<"Creepy guy at the bar" is a Cheesecake Trope™️: we all know it, there’s no nuance to it and yet it’s always just as lovely>
[1k followers celebration!]
SUMMARY: Rhett just wants to get a drink, not listen to some drunk guy be creepy to a girl. Preston Mabel might have a pretty bad morning, while Rhett Abbott is convinced he scored out of his league.
WORDCOUNT: ~ 2k
One of the virtues of The Handsome Gambler was its constant state - always the same clientele, the same cheap beer, the same smell of hay and gasoline. It seemed as if menaces of the real world couldn't put their talons on whoever was spending their night at the bar, for a moment letting people of Amelia County sigh with relief and pretend their hardships were more akin to philosophical questions not mandatory to entertain rather than essential parts of their demanding lives.
It was just another weeknight, the regulars greeted each other with a slight nod or a tip of their hats before sitting down to their beers. One of Kenny Rogers's hits was playing through the speakers.
Rhett was sitting by the bar and had been absentmindedly drinking his beer, thinking of many different troubles that bit at his heels, until a couple didn't become his bar neighbours. Although to clarify, the pair itself wasn't a problem, Rhett had little care for lovebirds, it's rather only the drunk half of it that got on his nerves. He would've recognized that tacky hat with plastic seashells anywhere and at any time. It belonged to none other than Preston Mabel - a man approaching his thirties that hadn't been told 'no' enough times throughout his life. Through his childhood antics, Preston gained the prestige of the guy who throws sand at others and spits in other kids' porridge. Rumour had it, he never quite outgrew one of those habits...
He wouldn't have cared about Preston - worst case scenario, Rhett could have just found another seat and continued his lonely drinking. It was Mabel's companion, however, who changed Abbott's mind. Sitting on Preston's left side, he could get a look at her face and the unmistakeable discomfort she was experiencing:
Giving the man an empty chuckle, you casually brushed his hand away from your shoulder once again. No matter how nice and charming he had seemed, your regret was growing more potent ever since Preston's fourth beer. Although his behaviour was without a doubt criminal you were quite torn about what you should do: part of you was ready to bail at any moment, while the other was gullible enough to downplay your feelings, claiming that you were blowing the situation out of proportion. It was a small southern town, after all - only a fool would expect its citizens to act like the middle-class white-collars from big northern cities. In fact, quite a few people had said that you were 'stuck-up', mostly Tinder dates for the record, so maybe that's what painted your night in the colours of doom: you just couldn't take it easy.
"I'm just gonna get some fresh air, alright?" Your words were accompanied by nervous laughter. Hopefully, a few cold breaths could clear your mind and who knows: maybe you could even laugh at your anxious discomfort. The aftermath of his unwelcomed touch felt hot on your skin like sunburn before the dead epidermis flakes away.
"Just don't run away, sweetie," Preston slurred a little louder than necessary. He was leaning on the bar counter and Rhett was quite convinced it was the only source of his balance. A shiver ran down your spine hearing his words - it was as if he had somehow known it was a viable option in your mind.
In an impressively big gulp, Mabel finished his beer, setting the bottle down loudly against the counter. Hearing that, the bartender watched him closely from underneath his eyebrows - experience taught him that Preston was showing symptoms of trouble.
"Bambi's mine," the man slurred to the ambivalent bartender before burping loudly.
Stepping away from the counter, Mabel swayed for a moment but caught his balance quite swiftly. Then, with a swing to his step, he followed you outside. When the backdoor closed behind him, the bartender sighed to himself and went back to serving beers and drinks.
Although the situation had nothing to do with him, Rhett's gut was telling him that something was bound to happen - and it wasn't going to be Christmas arriving early. Staring through the circular window in the backdoor, he watched Preston force you against the wall. His leg started to nervously bounce as Rhett tried to decide whether it was his problem or not. Whatever decision should he make, it had to come fast.
"Fuck this," Rhett whispered to himself and rushed outside.
You tried turning your head away from Preston as much as you could, suddenly feeling impossibly ashamed of your inability to set your foot down. Keeping your hands on his chest, you tried to keep his away from yourself but not as assertively as you probably should have: the only worse thing than a drunk creepy man was offended drunk creepy man. And there were too many stories of women 'mysteriously' disappearing from small towns.
"How 'bout we go to mine, sunshine?" he offered. His body language, however, was too forward and decisive for the offer to remain an open question - it was more as if he was stating the end result of the night. You were disillusioned that with the state Preston currently was in it was either 'yes' or 'convince me'.
"No, thanks. I should be going home," you answered as certainly as you could. It felt as if your heart was a frenzied beast kept in place only by the confines of your ribcage.
The sound of the backdoor being pushed open directed your attention towards the unexpected stranger. He caught your gaze, for a moment looking at Preston and the anger on his face became only more prominent.
