You’ve always been the type of person who always goes way overboard for someone's birthday, wanting to find the perfect gift(s) to show your love, appreciation and gratitude toward the person who is celebrating their special day.

In the past, you've splurged on expensive gifts that left your bank account in shambles. You've made personal gifts from scratch, leaving your hands and fingers littered in paper cuts that are way too small to have that much of a painful effect. You've wandered through countless stores, pacing aisles from sunrise to sunset to find the perfect gift.

But this specific gift? the one you’re planning for Chris?

Yeah… this one is different. maybe extreme, even. the kind of gift that has your face burning up just thinking about it.

It started as a passing thought. Then, you overthink it, repeating his words in your head over and over again from the last time he brought this specific thing up to you. and that's when you started doing research—way too much of it, by the way.

Video after video, article after article, you were consuming so much information that you even had to pause what you were watching just to collect yourself and have a breather, reaching for a glass of water with trembling hands as anxiety swam through your veins.

And when you brought it up to Bee and Kitty?

Big mistake.

... Okay, maybe not that much of a mistake considering they were supportive and giving you suggestions like you asking for guidance on how to ride Chris wasn't a big deal. You must've spent half of the conversation hiding your face behind your palms, too embarrassed to even look at them.

Nonetheless, you took it all in, drilled their words into your brain, and you arrived back home to practice on your pillow. Your thighs burned from strain, your hips ached and you embarrassingly came once—maybe twice—while doing so, and it made you rethink the entire birthday surprise while sitting in the bath with a deep frown on your lips.

But you can't back out now. You can't be a quitter on this—not when you've already come this far.

So, you're going through with it the best you can... hopefully.

On the big day, you take your time getting ready, needing every second to hype yourself up. you slip into your prettiest dress to help make you feel just a little more confident, even though your heart is rattling in your chest like crazy.

You drive to the rented house early with Kitty, Bee and Nate, your fingers wrapping tightly around the steering wheel to calm the shakiness from your nerves. and when you get there, you realise most of the frat brothers have arrived already.

They're tossing balloons across the floor, stringing up strobe lights, and setting up the speakers for the music while shouting over each other.

The coolers are already halfway full with ice and fresh drinks too, so you busy yourself by helping hang up banners instead, trying your best not to check the door every five seconds... you fail, by the way. you spot Matt's car rolling up the driveway just before he turns in.

You don't even get the chance to greet the trio when they walk into the house, the people immediately swarming them, popping confetti cannons and shoving shots into their hands while screaming 'happy birthday!' at the top of their lungs.

Nick beams happily. Matt pushes through everyone to get to Kitty, wrapping his arms around her tightly and kissing her like he hasn't seen her in the last twenty-four hours. and Chris? Chris is scowling, swatting Nate's hands away and threatening him as the latter tries to shove the goofy party hat on top of his head.

You wait for a moment for the chaos to settle, and you take your time in giving matt and nick their little gift bags you made before you even dare to step in Chris' direction. and when you do, you swallow thickly when you see him already—and not surprisingly—surrounded by his regulars.

Taking a deep breath, you make your way over, giving yourself an internal pep talk with each step. Once you're close enough, you reach out, fingers brushing the sleeve of his shirt before tugging lightly at his arm to get his attention.

"Chris?" you say his name, voice barely above a whisper. "can... can i talk to you for a second?"

He furrows his brows, looking at you. "What? Right now?" he gestures toward the group with a flick of his head. "M'busy here, kid."

"Just for a minute?" you press, hoping that he'll give in so you don't look like a fool. "Please? I um... I left your gift upstairs.."

"Upstairs?" he stares at you, clearly not believing a word that has just slipped past your lips. "The fuck kinda gift you've got hidin' upstairs?"

"It's... private."

Chris stares at you again, unmoving, his gaze flat and sceptical. you shift under the weight of it, your fingers nervously curling and uncurling at your sides. Finally, Chris lets out a sharp and exasperated huff, nodding his head as he agrees to follow you.

You quickly turn around and start walking ahead of him, weaving through the crowd, doing everything you can to stay calm even as your stomach churns with each ascend up the staircase. You don't look back, but you can feel him close behind you, following your steps.

Reaching the top of the stairs, you pause at the hallway, the lump heavy in your throat as you take a quick glance at him over your shoulder, pointing at one of the many guest rooms available.

"It's in here..."

Chris raises an eyebrow but says nothing, he just exhales sharply and pushes past you to open the door to the guest room. You follow close behind, shutting the door quietly, the click of the latch feeling loud in the silence that settles between you both.

He stands in the middle of the room, arms folded and unimpressed. "Well? Where's it at, kid?"

