Spike/Clipboard fic
A long time ago, in the crazy world of LJ there was some dialog about Spike and a clipboard. I missed all of that. But then I learned that m_annalore was hosting a Spike/inanimate object ficathon. The idea being, of course, that Spike has chemistry with anyone and anything. Since I'd already written a wacky bit of fluff between Wesley and the sarcophagus, I figured what the hell.
I was a bit nervous that I someone actually requested Spike/Clipboard. And worse, that it was assigned to me. But I've done my best. I had great fun. I'll post a link to the master list once it's up. Fic's are due July 20, so hopefully the list will be up soon.
Title: Clipped Heart
Pairing: Spike/clipboard
Requests: tears falling on the paper on the board
Restrictions: none
Rating: NC-17 all the way baby!
Warning: Here there be sexual masochism and a bit of blood. And general wackiness, of course.
Beta: Many thanks to the amazing poshcat. That girl knows her porn and she seemed to like this. For that I'm eternally grateful.
Spike climbed down the ladder in his crypt, ready to pass out. He'd had a long night patrolling with the Slayer, followed by a few rounds at Willy's. He was exhausted, drunk, and a bit beat up. All he wanted to do was sleep. He pulled off his shirt and reached for the button on his pants as he approached the bed.
“Fuck,” he whispered as he saw what lay on his pillow: a brown, legal-size clipboard with a sheet of heavy paper clipped to it. The words "SQUEEZE ME" was carefully printed there in an unfamiliar hand.
“No, not again. Can't do this again.” A tear rolled down his cheek as he picked up the board. “No!” Spike flung the board against the wall before collapsing on the bed. “No,” he sobbed into his pillow his memories taunting him. He turned over and looked at the clipboard longingly, then crossed the room, picked it up, and fell back onto the bed, the board clutched tightly to his chest. “I'm sorry,” he sobbed. “So sorry, luv.”
Spike thought back to the night this had all started. A few months ago, he'd come home just before dawn to find the same sight--a clipboard on his pillow. That night he'd picked it up carefully, wondering if it were some kind of trap. It had felt so good in his hands--it had mass, it wasn't some cheap plastic board with a clip that would fall off after a few days. No, this was quality craftsmanship. He had run his fingers lovingly down the length of it. It was so thin and smooth, cool to the touch. He'd tested the clip and found the spring held it tight to the board; a firm squeeze was necessary to open it so the paper could be removed.
He'd lifted the paper to his face, hoping to catch the scent of whomever had left this for him. How was it possible that anyone in Sunnydale would know how much he'd missed the clipboard he'd lost years earlier in New York? In those days, he'd kept whatever poem he was currently working on clipped tightly to his board. As his love had grown, he'd begun to carry it with him even when there was nothing on it. He'd slip a finger under the clip and feel the metal biting into him. Sweet, sensuous pain. Whoever had brought this new clipboard to him wanted him to know true pleasure again.
He'd undressed, crawled under the covers, and lay the board against his bare chest. It was just like he'd remembered. His fingers had grazed over the surface of the board as he reacquainted himself with the much missed sensation. There had been a slight imperfection in the lower left corner, a scratch. He'd run his middle finger back and forth along the groove in the surface and felt himself grow more and more aroused. With his other hand he gently squeezed the clip, just barely easing it open then letting it snap shut. He'd kept squeezing, gradually opening the clip wider and wider.
His cock had twitched with anticipation. He'd then slipped the board down his stomach so the back rested on his cock. Spike had continued stroking the scratch with one hand and squeezing the clip with the other. And as he'd felt himself get closer, his stroking and squeezing had grown faster and until he'd reached the edge. Then he'd opened the clip, slid his other hand up away from the scratch and under the clip, then let go. The spring had pulled the clip tight, it had bit into his fingers, and Spike had come all over the back of the board.
He'd lain there for several minutes--spent, panting, his rapidly shrinking dick stuck to the board. He smelled the heady mix of blood and come in the air and groaned as his arousal returned. He gently squeezed the clip to release his hand and licked his fingers clean. Then he brought the clipboard to his face and bathed it with his tongue, removing every trace of blood and come from the surface.
