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Graduation night.
Whee.
Jensen slumps against a coat cubby in room 105 of Jackson Elementary School on the last night of his court-mandated group therapy sessions, wishing he was anywhere but here.
“One more night,” Danneel says, taking her place beside him. “And look, they brought snacks.”
She’s not looking at the lemonade and shortbread cookies set out on the teacher’s desk.
Jensen thinks bringing two different groups together like they’ve done tonight wasn’t such a great idea. His group leader, a vegetarian named Misha, seems to agree because he’s fluttering, pale and nervous, between Jensen’s classmates and the Donors Anonymous group.
“Welcome, all!” Ms. Tapping says crisply from the front of the room. She’s head of the state’s Un/Living Liaison Committee, and Jensen knows well enough to behave around her. She’s dressed in a navy business suit and nylons, radiating no-nonsense from the roots of her up-do to the heels of her sensible shoes.
“We are pleased to host this dual graduation ceremony for Donors and Drinkers alike,” Tapping continues.
As she drones on, Jensen’s irked all over again to be here. He has it on good authority that Tapping keeps a blood slave named Erica locked in her no-doubt overly decorated boudoir. But then, she was smart enough to not get caught, unlike him and Danneel. Jensen prides himself on being a bit of a control freak; he’s never taken more than a Donor could afford to give, and he’s never entertained the notion of turning any of the broody Goth kids who begged him for everlasting life.
Like he would spend eternity with a ruffly shirted teen with daddy issues. Please.
But there is, across the room where kindergarteners no doubt eat paste each day, a guy that Jensen would like to spend at least one night with.
He’s tall and rangy, messy hair falling in his eyes, and he’s dressed in painted on, faded jeans and a rose-colored henley. Jensen would like to scoff at his sartorial choices, but he has to admit the shirt brings out the healthy glow of the kid’s cheeks, not to mention his wide pink lips.
Jensen looks away. He’s so close to being out from Tapping’s thumb, he does not need to be distracted tonight of all nights.
“Jared,” Danneel offers, tracking Jensen’s gaze.
“What?”
“His name’s Jared. Parents sent him here when they found him messing around with one of ours.”
“Parents?”
Danneel snorts. “He’s legal. I think.”
Well, Danneel would know. She always has her finger on the pulse of the local gossip.
Jensen chuckles at his unspoken—and admittedly awful—pun and she pinches his arm.
She knows him way too well.
Tapping and Misha and the Donor group leader, a sprightly redhead named Felicia, all congratulate everybody on how far they’ve come, and discuss resources available if they feel a relapse coming on. Misha reminds Jensen’s group that “synthetics are just as good as the original,” like any of them are stupid enough to buy that, and then the leaders spend an interminable amount of time signing off on everybody’s release forms. In triplicate.
Jensen wishes that he could just be put out of his misery and die already.
Again.
Jensen is, of course, the last to get his paperwork signed. He stuffs it in his back pocket, nods brusquely at Misha and Danneel, and heads out the door, fully intending to never step foot in an elementary school again.
He’s halfway across the back playground, intent on reaching a dive a few blocks away that’s known to be friendly to Jensen’s kind, when a soft voice says, “Hey.”
He turns and sees that it’s Jared. Of fucking course it’s Jared, the most tempting morsel among the Donors hanging around tonight, and he’s looking hotter than anyone has a right to while leaning up against a plastic yellow slide.
Jared raises his eyebrows, a question and an invitation. Jensen wants to ignore him and keep walking but damn, he’s only inhuman, and Vlad help him, he moves closer.
“Are you supposed to be some kind of fucking test?” Jensen growls. He’s trying for threatening, and he’s a little affronted when Jared just chuckles and shakes his head.
“Just being friendly. Jensen, right?”
He nods tersely. “Heard mommy and daddy are keeping you on a short leash.”
Jared shrugs. “I think they were more freaked out that I let a dude bite me than anything. They’re dealing better. Went to a PFLAG potluck and everything.”
Jensen moves closer, way up in Jared’s space now, and Jared licks his lips and tilts his head to one side. The little minx.
“I’m not looking to get busted again anyway,” Jensen whispers. “Really don’t need the Pro Living faction on my ass.”
