A/N: This is another offering for SoMa NSFW Week 2014, this time for the Birthday prompt. Marshofsleepgets the blame for this one, and rebornfromash and ilarual all the praise for helping make it suck a little less. It's not terrible, but that's about all I can say about that. Writing in second person is weird and hard, and this was meant to be way more crack and way less smut, but so it goes. I'm also dedicating this Birthday fic to awesomeasusual, since it is her birthday today and she is, indeed, awesome. THIS ONE IS RATED MA/NSFW FOR EXPLICIT CONTENT. GRAPHIC SEX, people. You have been warned.
You never expected your eighteenth birthday to go quite like this. When you stumble home from the rather raucous party held in your honor only a few doors down, you and your weapon clinging to each other for wobbly support, you're both ridiculously drunk. It was an accident on your part, not having realized that the spiked punch was more spike than punch, but for him, it was purposeful. Soul rarely drinks, and you can't fathom why he did tonight, but at this point, your mind is hazy and you're feeling wobbly and giggly and far too good to care.
As you both stagger through the door, you fling your arms around the boy next to you, dragging at his neck to kiss him, your fingers tangling into his hair. You're glad, for once, he'd listened and foregone the gel-his pallid locks are silken beneath your fingertips instead of stiff and sticky as they would normally be. His lips are warm and soft, and his tongue feels hot in your mouth as it slides against yours. You can taste the whisky on his breath, but you don't mind because it means you're tasting him.
You force your weight against him, pushing him against the door and pressing your own small, lithe body against his wiry frame; you'd promised yourself when you officially became an adult, you would be together, and you intend to make good on that promise. You've been dating for six months and you've fooled around in every other possible way, hot and heavy, and you feel giddy at the prospect of finally, finally taking this final step together.
He pulls his mouth from yours and you're surprised for just an instant, but then his mouth is hot on your neck and you can't stop the little mewl of pleasure that escapes because it feels so good. You shiver at the feel of his tongue teasing the sensitive skin above your collarbone, shiver at his hot breath against your ear as he whispers.
"Go shower. Wanna make sure everything is ready." You can't help it, your shiver becomes a shudder at the implications as you nod slightly, reluctantly pushing yourself out of his arms. Before you pull back completely, you slide one hand down from his hair, down his chest, trailing it along his muscled abdomen until you reach the hem of his jeans. You trail if farther, palming the front of his pants, stroking the hardness of his arousal in silent promise as you meet his heated gaze.
"I won't be long," you breathe as you back away, offering a smile you can only hope is as sultry as you feel. As you turn your back on him, your smile widens. You can feel in his soul how much he wants to follow you, to grab you, to fling you on his bed and have his way with you, and that feeling of want, his overwhelming want, is both delicious and frightening. Nervous anticipation fills you, causing your stomach to flutter as you close the bathroom door behind you, locking it for good measure because you need time to collect yourself, to cut through the haze of alcohol and lust. You're drunk, but even still, you know you don't want your mutual sexual debut to be some drunken romp; when you give yourselves to each other, you want it to be with eyes wide open, fully awake and aware. You will accept nothing less, for him or for yourself.
You run the shower and step in, letting the water stream over you. It's hot, almost unbearably so, but you refuse to turn it down; you need this, the clarity of the heat. It scalds your skin, helps to scrub the alcohol from your system, and as you step from the shower, red and glistening, you feel refreshed and ready because the haze is largely gone but you still want this. In truth, you've always wanted this. It's been a long time since you've known your weapon is nothing like your father, nothing like anyone else, since you've known he's yours. You debate simply walking into the living room as you currently are, but think better of it; there is a certain pleasure in unwrapping, revealing slowly, you've discovered in your time together, and you would hate to deny that pleasure to your partner or yourself. So you replace the obscenely sheer strip of red cloth that masquerades as panties you had worn just for this occasion, along with the matching bra, and cover it with the big, fluffy blue bathrobe hanging from the hook on the door. The fact that the robe belongs to Soul has you snuggling into its warmth, basking in his scent still clinging to the fabric. You fully intend to smother yourself in his scent later, and the thought makes you smile softly. Yes, you're ready for this.