You hesitate, your pulse racing and hands fidgeting at your sides. Then, you take a few steps toward him, your hands pressing against his firm chest, grabbing the fabric of his shirt to hold it. Chris doesn't move, he doesn't pull away either, but he watches you with his eyes narrowed.

You give a soft, uncertain push at that, urging him toward the bed until the backs of his legs bump the mattress. He drops down, legs spread, leaning back on his palms as he tilts his head up to look at you.

"Y'serious?" he asks. "Dragged me away from m’business to hookup?"

You open your mouth, then close it again, face heating up with embarrassment. You're ready to bolt straight out of this room.

Chris runs his tongue across his inner cheek, his voice dipping low. "If you wanted to fuck me, bun. jus' lead with that next time."

"It's not just that, I—" you choke on your words, swallow thickly again, hands trembling as you move them down to reach for the hem of his shirt, tugging it up. "I... I've been practicing something for you."

"Practicin'?" he repeats, barely lifting his arms to help you take off his shirt, and you toss it to the side gently. "Practicing what? undressin' me or somethin'?"

"No," you pout a little at his mocking tone, your hands moving lower to his belt. you fumble with the buckle once—twice, fuck—and Chris sighs sharply, annoyed but still letting you try.

"Then what?" he pressed, tilting his head to the side and watching you. You finally manage to undo the belt, pulling the denim down his hips and he lifts them lazily to help, letting his jeans fall in a heap around his ankles.

Your voice is barely audible as you speak, the usual shyness seeping back into your tone. "To... ride you."

Chris blinks at you, silent—almost stunned—for a brief moment. Then the corners of his mouth twitch upward into a smirk, letting out a soft, disbelieving scoff as he drags his hand through his hair with a slow shake of his head.

You sort of knew he'd react like that, especially because he's made comments before: how awkward and clumsy you are moving above him, how you always get cramps and aches, how it's better if he does the work because watching you try to ride him like 'watching a baby deer try to walk on ice.'

The words still sting, even now.

But still... you want to try. to prove him wrong and show him that you can do it... and maybe even impress him a little.

Chris leans back some more on his palms, his eyes dark and unreadable. And then, finally, he gives a small shrug, tipping his chin up. "A'ight. Show me what you've been practicin', bun."

You take a deep breath as you prepare yourself, reaching for his boxers, your fingers brushing against the warm skin of his abdomen as you tug the fabric down, gazing at his cock that's already half-hard and leaking with precum.

You're surprised to see him like this already, but that still doesn't calm the butterflies in your tummy as you pull your panties down your legs, stepping out of them and neatly placing the fabric to the side before you move forward, carefully perching yourself on top of his lap.

You feel the heat of his body beneath yours, your heart pounding against your ribs as his cock brushes against your folds, twitching and hardening to full mass. You don't dare to look at him, not when he's staring right into your soul as you take him in your hand, stroking him softly like you've seen in the countless video tutorials you had consumed as you line him up with your entrance.

You sink down bit by bit, trying to stifle a whimper as you adjust to his size that stretches you out, hearing him inhale sharply, a low grunt rumbling in his chest. It’s a lot to take in already—which is the norm—but you refuse to give in to discomfort this quickly as you begin to roll your hips, experimenting with different motions as you try to find a rhythm that works for you. 

The sensation of Chris’ cock searing you open is intense, bordering on painful at times with awkward angles, but there’s an underlying feeling that makes you want to keep going. Your still inexperienced attempts cause you to wobble slightly as you try to bounce, your breasts moving beneath your dress which catches Chris’ attention, gaze dipping down to follow their movements. 

You struggle to maintain a steady pace, often making minor mistakes which you hope Chris isn’t noticing, beads of sweat glistening across your forehead as your arms hesitantly wrap around his shoulders for balance.

Yet, once holding him, you’re able to find a rhythm. 

Your hips begin to move with slight confidence, rolling and grinding against Chris in a way that seems to secretly please him based on the low growls that vibrate in his chest, his lips parting as his breathing grows subtly heavier. His hands lift from the bed to slide around your hips, moving south to grip your ass, squeezing the plump flesh as he wets his bottom lip.

“Am I… am I doing okay?” you ask quietly, your voice breathy from exertion. You search Chris’ expression for any hint of approval or enjoyment, desperate for anything from him, wanting to know if you’re meeting his expectations as your inner walls flutter around his cock, gliding up and down steadily. 