“Then don’t kill me.”
“You think this is some kind of game?”
“I think I know what I like,” Jared says, meeting Jensen’s eyes.
He takes that last slow step, boots scuffing through playground mulch, and then he’s planted right in front of Jared, their bodies brushing together under a crooked Cheshire moon.
“How old are you?” Jensen whispers.
“How old are you?” Jared shoots back. When Jensen pulls back, expression cold, Jared shifts. “Twenty-two. Old enough to know what I like.”
“You’re a baby,” Jensen scoffs, but he’s leaning in again, Jared too, and then their lips are brushing together.
“Tapping,” Jensen murmurs, pulling away reluctantly.
Jared grins and points up, and then pulls himself onto a cross bar, climbing his way up the criss-crossing structure of wooden supports and platforms that the plastic slide was built into.
When Jensen was a kid, playgrounds were all metal and concrete and exposed screws, gangrene waiting to happen.
“Are you coming, old man?” Jared calls down.
I really fucking hope so, Jensen thinks, and follows Jared.
Jensen’s still not quite sure how this happened so quickly, but ten minutes after he left his last Drinkers group therapy session, he finds himself stretched out on a swaying wooden bridge while Jared straddles him, groaning and grinding and begging Jensen for just one bite.
And Jensen, well, he’s never killed anybody but he’s certainly not a saint. He sinks his teeth into the soft curve of Jared’s neck, his lengthening incisors secreting a venom that’s part analgesic and part coagulant with a mild aphrodisiac thrown in for good measure. As he drinks, Jared wilts against him, moaning soft and low. His hands roam over Jared’s back, cup his ass, slide around his waist, and then he yanks down Jared’s zipper and shimmies the tight jeans from Jared’s narrow hips, desperate to taste all of him.
He pulls away reluctantly from Jared’s throbbing jugular, licks over the wounds until the blood slows to a sluggish trickle.
“You’re not doing this because you have a brain tumor or something, right?” Jensen asks, suddenly nervous.
“Duude, how much Buffy have you watched?” Jared asks, sounding a little bit drunk. Jensen feels a little wasted himself after weeks of living off of synthetics.
“I just…I don’t turn people.”
“Good. Cause I kinda like being alive and stuff.”
They’re silent for awhile, still pressed together, and then Jared starts wriggling against Jensen again, hard line of his cock pressing into Jensen’s thigh.
“So do you, do you wanna fuck me?” Jared asks, looking suddenly vulnerable in the moonlight.
“I do,” Jensen says. “Again and again again. But not here.”
Jared whines a little and Jensen grins. He shoves his own pants down so their bare cocks are rubbing together, grips them both with his hand and begins to stroke. Jared hisses a bit from the friction, and Jensen tugs Jared forward until he’s kneeling over Jensen with his ass resting against Jensen’s chest. The solid weight of Jared combined with the slow rocking of the bridge they’re lying on is so sensual, Jensen suddenly understands why sex swings are a thing. He grips Jared’s hips and pulls him closer until he can wrap his lips around the head of Jared’s cock.
Jared’s cock is perfect, pulsing with life’s blood, hard and thick and cut. He wonders what Jared thinks of his own uncircumcised dick, wonders if anybody’s ever tried docking with Jared, but these are questions he’ll have to explore later because…
“Oh, Christ, not gonna last,” Jared gasps.
Jensen smiles around his mouthful of cock. That’s just fine with him. He wants to get Jared back home and take him apart slowly, catalog every cry and moan and whimper. He traces one finger along Jared’s perineum and tugs at his balls Jared gasps, cries out, and come hard, pulsing down Jensen’s throat. His come tastes every bit as delicious as his blood, and Jensen swallows every drop.
“Sorry,” Jared mutters, embarrassed, even as he collapses lax and sated in Jensen’s arms. “Not usually so, um, quick. But that was, wow.”
“It’s okay,” Jensen says, wrapping his arms tight around Jared. “But when I’m through with you? Defiling a playset is going to be one of the tamest things we’ve ever done.”
“My angel,” Jared says as he burrows further into Jensen and nips at his throat playfully.
Mine, Jensen silently agrees.