Spike remembered feeling as though the board pulsed in his hand, wanting more. It had needed him as much as he needed it. He'd rolled over so the board lay beneath him and slid his body up and down the length of it.
At the top of the clip had been a a one-inch diameter hole for hanging the board on a hook. Spike had lowered his mouth to the clip and run his tongue around the hole, teasing, tasting. He'd dipped his tongue into the hole and pulled it out then plunged back in several times while grinding his hips against the bed and gripping the sides of the clipboard tightly.
Finally he'd backed off and slid upward, hissing as his nipples brushed against the cold metal, sighing as his stomach grazed across the hard surface of the board. He'd slid back down again to tongue the hole once more before he'd pushed the board down, down, down to rest beneath his throbbing erection.
“Fuck,” he moaned. “Feels so good. So good to me, baby.” Spike had loved that clipboard. It took everything he offered it, gave him pleasure in return. The board would not deny him or argue with him. It had accepted him and given back freely of itself.
Spike had thrust against the board--harder and harder, faster and faster. It had felt so good. Smooth. Firm. He remembered liking that there was no give, that the board almost seemed alive and pushing back at him. He'd felt himself get close ... closer ... right there. Yes, oh god. He was going to come. He reached down below him, raised the clip, and slid home. “Gahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” he screamed as he came all over the board and the bed linens. Spent, he reached down to release himself and then collapsed on the bed.
The next afternoon Buffy had busted in looking for information on some demon and found him in bed with the board, covered in what was clearly not White-Out. He'd tried to explain, but she'd been disgusted and threatened to tell everyone. She'd said she wouldn’t let him near Dawn again. Reluctantly, Spike had sworn to never do it again if she would not reveal his secret. He'd kept his promise for nearly four months.
But now the board was back. Someone put it here to tempt him. Was Buffy testing him? Was it the person who'd brought the last board? Spike didn't know what to think as tears of longing and frustration slid down his cheeks and fell onto the board. He clutched it to his chest and rocked himself to sleep. Surely just sleeping with the board wasn’t breaking his promise.
Right?
The End.
I was a bit nervous that I someone actually requested Spike/Clipboard. And worse, that it was assigned to me. But I've done my best. I had great fun. I'll post a link to the master list once it's up. Fic's are due July 20, so hopefully the list will be up soon.
Title: Clipped Heart
Pairing: Spike/clipboard
Requests: tears falling on the paper on the board
Restrictions: none
Rating: NC-17 all the way baby!
Warning: Here there be sexual masochism and a bit of blood. And general wackiness, of course.
Beta: Many thanks to the amazing poshcat. That girl knows her porn and she seemed to like this. For that I'm eternally grateful.
Spike climbed down the ladder in his crypt, ready to pass out. He'd had a long night patrolling with the Slayer, followed by a few rounds at Willy's. He was exhausted, drunk, and a bit beat up. All he wanted to do was sleep. He pulled off his shirt and reached for the button on his pants as he approached the bed.
“Fuck,” he whispered as he saw what lay on his pillow: a brown, legal-size clipboard with a sheet of heavy paper clipped to it. The words "SQUEEZE ME" was carefully printed there in an unfamiliar hand.
“No, not again. Can't do this again.” A tear rolled down his cheek as he picked up the board. “No!” Spike flung the board against the wall before collapsing on the bed. “No,” he sobbed into his pillow his memories taunting him. He turned over and looked at the clipboard longingly, then crossed the room, picked it up, and fell back onto the bed, the board clutched tightly to his chest. “I'm sorry,” he sobbed. “So sorry, luv.”
Spike thought back to the night this had all started. A few months ago, he'd come home just before dawn to find the same sight--a clipboard on his pillow. That night he'd picked it up carefully, wondering if it were some kind of trap. It had felt so good in his hands--it had mass, it wasn't some cheap plastic board with a clip that would fall off after a few days. No, this was quality craftsmanship. He had run his fingers lovingly down the length of it. It was so thin and smooth, cool to the touch. He'd tested the clip and found the spring held it tight to the board; a firm squeeze was necessary to open it so the paper could be removed.