Chris doesn’t answer right away, he just stares, unreadable as always. Then, he hums—a low sound followed by the subtlest nod. It’s barely even there, but it’s something. You feel really happy, good, encouraged, and you lean back slightly to change the angle again, gasping softly at the new wave of pleasure that trickles down your spine as his cock grazes the sensitive spot inside of you. 

You add twists of your hips and shallow rolls to mix things up, and the changes now seem to affect Chris outwardly as his grip tightens on you, quiet moans escaping his lips. You can feel your own arousal building, a tingling pressure coiling low in your tummy as you begin to hump him erratically, ignoring the burning sensation in your thighs as you mewl and whimper uncontrollably.

Now, Chris seems stuck frozen in bliss—mouth ajar with harsh pants and dazed eyes as he watches your greedy pussy ride him, slick glistening around your puffy folds, dripping onto his balls. 

His mind reels from the sudden sensations overwhelming him, every nerve ending in his body is on fire with each glide of your pussy that slides up and down on his throbbing cock, his eyebrows pulled together like he’s confused at the feeling.

“F-fuck…” he rasps, his voice hoarse and strained. “Shiiit—what the fuck…”

Whether he means to or not, his head falls back, his eyes squeezing shut and mouth falling open wider to suck in deep breaths, and feeling his body tense beneath yours, you immediately realise he’s close too. 

You wish you could feel a sense of pride right now, having worked so hard to get to this point, but you’re too cock drunk to even take time in basking in your success, slumping weakly against his chest despite your hips still moving, clinging to him embarrassingly tight as you cry out in his ears. 

Chris lets out a loud, guttural moan, his hips jerking up involuntarily as he buries himself to the hilt, spilling inside your pussy with thick ropes of cum, his cock twitching and pulsing with each spurt as he empties himself inside of you. Your pussy clamps down on him, your nails digging into his shoulders, leaving crescent marks on his skin as you wail, cumming around him in an instant. 

It takes you longer than necessary to regain yourself, and you make the first move by slowly sliding off him, wincing as your muscles protest the movement and pussy ache as he slips out. A soft whimper leaves your lips as you collapse onto your side, the room spinning slightly as you try to catch your breath, forcing yourself to glance at Chris.

Chris just sits there, chest rising and falling steadily, cock laying limp against his thigh. His brows remained furrowed—surprisingly, not in annoyance. More like confusion or contemplation. 

But you don’t like how quiet it is, though. It’s almost too quiet.

You open your mouth to speak, to apologise for god knows what, but Chris cuts in. “Don’t.”

You blink. “Don’t…?”

Chris turns his head just enough to look at you. Is… does he look impressed? “Wasn’t bad.”

You’re stunned into silence as you wait for the follow up—some sarcastic dig to make you feel all embarrassed—but it never comes. You can’t help the quiet flutter in your chest as a tired smile threatens to spill across your lips, finally proud of yourself. You actually did it... you really did it.

Chris stretches out, exhaling through his nose as he reaches for the ground to grab his discarded boxers, “Guess all that practice wasn’t of waste of time, kid… good job.”

Your stomach flips with something closed to exhilaration at the praise. You can’t remember the last time he said anything even close to ‘good job’ to you—you truly don’t think he ever has. 

“You can do that shit more often f’me now.”

The flutter in your stomach crashes hard, deflating all at once as your shoulders slump in defeat. Well that’s… not an exhilarated feeling.

divider credits. @issysh3ll

Chris was the kind of boyfriend people made playlists about.

Not the depressing ones, not the rage-filled post-breakup anthems. The kind that made everything feel a little warmer, a little less heavy. Like things could actually be good.

You used to call him your golden retriever boyfriend.

Because he was.

Happy for no reason. Always leaning into you. He’d smile when you walked into a room like he forgot the rest of the world existed. Lose his train of thought just watching you do something dumb like put on lip gloss. He used to kiss you three times—forehead, cheek, lips—before he even said hi. Like it was a habit he never questioned.

And then you left.

Not because you stopped loving him. Not because something awful happened.

Just… life. Quiet, slow tension. Cracks you both ignored until they weren’t small anymore. It wasn’t dramatic. No one screamed. No one cheated.

It just ended. Quietly.

So he imploded.

It started slowly. One party. One hit. One drink.

Then two. Then five. Then ten nights a week.

Soon it became routine. Girls in his DMs. Girls at the club. Girls in his bed. Ones he couldn’t remember the names of. Ones who wore your perfume. Ones who cried after, because they wanted more than what he had to give.

Chris didn’t even flinch anymore when the door shut behind them.

He didn’t care who saw him high out of his mind, shirtless on someone’s kitchen counter, smoke curling out of his mouth like a ghost he was trying to exorcize. He didn’t care that he’d become someone else entirely—someone who spoke in sarcasm, whose laugh sounded foreign even to himself.

