Work Text:
Rhett Abbott is a nosy little shit.
You’re getting used to his behavior, sure — you told each other your secrets months ago, and you’ve been going steady for half a year now — but the fact still remains.
Each and every time you enter his vicinity, Rhett perks up and finds you in seconds, his eyes sparkling when they land on you. It makes you smile most of the time. It’s less endearing when you’re trying to be sneaky, like when you tried to surprise him with his favorite snacks for Valentine’s Day and he sniffed you suspiciously until he saw the gift bag hidden behind your back.
But that was then. This is now.
He’s grinning, pointed canines gleaming under the warm, pinkish-red lights of the bar.
“You’re hungry,” Rhett notes, leaning on the table from across the booth. “I can tell. Admit it.”
With an idle sip of your drink, you shrug, trying to feign ignorance. “I ate your mama’s dinner, didn’t I?”
Of course, that’s not the kind of hunger he’s talking about. He makes you seem worse than you are sometimes. You’re not a freaky Nosferatu-type that only craves human blood. You can still go out in the sunlight. Mirrors still show your reflection. You can’t miraculously transform into a bat (though it would be pretty cool). The reality is far less dramatic than that.
Sure, you tend to sleep more throughout the day and wake during the night, but you’ve mostly managed to rewire your circadian rhythm to fit that of daylight creatures. And yes, you need blood to survive, but you don’t need it constantly; you can survive off the blood of animals for a couple weeks at a time. Human blood is significantly more revitalizing — you can go nearly a month and a half without feeding after a generous serving — but it’s rare to come across a willing participant to be your blood bag. You could always become a murderous, blood-sucking monster that takes human lives without mercy, but luckily for the people of Wabang, you’re a benevolent creature.
Rhett knows all of this. You told him all those months ago when he caught you draining the life out of one of the cattle on his father’s ranch; his father was furious about the missing livestock, but once you and Royal Abbott came to an understanding — “If you’re gonna feed, at least take ‘em from the Tillerson’s.” — the situation smoothed over. It helped when Rhett explained that his own lineage is cursed to morph into a wolf each and every full moon (though you already suspected as such from the moment you first met him, when he smelled of fresh grass and sweat that you distinctly recall as wolf-like).
At the time, his secret made you feel better about the cattle. You’re still in the habit of restraining your hunger, though.
Rhett looks at you now with that stop-bullshitting-me smile of his, the one that makes his head tilt like a puppy, and he reaches across the table to skim the back of his fingers along your jawline. To anyone else, the gesture would seem innocuous. An intimate, adoring sort of touch — but you know better.
You can practically taste the salt of his skin on the air. A shudder zips up your spine, a rush of heat burning under the soft skin of your cheeks. You’re already salivating, your pupils blown wide, and — fuck, he has an absolutely shit-eating grin on his face now.
With a groan that teeters on an inhuman growl, you slap his hand away.
“Go fuck yourself,” you mutter, sipping your drink to hide your shameful reaction.
Rhett chuckles, stealing his hand back and crossing his arms over the edge of the table.
“Uh-huh. Real cute. When’s the last time you ate?”
A beat (or three) passes while your finger traces the rim of your glass, lips pursed in thought. You finally huff out a sigh, shrugging your shoulders.
“Two-ish weeks, I think.”
“‘Two-ish weeks.’ Sounds like you’re overdue,” Rhett whistles. When you give him a flat look — no doubt frustrated due to your smoldering bloodlust — the cowboy just laughs, pushing a hand through his slicked-back hair. He knocks back his drink, and — without any room for argument — he stands, holding out his hand for you to take. “Let’s go get you somethin’.” As if it’s that easy.
You’d like to be more reluctant. If you weren’t starving for an ounce of that sweet ichor you instinctively crave, you’d moan and groan and demand to stay and finish your drink, to wait it out another few days for a bigger catch.
Unfortunately, you’re feeling awfully weak tonight.
You take Rhett’s hand and he guides you out of the bar. He rolls down the windows of his truck once you’ve climbed in. Rhett drives in the direction of his family’s home, glancing at you to see if you get a whiff of something to sink your fangs into. He’s sniffing the air himself.
“Anything good?” He asks as if you’re browsing through the menu of a fine dining establishment.
In truth, all you can smell is him. The taste of his skin is still simmering in the air; you lick your lips just to savor the tiniest bit of him. You can smell the beer on his breath, the shampoo in his hair. Your mouth waters all over again.
“All I’m smelling is you,” you huff, playfully admitting the truth. There’s a wanton note to your voice that betrays you, though — a slight whine, an impatient longing.
Rhett catches it. You hear him swallow, and oh, you want so badly to just lean over and kiss his perfect throat to get a better taste of him. Anything to put the urge to bed for a moment longer.
“I mean— you could…” He trails off, and your head whips around at the words unspoken, the message between the lines.
You’ve never, ever dared to feed off Rhett. It’s not that the thought hasn’t crossed your mind — in fact, you’ve imagined it more times than is assuredly reasonable. (He cut his thumb peeling an apple, once, and it took everything in you not to pounce and suck the wound.) Mostly, you’re afraid of taking it too far. I mean, shit, if you can barely handle a little cut on his finger, how are you supposed to handle biting him? In any case, you’ve always been shy about bringing it up; his open-ended suggestion is doing nothing to satiate your hunger. Your stomach feels painfully empty.
“No,” you eventually respond, your voice cracking. You swallow down the accumulation of spit in your mouth and try again. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
There’s a colossal tension in the pregnant pause between your refusal and the response that comes after: “Why not?” Rhett asks, shooting you a brief glance. “It’ll hold you over for longer. I don’t mind. You know I can handle it.”
