—rough, punishing thrusts that shoved you up the door, each one driving deep enough to punch the breath out of you. His hand tangled in your hair, yanking your head back so his mouth could devour your throat, sucking bruises like he’d brand you.
“Say it,” he growled, hips slamming into you.
He groaned, fucking you harder, balls slapping wet against you, the sound obscene. “Louder, love.”
He growled against your ear, biting it. “That’s it. Gonna fuck you so deep you feel me for days. Fill you up ‘til you remember exactly who you belong to.”
You clung to him as he drove into you, grinding his hips so his cock hit that spot over and over until you were sobbing his name.
“Come on, darlin’,” he rasped, thumb sliding down to rub your clit while he pounded you. “Come on my cock.”
You shattered around him, crying out loud enough the whole street could hear, nails digging bloody crescents into his shoulders. He groaned, thrusts stuttering before he buried himself deep, spilling hot inside you with a guttural moan.
He held you there, cock deep, panting into your neck.
You clung to him, still trembling, his arms like steel around you. He kissed you rough, filthy, forehead pressed to yours.
“Never losin’ you again,” he swore low, voice broken. “I’ll crawl through glass ‘fore I let anyone else touch what’s mine.”
You smirked weakly, still panting. “You better keep that promise, Jackson.”
He grinned feral, kissing you again. “Oh, I fuckin’ will, love. Every night ‘til you can’t remember ever doubtin’ me.”
And when he lifted you off the door, carrying you toward his bed, still buried inside you, you believed him.
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It's inspired on a song by Sabrina Carpenter (i dont know why hahaha) - Good Graces
origamiaround
andulkaphoto
gummygunk
dailybridgerton
izzy806