He was mean now.

Rough around the edges. Sharp-tongued and always a little pissed off.

You’d barely recognize him.

He didn’t want you to.

Because if you saw what he’d become, maybe you’d hate him enough to finally forget him.

He figured that was better than hoping.

One night, after another party ended in someone else’s bathroom, Chris sat slumped in the driver’s seat of his car, parked two blocks from the club. It was 2:04 a.m. The street was dark. His phone glowed in his hand.

He was drunk—his third club of the night. His teeth felt numb, and his brain was moving slower than his fingers as he scrolled through his photo album.

Every swipe was a stab.

You smiling at a beach you dragged him to.

You cooking breakfast in his hoodie.

You half-asleep on his chest, mumbling about hating Mondays.

He should’ve stopped.

But he didn’t.

He kept swiping. And deleting. One by one. Like burying pieces of his own fucking heart.

And then she opened the passenger door.

A girl from the club. He remembered her vaguely—tight red dress, pouty mouth, fake lashes so long they could fly her to hell and back. She smelled like peach vodka and desperation. She leaned in, saw the tears in his eyes and the bottle in his hand, and misread all of it.

“You okay, baby?” she purred, sliding into the seat beside him.

He didn’t answer.

She unzipped his pants anyway.

“imma make you feel so much better, baby. just relax”, she slurred on her own words.

Chris let it happen.

His head dropped back against the leather seat. Her mouth was wet and fast and impersonal.

He came in under a minute. Didn’t even touch her.

He didn’t say thank you.

Didn’t ask for her number.

Just waited until she got out and shut the door again, then stared at the ceiling of his car until his heart stopped racing.

He wasn’t proud. Not even a little.

But in that moment, it felt right.

Because it hurt.

And pain, at least, still felt real.

Two weeks later, he saw you.

It was another Friday night. Same club. Different drink. Different girl on his arm. But he’d already forgotten her name by the time his eyes landed on you—lit by purple strobes, standing at the bar in black heels and sheer stockings, the kind that hugged your thighs like a second skin.

Your shorts were tiny. Your top was little more than lace and strings. Your hair was tied in a messy bun, tendrils falling around your neck like you didn’t care you were the most beautiful fucking person in the room.

Chris froze.

Mid-sentence.

Mid-sip.

Everything dropped out of him. His stomach. His lungs. His ego. The fake personality he’d built like scaffolding around the crater you left behind—gone.

You didn’t even see him at first.

But when you did… God, the look in your eyes.

It was like looking at a grave.

He stumbled over before he could stop himself. His buzz was already strong, but your presence pushed him over the edge. He could barely string a thought together. But he needed to be near you.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” he said, voice thick with alcohol.

You turned slowly, taking him in like you weren’t sure if he was real or just a memory come back to mess with your night.

“Didn’t think they’d let people drink themselves into a coma in public,” you said, calm. Distant.

That landed harder than it should’ve.

He gave a half-smile—nothing like the one you remembered. It sagged at the edges, tired and out of place.

“You look… good,” he said. Then quieter, “You always did.”

You held his gaze. “You don’t.”

He exhaled a sharp breath, almost a laugh. “Yeah. I know.”

You ended up talking longer than either of you planned.

The music got louder. The lights harsher. Chris leaned against the bar like it was the only thing holding him up, fingers twitching through his curls every few seconds. He wasn’t subtle about how much it wrecked him to be this close to you.

“You still around here?” he asked eventually, trying to sound light, like he was just making conversation.

You paused. You should’ve lied.

But you didn’t.

“Loft’s a few blocks from here.”

He nodded once, like he was thinking too fast and not thinking at all.

“Take me with with you. Please”

Your loft hadn’t changed much.

Warm lighting. Clean kitchen. Plants by the window. It still smelled like you—vanilla and sandalwood. That same soft, comforting scent that once clung to his pillowcases for days after you left.

He walked in slowly. Like he didn’t want to scare it away. Like he was stepping back into a version of himself that might still exist here.

Chris leaned against the counter, silent for a moment, staring at the little photo strip still magneted to your fridge. One from years ago. The kind you didn’t have the heart to throw away.

“Why’d you come with me?” you asked, finally.

He didn’t look at you.

Just said, quietly, “Because I forgot what peace feels like.”

You crossed your arms. “You’ve been trying pretty hard to forget everything.”

His jaw tightened. “Yeah. Well. The forgetting part comes easy when you’re drunk off your ass and fucking a stranger in your car while deleting photos of the only person you’ve ever loved.”

The silence that followed was violent.