The look you give him would, in any other context, perhaps suggest that you just watched a circus monkey do a backflip into a shark tank. You shift uncomfortably in the passenger seat.
“You’re way too cool about this.”
Rhett laughs at your baffled expression, reaching one hand over to pat your knee. “What? Like I haven’t seen you look at me like I’m a sirloin steak.” His hand — warm, heavy, delectable — switches to rubbing your knee. “‘Sides, I kinda want you to, y’know… Take a bite outta me.”
The whimper that escapes you at that moment is enough to make him blush.
“Pull over,” you plead, putting your hand on top of his.
Rhett swallows again — it might kill you if he doesn’t stop doing that — and he guides his truck to a stop on the slanted shoulder of the road. He switches the engine off at the same time your seatbelt snaps out of the lock; he doesn’t get to unlock his own because you reach over and do it for him.
“Jesus,” he mutters, and you delight at the sound of his heart jumping when you move.
The angle of the roadside tilts Rhett’s truck at a slight diagonal, just enough that he has no choice but to lean into you when you shuffle closer. Your fangs are already prodding at your lower lip, growing in length in tandem with your appetite. Rhett’s breath catches when your nose bumps against his neck, your fingers curling into his collar; your other hand grips the back of his seat.
“Are you sure?” You still think to ask, even though you’re already drooling on him and itching to lick the barely-there freckles on his neck. “It’ll hurt. I don’t want to—”
“It’s okay,” he murmurs, so quiet and so sweet that you lean your head on his shoulder for a moment to collect yourself. “It’s okay. Take what you need. Just go easy on me, yeah?”
You huff out an amused breath, kissing the precious curve between his neck and shoulder. The thirst you feel is immeasurable.
“I’ll sincerely try.”
As much as it pains you to wait, you do Rhett the small courtesy of freeing the buttons of his flannel. You peel back the fabric until it’s loosely hanging around his bicep. You kiss from his shoulder to the underside of his jaw, silently mapping the veins that pump beneath your lips. It’s a delicate process, to feed without killing — you can only take so much, you can’t be careless with where you bite or how hard, you have to be good and gentle. You would never dream of hurting him.
The hand that was previously on Rhett’s shirt slides up to cup his jaw, angling his head away from you. His eyes flutter closed. So do yours.
When your teeth prick his skin, you nearly moan at the sound of his racing heartbeat. You make the wound quick and sink your fangs in all at once, piercing the skin easily. Rhett gasps, but the sound is strangled, caught in his throat like he’s trying not to make a sound. Not that you mind.
The blood pumps fast beneath the surface, rising up and dribbling out around your teeth. You retract your fangs and close your mouth around the twin wounds, sucking and lapping up the spill. He tastes just as sweet as you imagined; there’s a hint of tonight’s beer and a shared glass of bourbon evident in his bloodstream. You hum in delight, dragging your tongue over his skin. The blood flow slows down, but it doesn’t stop. You imbibe in his honeyed flavor, greedily taking just a little more, indulging in every drop that leaks out.
When Rhett’s head begins to loll against your hand, you stop, albeit reluctantly so. He keens like a kicked dog when your fangs are removed, a dull ache already forming in his neck. Your concern outweighs your gluttony.
“Are you okay?” you ask quickly, selfishly licking your lips. “Did I take too much?”
“I’m alright,” Rhett hums, his hand lazily reaching up to cup yours against his cheek. “Little bit lightheaded, though.”
You frown, kissing his jaw and stroking his cheek. “Let’s switch. I’ll drive us home.”
Rhett nods without complaint. You help him into the passenger seat before hopping out of the truck and scurrying around to the driver’s seat.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” you murmur on the whole ride home, driving with one hand while the other rubs Rhett’s arm. Even so, you shamefully can’t help yourself from sucking on your teeth and licking your lips, eager to swallow every drop.
When you get to the Abbott home and haul Rhett upstairs and into his bed, you finally sit beside him, holding a glass of water to his lips.
“Drink,” you insist, holding his head up. You chew on your lower lip anxiously. Surely this can’t be the night you accidentally kill your boyfriend, right?
Rhett drinks. When he’s finished, you lay him back down, gently removing his clothes while he talks.
“Wasn’t too bad,” he says as a lazy smile spreads across his handsome face. “Felt kinda nice, actually, aside from the initial bite.”
You scoff, unconvinced. His shirt is tossed aside, so you reach for his belt buckle next.
“I feel like you’re just humoring me so I don’t feel bad,” you mutter, tossing the belt aside. Your fingers find his jeans next, tugging down the zipper. “I could have killed you, and you’re—”
You falter in the middle of shucking his jeans down. In the dim moonlight, your eyes quickly adjust only to find a sizable damp patch on the front of his boxers. With parted lips, you look back at Rhett.
“When did you…?” You trail off, too stunned to even finish the thought.
Rhett is blushing. He clears his throat. “I was kinda hopin’ you wouldn’t notice that.”
“I can see in the dark. Obviously I was gonna notice it,” you snort, amused to catch him acting all embarrassed. It’s a cute look for him. That and it does wonders to ease your poor nerves.
Rhett just groans, covering his eyes with his arm. You finish tugging his jeans off and climb over him with a smug smile, feeling better after bearing witness to the mess in your boyfriend’s boxers.
“If I knew you liked it that much, I would’ve bitten you a whole lot sooner.”
He turns as pink as the lights from the bar.