"Come on, girl. Don't be a little prude," Mabel pushed on. It seemed quite funny that he thought calling anyone 'prude' would work in his favour.
"She said no, Pres."
Rhett's voice could hardly be described as calm, it was more of a warning - anger was boiling inside him like a bull waiting for the slightest glimpse of the red cape. Your breathing became ragged, realizing that the ordeal might get a whole new spin as Rhett Abbott didn't seem like a man who backs off easily.
Preston, however, was deaf to Rhett's words: his shaky hand reached for your face but Abbott grabbed his wrist before you could even wince at the incoming unwanted touch.
"She doesn't fuckin' want to, pal."
Only then, when he was physically restrained, did Preston finally acknowledge Rhett's existence:
"Go fuck yourself, Abbott. She's mine."
Without much thinking, Rhett took a swing and landed a punch square to Preston's jaw. Mabel stumbled backwards, visibly struggling to keep his balance. In shock, he touched his face but winced at the smallest touch. For a moment, Preston stood still - in disbelief that someone laid their hands on him.
"Apologize and go home, Preston," Rhett demanded as he moved to stand in front of you. His right fist was clenched, prepared to repeat the offence.
"You-..." Preston stuttered. Words simply wouldn't leave his mouth. "You fuckin'-..."
"I told you to apologize and go home," Rhett repeated. His persistence impressed you, leaving you grateful that it was a man like him who noticed your plight.
Probably still unable to believe he was put in his place, Preston Mabel threw a short 'sorry!' and disappeared around the corner of the building, stumbling over his own drunken feet.
"I've always wanted to do that," Rhett said quietly as he watched Preston Mabel cower away. Then his worried expression was directed at you and, somehow, the shadow of a man throwing fists seemed to be gone. His hand was no longer clenched. "You doin' alright?"
"Yeah, I guess," you answered while averting his gaze. Rhett noticed how you rubbed your arm awkwardly. "I mean, not now. But I will be. Not the worst thing that happened to me." Rhett would have asked about clarification, feeling his anger rise again but your uneasiness was too prominent and so he tried to chase his vigour away. He could ask about things worse than drunk Preston Mabel some other time - should it, hopefully, arrive. "Thank you."
"How'd you even know the guy?"
You felt a blush of embarrassment creep unto your cheeks remembering the events of the morning. Now that you thought about the earlier hours of the day, you couldn't help but feel slightly ashamed of your naivety. How humorously human it was - to be wise and reasonable only in hindsight.
"He stopped me in the streets," you confessed. Feeling your embarrassment only growing stronger, you started to mindlessly pick at your skin. Your statement elicited fairly mixed emotions from Rhett. On one hand, he was beyond bewildered that anyone could take Preston Mabel for a 'nice man' but at the same time, he found it somehow completely expected that you would get asked out in the streets - no matter how cliche the scenario might seem. You did look like that kind of woman: the type that Rhett would never even think of asking out, simply because the possibility of getting rejected was, quite frankly, ridiculously high to the point of being obvious. If he knew he had no chance with someone, there was no point in putting his neck or rather his ego's neck in the noose. "Seemed nice enough and it's not like I know many people 'round here, so I took a gamble. It's stupid, I know."
"No, it's not," he answered quickly. Confused, you look at his face not understanding the unexpected redemption of your actions. "Maybe a little."
His eyes were stuck to your face as you laughed at his words. The anxiety Preston managed to instil in you was fading away and the newfound relief only added to your sudden joy. Feeling how warmth sparkled inside his chest watching your amusement, Rhett began weighing his chances. He was disillusioned about the reality: the only thing he had that Preston didn't have was respect for others and the lack of tacky seashells. Rhett wasn't the type of man to shoot in the dark, taking a risk only when he's fairly certain of the net result but at the moment, standing outside The Handsome Gambler, he naively thought that maybe it was his shooting star of a chance.
"You think I could call you tomorrow?"
"Call me?" you repeated in a shocked tone. Rhett's heart sunk and for a moment he really wanted to slap his own face for ever thinking he could aim outside of his league. "It should be me, bringing a fruit basket to you."
You fished out a pen from your purse and, without warning him or asking, you wrote your phone number on the inside of his forearm. Rhett's hands were rough, littered with callouses and scars - hands of someone who knows the price of an honest and humble life. Rhett's knuckles were hot, and flushed, as the skin started to turn from red to purple. He was quite displeased with how quickly you scribbled the digits on his skin only to leave him cold in the absence of your hands.
"Just don't call before 8AM, I'm not an early bird. And I'm paying for dessert, cowboy."
