Disclaimer: Don't own or claim rights to Buffy or Harry Potter

A/N: For Jane.


It wasn't his fault. There was, after all, only so much human flesh could bear. And that dratted man was so damned persistent. That damned American, that damned Muggle. Though, to be fair, he could only truly be called Muggle-raised, or maybe, if one were to be crude, Mudblood. There was no way a man such as he, with his history, could truly be considered a Muggle. He not only saw thestrals, but had tamed one, much to the Ministry's displeasure, not to mention his morbid, sarcastic humour that intrigued him, and the man's streak of dark ruthlessness that compelled him as much as his damnable bravery repelled him. It truly wasn't his fault.

Which is why he was in the position he was now, one hand clenched around the other man's shoulder as he buried himself deep in his grasping channel. Strong, scarred legs wrapped tight around him, holding him close as he pounded into the lean, tan body. The man's dark, messy mop that reminded him uncomfortably of another ruthlessly heroic young man, tossed back as he gasped for air, scraping his nail's down his back as he breathlessly urged for more, harder, deeper.

He thought back, desperate to distract himself, to the other man's determined pursuit. He could pinpoint the exact moment the American had decided to chase him, when he had dressed down a student in his usual manner, and the other man's head had tilted, curiosity had sparked in his lively brown eyes, and that smirk had appeared for the first time in his presence. He had been noted, and there had been nothing he could have done or said to prevent it, because anything he could have done or said would simply have increased his attractiveness to the other man. Apparently he was exactly the American's type.

He panted, now, and gritted his teeth. Merlin, but this man's body was a heavenly temptation. He dragged one hand down the sweat-slick body to rest, momentarily, at his hip, gathering himself for the next move. He spread his fingers out as he slid his hand across the other man's taut belly, and down, to circle fingers and thumb around the base of his lover's aching cock, to hear a deep gasp, and he smiled. He wrapped his hand around the hard muscle, and began to stroke, hard, long, quick strokes, determined to drive this young man as wild as he was being driven.

Fingers wove into his hair, and his head was dragged down to that curved, bow-shaped mouth, and he was kissed, long, hot, drugging kisses that threatened to destroy his usefulness to the Wizarding world, rendering him a slave to that mouth, that tongue, that damned agile, strong body. He was rapidly losing all civilised thought to that damned American, plunging deep, pulling hard, kissing to the point of breathlessness. He whined as he buried his head in the other man's neck, finally lost to the passion of their bodies, as he lost his rhythm, and the other man bucked beneath him, crying out his name, holding him close, clenching hard around him, dragging him to what was utterly the little death, and all he could do was cry, "Xander!" before darkness took him.

There truly was only so much mortal flesh could take, and Xander Harris was more than he was built to withstand. As he finally stirred, he smiled at the thought of that damned American being permanently stationed here. He would be the death of him, but wasn't it the mark of mortality that they should someday die?