When you make your way to the living room, you notice that your weapon is lounging on the couch, legs spread out on the floor in front of him, shoulders slouched against the backrest, arms flung to either side on the back of the couch. As he hears your soft footsteps against the hardwood, he sits up straight and turns his head. He looks up at you with a goofy grin, the type of smile you've only seen when he's either very drunk or very tired, and you can't help but to wonder if he's smiling at you or at some inner monologue you could listen in on if you really wanted to. You don't try, because you notice the perfectly wrapped package in his lap and figure it would be best not to ruin the surprise. You're pretty sure he wrapped it himself, a wonder he was able to do it so nicely while drunk, but hopefully he has mostly sobered as you have. He always was better at holding his liquor than you. The silken red box and perfectly tied black silk ribbon match his color scheme, black jeans, red t-shirt, black leather. He looks good, but then, he always looks good. He pats the cushion next to him, indicating his wish for you to sit, and you comply, careful that your robe remains tied, that you don't show too much skin, not just yet.
"So I, uh, gotcha somethin'," he says with that same goofy smile. "'s sorta delicate, so you might not wanna move the box." He taps the side of the the box lightly for emphasis and the smile widens. You feel an odd mix of smugness and nervous anticipation in his soul and wonder at just what he's gotten you. Figuring there's no need for further suspense, you pull at the ribbon so that it unties and slides carelessly into his lap, before lifting the lid, leaning over to peer inside and claim your prize. And oh, what a prize.
You stifle a gasp, your hands flying to your mouth because, while you hadn't quite known what to expect, you hadn't expected that. The bottom of the box is false, and inside is your boyfriend's unzipped fly, his penis standing at attention amidst a nest fabric and white hair, pillowed against his testicals. There's a red ribbon tied around his erect manhood, and something gold dangling from one silken string.
"Is that your…"
"Yep."
"In a…"
"Yep. You can touch it, if you want. It's yours, now. All of it," his proud smirk is both infuriating and endearing, and you can't tell if you're more amused or aroused. The two feelings battle for dominance before amusement wins and you laugh. And laugh. And laugh. Before long, tears are streaming down your face as you clutch your middle, your mirth uncontrollable, unstoppable because your boyfriend has just given you his penis and you have plans for it now, oh yes.
"At least untie it," your weapon pouts slightly, clearly not achieving the reaction he had hoped for, and you manage to stifle your laughter, wiping your tears with the back of one hand before using the other to reach into the box and carefully, so carefully, untie the silken ribbon. You notice that his once proudly standing member has wilted and feel a little bad, but only just a little. He must still be very drunk to have done this-this is not the type of thing sober Soul would even consider, it reeks far too strongly of Black*Star-and, as much as you'd hoped to finally enjoy each other fully tonight, you refuse to do so with an intoxicated partner. You might be angry with him for ruining what you'd hoped to be the best night of your life if you weren't still so diverted.
As the ribbon falls away, the golden object slides down. You take it up into your fingers, sliding it off the remaining ribbon, to bring it to your face. It's a gold ring, small and delicate, the outside imprinted around with intertwined music notes and feathers. Inside, it's engraved in a flowing script: yours now and forever. You smile slightly at the ring, your amusement fading entirely because it is beautiful and sweet, then move your eyes to him, your smile widening.
"It's a promise ring," he looks serious for the first time since you got home. "I, uh, well, I know you wanted to-well-you know, for your birthday and all, and I just-I don't know-I wanted you to have this, to remind you that I'm yours, Maka, no matter what. Been yours since I became your weapon, gonna be yours as long as you want me." He's so earnest, in contrast to the open box exposing his now completely flaccid dick, that you almost laugh again, but his words mean too much for that. His words have always come easier when he's drunk, something you both love and hate, and you can't help it, you throw your arms around him and pepper his face with kisses because you love him, have always loved him, will always love him, and even when he's drunk and stupid, he is yours, your weapon, your boyfriend, your partner, your everything.
