I want to be paid for writing fan-fiction. Please? Currently my top project here at work is to build a wizard. Which sounds kind of amusing, I'm sure, but IS NOT IS NOT IS NOT. Imagine my job duties chunked by percent--there are several different types of things I do, all important. Now imagine that I'm assigned a task which, at first glance, should represent about 10 percent of my workload. Now imagine that this same task is 80 percent of someone *else's* workload. Like, it's their entire *job*. And yet I'm supposed to do the same job while also doing everything else I'm responsible for.

See, writing tales of romance and derring-do and derriere-doing should be my job.

At the end of the meeting I just had for this project I turned to the SME and said, "I have to crawl under the table and cry now."

And now, some porn. This is just a scene without a story. Orphaned, not especially pleasing to me. But! Porn! I need porn too. And schmoop. In equal amounts. Like one handful of peanut butter and another of jelly.

I need lunch.



"Don't," Spike said, pulling back--or trying to. Didn't work so well when you found yourself up against a wall and squirming like an addled puppy.

But Xander pushed his head into the crook between Spike's jaw and shoulder and mouthed his neck and Spike twisted his head away, baring his throat by instinct, game face crawling under his skin, his fangs itching and lengthening, all of him a strained ache ready to flare loose. When Xander began biting a line up toward his ear, Spike's eyes flew open wide with shock and he made a shameful sound, hips arching and begging. Xander's hands teased up his sides and then slid his belt tongue from its buckle. Spike could feel it happening, couldn't recall how to stop it or why, and the roughness of Xander's jaw scraping his neck carried him right to the edge.

When Xander went down on his knees, Spike braced shoulders against the wall and let his hips be pulled forward. "Oh god," he said, sliding his fingers into Xander's hair. Desperation cracked his voice. "I need--"

"I know."

He didn't dare look down; if he kept his eyes closed--oh sweet bloody Christ, he couldn't fool himself and it couldn't be anyone but Xander, working him frantically through the denim, thumbs pressed hard into the grooves where his thighs joined. He rolled his head against the bricks and began to gasp, felt his zipper tugged down, cried out once when Xander sucked him in, sloppy and hot and greedy, making him writhe.

"Yes," he said, and the word was still a form of begging. Tears coming to his eyes, he rode out the pleasure as long as he could, but he was already driven close. "Xander!" Love was a bone-crushing, flaying, miserable surge, and every part of him remembered at once and he spilled with a sob.

And then Xander lurched to his feet and turned him and knocked his thighs apart, shoved his jeans down, pushed into him. He was slick and heavy and it hurt, but not enough. Spike relished it and let his cheek grind against the bricks as Xander fucked him with wild, brutal thrusts that torched Spike's heart and dragged him toward madness.

"I needed this," Xander forced out on frantic breaths. "I wanted this--always--oh god--"

Spike closed his eyes again. It was so good and it felt as if they'd done this a thousand times instead of the once. He'd remembered it just like this.