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t look away.

You just blinked. Once. Twice.

And then:

“You really did that?”

“Yeah.” His voice cracked. “Didn’t even feel anything. Felt numb.”

A long breath.

You moved toward him.

“You hate yourself that much?”

He laughed. It sounded like choking. “I want you to hate me too.”

“I don’t.”

He looked up, eyes glassy. “Why the fuck not?”

And then you stepped closer. Pressed your palm to his chest.

“You were my light, too, Chris.”

He shattered right there.

Your mouths slammed together—no hesitation, just the blunt taste of whiskey and stale smoke. You fisted the front of his half-buttoned shirt and steered him down the hall, both of you stumbling like you couldn’t get close fast enough.

In the bedroom he shoved trembling hands under your sheer top; the moment he felt bare skin, his breath hitched hard.

“God,” he muttered, jaw tight. “Still you.”

You pushed him onto the mattress and climbed over his hips. He traced the tops of your stockings, knuckles skimming lace. Under better light you might’ve blushed; tonight you just watched him watch you.

“I thought about this every night,” he groaned, grinding up into you. “You. Like this.”

You lifted your hips, pulled your bodysuit aside and slid his jeans down just enough. His cock sprang free—thick, flushed, already leaking.

“Condom?” you whispered.

He reached for his wallet. You grabbed it. Tore it open with your teeth. Rolled it onto him.

And then you sank down.

It wasn’t gentle.

It was pain and love and guilt in the shape of sex.

You rode him like you wanted to ruin him. He let you. Gripping your waist, his head thrown back, begging under his breath.

“Please, baby—fuck—don’t stop—don’t ever leave again—”

You slapped your hand over his mouth, bouncing harder. “You don’t get to ask that.”

He nodded against your palm, eyes full of tears.

“I’ll be better,” he choked when you let go. “I swear—I’ll be—fuck—you feel so fuckin good. Please—”

Your hips slowed—

From furious rhythm to a soft, aching sway.

Chris’s head had tipped back against the pillow, jaw tight, brows pulled together like it hurt to be inside you. But not because of pleasure. Not anymore.

Because of grief.

You felt it suddenly.

That break in him.

The way his hands shook where they gripped your waist.

The way he whispered things under his breath like he couldn’t help it. He didn’t even know why was he apologising. After all, you were the one who left, but somehow, he still felt like it was all his fault.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“I ruined everything.”

Your chest caved a little.

So instead of driving him into the mattress like you had been, you leaned forward. Slowly. Intentionally. Rested your forehead against his, letting your eyes fall shut for a second just to feel him again. Skin against skin. Heat against heartbreak.

Then you opened your eyes—

And so did he.

His were glassy. Red. And fucking pleading.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, voice cracking. He cupped your face with both hands like he was scared you’d vanish mid-thrust. “I’m so sorry I let you go. I’m so sorry for the club, and the car, and the—fuck—I didn’t even feel alive, I didn’t—”

“Shhh,” you murmured, quiet and warm against his mouth.

Your hips rolled slowly, grounding him.

“You don’t have to beg,” you said, brushing your thumb across his cheek. “I hear you.”

He let out a shaky breath. Something between a moan and a sob.

You kissed his forehead, soft and sure.

Right between his brows.

And he broke.

Chris came instantly, with a trembling gasp and a full-body shudder. His arms wrapped tight around you, face buried in your neck as you rode him through it—still slow, still grounding, still holding him like he was something real.

You stayed like that for a moment. Let him breathe. Let him exist.

After you slid off him, you moved gently. Careful hands. Warm washcloth. Soft words. You cleaned him up first, then yourself, keeping the lights dim so it didn’t feel like a hospital room, didn’t feel sterile or pitiful.

He lay on his back the whole time, eyes on the ceiling. Silent. Barely blinking.

When you finally slipped back into bed beside him, he turned his head.

And looked at you like you weren’t real.

Like you were some dream his wrecked brain had conjured after one too many pills. Like he didn’t dare speak in case you vanished again.

You tucked a strand of hair behind his ear, voice barely audible.

“Are you okay, Chris?”

He blinked.

Swallowed.

“Yeah,” he whispered, eyes never leaving yours. “I mean—I know drunk sex isn’t always…”

“Yeah,” you said gently, “it’s not always good.”

“It was good,” he breathed. “But only ‘cause it was you.”

You nodded softly. Scooted in closer. Let him wrap himself around you.

“I missed you,” he said again, barely awake now. “I missed you so fucking much. You were my only light.”

And then—

He fell asleep in your arms.

Like he used to.

Like maybe, somehow, he still could.