"Thank you," you whisper softly against his cheek. You pull back to grin at him and he grins back stupidly. He takes the ring from your hand and you let him slide it on your finger gladly before snuggling against his side and peering into the still open box.
"Don't worry," you say, and it's probably a good thing he can't see your smile just now because it's full of mischief. "I plan to use this too, since it's mine now." You reach a hand in to stroke it softly for emphasis, causing him to throw his head back and groan. You might not be willing to take that last step together tonight, but that doesn't mean you can't fool around a bit, and since he has so kindly gifted you with his cock, you fully intend to have fun with his generosity.
It also doesn't mean you won't make him suffer for this silliness, but that can come later.
After making him remove the ridiculous box along with his clothing, you insist he keep still as you stand and untie your (his) bathrobe, letting it pool on the floor around your feet. His eyes glaze over with lust, and you can see that you have the attention of his (your) cock now, which is what you were hoping for. You ask him to remove your panties and he complies, sliding them slowly down your legs, and causing you to shiver in anticipation as his calloused fingers run down, down, down, his hair tickling against your thighs as he reaches your feet. You step out of the sheer cloth and push his head back up, forcing his shoulder against the couch with your hand before straddling his lap. Your arousal is almost unbearable now; feeling the heat and ache acutely, you settle your folds onto his cock lengthwise, his tip sliding against your clit deliciously as you begin to move. This is sinfully close to what you want, something you've done only once before, and you throw your head back and moan at the repeated contact, shuddering as he growls your name and cups your ass firmly to steady you against him.
He tries to maneuver you on his lap and you know what he wants, what he's trying to do. He wants all of you, you've discussed this, and you want it too, but not like this, not with him still so so drunk, so you grab his wrists behind you and shake your head as you look into his eyes.
"Maka," he breathes. "Please-I thought-"
"Not tonight," you remove one hand from a wrist and bring it up to stroke his cheek lovingly. "You're drunk. Another night, but not tonight." He just nods, though he looks disappointed. You remove your other hand from his wrist and slide against his stiff cock once more; his disappointment is instantly forgotten as he moans at the feeling. You move against him over and over again, careful, controlled, because you are so wet and he is so hard that it would be easy, so easy, to make a wrong move, for him to slip inside of you, and part of you hopes that you will slip up because the thought of surrounding him fully tears a moan from your lips. You focus on the feel of his length along your slit, of his tip twitching against your clit, focus on his deep voice grunting and swearing and moaning your name, and it's fantastic and delicious and torturous because it feels so damned good ,and yet he's there, right there, and you want him, but not like this, and as you come closer and closer to your release, it takes everything in you not to throw your resolve to the wind and take him fully, feel him inside of you as you've wanted to do for so long. As he finally comes with your name on his lips, twitching and spurting against your throbbing clit, the motion pushes you over the edge and you grip his arms tightly as you shout his name in answer, throwing back your head as your core pulses in delicious waves.
You collapse against him and smile against his chest, feeling safe and whole and sated in his arms. Soon, very soon, you will claim the rest of your birthday gift, will claim him as yours entirely, but for tonight, you are satisfied.
You don't let him off easy, in the end. Since he has so generously given you his dick in a box, you decide to make use of it. You torture him a bit, having him put his dick in all manner of places and on all manner of things where it doesn't really belong. In a hot dog bun. Stuffed into the end of a shot glass. Inside fruit. You have tormented him for a good week with your commands, asking him to put his dick just about everywhere but the one place you both want it most, before you finally relent. You ask him to play piano with his cock when the music room is empty one afternoon and he complies with an embarrassed laugh-you are surprised at how well he is able to pick out a simple tune, and impressed enough to reward him for his efforts.
When the reward comes later that night, you both agree that it was well worth the wait.