Rhett's eyes glazed over the quick writing in black pen and a triumphant smile appeared on his face. Aside from the nine digits, you had scribbled something else:
"(Y/N)?" he read the few letters above the phone number. "Pretty name. So, (Y/N), you need a ride home?" Your name sounded quite odd coming from Rhett's mouth as if he was the only person in the world to pronounce it in a certain way - it sounded special.
"Sure, I'd love that."
Rhett Abbott might have known a thing or two about riding bulls but he was certain you were going to be a whole new rodeo for him - and that bull he wasn't falling off.
I’m Jaded.
Synopsis: The morning after isn’t always a disappointment.
Drabble: 838 words. AFAB/ female reader.
Warning: Explicit MINORS DNI: sexual imagery, pre-courser to smut.
Notes: Comments and reblogs are so appreciated. Likes are loved. Thanks to @writercole and @hederasgarden for your eyes. @yespolkadotkitty thank you for the conversation and inspiration. Thank you so very much for reading. It means the most.
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Early morning sunlight streamed in through the partially open curtains. In the middle of the night the blankets had been kicked off the bed, and you’re a little chilly in just a tank top. You stretch, feeling a not entirely unpleasant ache in your legs and lower abdomen. Flashes of the night before coming back to you as you lay there taking inventory of little bruises, hickies and the fading imprint of teeth on your breast.
Rhett’s hands gripping your hips, that low velvet brushed voice whispering the filthiest praise in your ear as he fucks you into your mattress. Whiskey kisses and the scent of his aftershave melting against your skin. Taking you both beyond limits, the bedframe creaking with how hard he’s fucking you. Your nails on the long line of his back, your tongue tracing the lines of that tattoo on his chest, tasting sweat and salt.
You roll onto your side, hand patting the empty space next to you. You’re not surprised, but at the same time part of you wished you were enough to keep him there at least until morning. It was now something that you shared with a couple of women in town, and you’re almost certain that they’ll find you the next time you go for a beer-- to swap stories and compare conquests. There’s a headache building behind your eyes, and you remember why you don’t drink tequila.
More specifically why you don’t drink tequila and dance with handsome cowboys on a too-small dancefloor in a dark bar.
You rub at your temple, managing to sit up. Thankfully, the hangover was just a headache at this point. If you could get downstairs and to the pain meds and water quickly, you could stave off the nausea and heartburn that would follow. You roll out of bed, pulling on a pair of sweatpants and head into the kitchen.
The scent of coffee hits you halfway down. You frown, desperately trying to remember if you had plans with your mom—not that she’d be over this early. You pause in the doorway to your kitchen, blinking slowly at the sight before you.
Rhett Abbott is standing in front of your kitchen sink, his back to you as he looks out the window. Shirtless, barefoot, jeans low on his hips and hair ruffled, one hand on the counter, the other holding a mug. There are scratch marks running down his back, a deep dark bruise wrapping around his side, and a fading greenish yellow bruise on the back of his shoulder.
“I’ll be damned.” The words are out of your mouth before you can stop them.
He turns, sleepy gaze landing on you. Wordlessly, he puts his mug down and pours coffee for you as well. It takes three steps for him to cross the kitchen, stepping into your space. Your fingertips brush against his when he offers the steaming coffee to you. “Morning.”
His voice brushed on all your still sensitive nerve endings, and your toes curl against the worn wooden floor beneath your feet. He’s still standing in front of you, completely at ease being in your space, stealing your oxygen and making your skin burn without even touching you. “Thanks.”
“You alright?” His head tips slightly, studying you. “Never had someone be so short with me after a night in bed.”
“From what I’ve heard you don’t typically stick around.” The words come out harsher than you intended.
His jaw clenches and he shrugs, “Fair enough.”
“Why’d you stay?”
He takes the mug from your hands, putting it on the counter. Two fingers lift your chin, “Maybe it’s because a pretty girl asked me to.” His thumb traces your lower lip, and you shiver, following it with your tongue. “Thought that would have put a smile on your face.”
“You could have told me you were going to make coffee.” It’s so hard to speak, think, be with him this close to you. “Kind of easy for a girl to assume when she wakes up well fucked and alone.”
“I wanted it to be the second thing that I got my mouth on this mornin’.” His lips brush your ear, his hands moving down your sides to your hips, pulling you flush against you. “You had to go ruin my plans by puttin’ those sweats on.” One hand slides between you, cupping you through the sweats. Through the flimsy fabric you can feel the heat of his hand as he presses up, rubbing slowly. “Wanted to wake you up with my mouth on that sweet cunt.”
Whatever irritation you may have felt when you woke up melted away with those words. Your knees feel weak, and you clutch at his shoulders. You whimper, rocking against his hand which continues to press and rub against you. “That would have been one hell of a way to wake up.”
“Mmhm.” He rumbles against your neck, sucking at hickies he had left hours before. “Hop up on that counter girl, I’m hungry.”