He'd lifted the paper to his face, hoping to catch the scent of whomever had left this for him. How was it possible that anyone in Sunnydale would know how much he'd missed the clipboard he'd lost years earlier in New York? In those days, he'd kept whatever poem he was currently working on clipped tightly to his board. As his love had grown, he'd begun to carry it with him even when there was nothing on it. He'd slip a finger under the clip and feel the metal biting into him. Sweet, sensuous pain. Whoever had brought this new clipboard to him wanted him to know true pleasure again.
He'd undressed, crawled under the covers, and lay the board against his bare chest. It was just like he'd remembered. His fingers had grazed over the surface of the board as he reacquainted himself with the much missed sensation. There had been a slight imperfection in the lower left corner, a scratch. He'd run his middle finger back and forth along the groove in the surface and felt himself grow more and more aroused. With his other hand he gently squeezed the clip, just barely easing it open then letting it snap shut. He'd kept squeezing, gradually opening the clip wider and wider.
His cock had twitched with anticipation. He'd then slipped the board down his stomach so the back rested on his cock. Spike had continued stroking the scratch with one hand and squeezing the clip with the other. And as he'd felt himself get closer, his stroking and squeezing had grown faster and until he'd reached the edge. Then he'd opened the clip, slid his other hand up away from the scratch and under the clip, then let go. The spring had pulled the clip tight, it had bit into his fingers, and Spike had come all over the back of the board.
He'd lain there for several minutes--spent, panting, his rapidly shrinking dick stuck to the board. He smelled the heady mix of blood and come in the air and groaned as his arousal returned. He gently squeezed the clip to release his hand and licked his fingers clean. Then he brought the clipboard to his face and bathed it with his tongue, removing every trace of blood and come from the surface.
Spike remembered feeling as though the board pulsed in his hand, wanting more. It had needed him as much as he needed it. He'd rolled over so the board lay beneath him and slid his body up and down the length of it.
At the top of the clip had been a a one-inch diameter hole for hanging the board on a hook. Spike had lowered his mouth to the clip and run his tongue around the hole, teasing, tasting. He'd dipped his tongue into the hole and pulled it out then plunged back in several times while grinding his hips against the bed and gripping the sides of the clipboard tightly.
Finally he'd backed off and slid upward, hissing as his nipples brushed against the cold metal, sighing as his stomach grazed across the hard surface of the board. He'd slid back down again to tongue the hole once more before he'd pushed the board down, down, down to rest beneath his throbbing erection.
“Fuck,” he moaned. “Feels so good. So good to me, baby.” Spike had loved that clipboard. It took everything he offered it, gave him pleasure in return. The board would not deny him or argue with him. It had accepted him and given back freely of itself.
Spike had thrust against the board--harder and harder, faster and faster. It had felt so good. Smooth. Firm. He remembered liking that there was no give, that the board almost seemed alive and pushing back at him. He'd felt himself get close ... closer ... right there. Yes, oh god. He was going to come. He reached down below him, raised the clip, and slid home. “Gahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” he screamed as he came all over the board and the bed linens. Spent, he reached down to release himself and then collapsed on the bed.
The next afternoon Buffy had busted in looking for information on some demon and found him in bed with the board, covered in what was clearly not White-Out. He'd tried to explain, but she'd been disgusted and threatened to tell everyone. She'd said she wouldn’t let him near Dawn again. Reluctantly, Spike had sworn to never do it again if she would not reveal his secret. He'd kept his promise for nearly four months.
But now the board was back. Someone put it here to tempt him. Was Buffy testing him? Was it the person who'd brought the last board? Spike didn't know what to think as tears of longing and frustration slid down his cheeks and fell onto the board. He clutched it to his chest and rocked himself to sleep. Surely just sleeping with the board wasn’t breaking his promise.
Right?
The End.