#oc Archie | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

delopsia · 6 months ago

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stalling | Rhett Abbott x Reader

Word Count: 3,200 Cross Posted on AO3 Warnings & Notes: 18+, AFAB!Reader, cunnilingus, hand jobs, a men's masturbation sleeve, PBR! Rhett, implied marriage. (But also, Rhett Abbott being needy.) Exhibitionism, if you wanna be technical about it. Brief Summary: You're going to be in so much trouble if someone walks in and finds out that the PBR's best cowboy is eating you out in a bathroom stall.

It's the obnoxious squelch of his drooling tongue gliding over your clit that's going to give him away.

Wet little noises punctuate his every movement. So sharp that they bounce off the walls, running round and round the room and in your ears until it's all you can hear. Has your shivering fingers pulling harder on his hair, yanking him away just enough for one of those deep groans to escape, and oh god, it's only making things worse.

The last thing you need to do is give someone a reason to open the bathroom door. Walk in and catch sight of Rhett's knees against the concrete floor, between another pair of legs. Unzipped jeans pooling around his ass, one-of-a-kind rodeo buckle glinting in the light, right next to where his neglected cock rests in his lap, so heavy that it can no longer stand upright.

Cheers roar outside. A buzzer sounds, chased by the muffled shout of an announcer you've already forgotten the name of—another eight-second ride. But it's not going to be enough to steal the number one slot. No, not with that shiny new record, not even thirty minutes old yet.

"Thank you," he's panting, hardly able to draw himself back to speak, as if doing so will cause his whole world to crumble. "Thank you for letting me eat your pussy."

His tongue is so hot. A wet flame that presses into you, lazily working in and out, the tip of his nose bumping against your clit, barely there touches that have your hips jolting. But as quickly as his tongue appeared, it's drifting away entirely. Bold enough to test the waters but too impatient to commit, already venturing up, up, up, back to the swollen little bud that he can't stop tormenting.

You're going to be in so much trouble if someone walks in and finds out that the PBR's best cowboy is eating you out in a bathroom stall.

"Y' taste so good," speaking directly into you, his voice rumbling up your belly and into your chest, jostling the cluster of butterflies that have been resting there.

The heels of your palms press into his forehead, but it's not doing anything. You can't escape the frenzied twitch of his tongue, rolling back and forth, a feather-light contact that ought to send you through the roof.

"Rhett, you're gonna..." The sound of your voice is meeting your ears, but you can't feel your mouth moving. "Oh fuck—Rhett, you're gonna get us caught." And there's more that you want to say, but you're being cut short by your own drawn-out squeal, fingers knotting in those deep brown locks.

Your heart hammers against your chest with all the strength and fury of those bulls he rides. Thighs shivering, nerves set alight as his lips wrap around your clit, sucking so harshly that the noise echoes all around the room.

"'s my reward, ain't it?" He sounds almost innocent. As if his devilish tongue isn't hanging out of his mouth, the definition of sin itself. "They can't object to that."

You'd like to argue that they can, but fuck, those loose little circles are about to put you on the goddamn floor. Hips writhing, held in place by the big hands squeezing the fat of your ass, forcing you to remain upright until he's had his fill of you.

"Rhett—"

Hinges squeal as the bathroom door swings open.

Sparkling blue eyes dart up to your face, and you can't see it, but you can feel the grin working its way across his face. Boots thump across the floor, then fall silent. The sharp sound of a zipper sliding down kisses your ears. Whoever it is, they're only here for the urinal.

But Rhett Abbott doesn't care what they're here to do. Opening his mouth to lick a long, fat stripe up your pussy, so content with himself that his eyes close midway. And there's not a damn thing that you can do about it. Hands flying up to clamp over your mouth, stifling a whimper that would surely give you away.

That big, dumb idiot is pointing his tongue now. The soft tip of it delicately dancing across you, like too much pressure will cause the walls of this bathroom to come crumbling down. Diligently rolling your clit around like you're a piece of candy that he can just idly toy with. A cry squeaks out of you, hardly masked by the loud flush of the toilet.

There's no reason that this should be causing heat to pool in your lower belly, but it is. Winding tighter and tighter, a taut string pulled to its breaking point. So close to snapping that every step this stranger takes is too slow. Thunking closer and closer to the door, until finally...

It screeches open. Then, begins to close once more.

You've never been so thankful for someone not washing their hands. Already reaching down to tangle your fingers in Rhett's hair and yanking. Forcing that sinful mouth of his away from your sex before—

"No, no, no," Rhett's babbling, whining, like his life depends on it. "Please, I want y' to cum on my tongue. Please, please, I want, I want..."

You can't even begin to argue with him. Because he's already wriggling himself loose, and his dripping tongue is back on you, and his stubble is scratching against you in the most mind-numbing fashion, and your whole world goes silent.

Nothing but a faint ringing in your ears as your thighs clamp down around his skull, cumming without the slightest bit of warning. Head tilting back, thunking against the wall. A wildfire rushing across your skin in the form of a shiver. And Rhett just can't help himself, humming, licking you through it until the involuntary spasm of your pussy devolves into oversensitive, full-body jolts.

"You..." sucking in a gasp, "have a problem."

Understatement of the century. If you didn't know any better, you'd think he was being paid.

Rhett leans back onto his haunches, scruffy, unshaven chin glistening in the light. Dripping, even. "But I'm your problem." You don't know who taught him that, but they're going to get an earful when you catch them.

"That you are," weak, you pull on his hair, hardly enough to even sway his head. "Come up here, dummy."

There's hardly a bit of strength left in your body, and yet, somehow, your little motion is enough to get him moving, knees creaking and all, as he rises to his feet. Wet nose bumping into your cheek, nuzzling you in some odd, dog-like fashion that has you succumbing to the urge to slide your hand down and scratch him behind the ear.

Eyelashes flutter. Pushing back into your hand. "You pettin' me?"

"You gonna do something about it if I am?" Taunting, beneath your breath.

His eyes roll, but he doesn't need to open his mouth for you to know what his answer is. Not when he's smiling like that, a lopsided grin and half-lidded eyes. So laid back and content that he hardly seems to realize that both of your hands are making their way down to his waist, grabbing hold of it and forcing him to spin around.

Boots chirp against the floor. And you're reaching toward your purse with one hand, blindly feeling against the stall door until you can find where it's hanging. The other arm slips around his belly, cinching him to you. His back knocks into your chest, so close that his hair tickles your cheek.

"Y' ain't gotta..." he starts, but whatever he's trying to tell you dies in his throat. Shut up by the clear object you're drawing out of your bag. The new stroker sleeve you've been saying you'll try out but have never had the patience to dig it out of the drawer. Inconspicuous at first glance, just a rubber cylinder, textured with little nubs on the inside.

"Can you do something for me?" Ghosting your lips over the shell of his ear.

It's impossible to miss the shiver that rattles down his spine. "Uhuh." Nodding dumbly.

"Touch yourself." Comes out as more of an order than a request, but that doesn't matter because Rhett's already reaching for himself. Big hand wrapping around his neglected cock, sucking in an audible breath from that alone.

You can't dig the lube out fast enough, popping open the cap and blindly pouring it into the toy. So half-assed that some of it winds up spilling out the side, running over your fingers and dripping to the floor. But you don't care; a mess is worth the sight of Rhett stroking himself, twisting his wrist just how he likes it, hips greedily leaning up into his own touch.

Lazy, you drizzle some of the lube right onto his hand, uncaring of the mess you're making. Almost entranced as he spreads it over himself, shimmering in the dull bathroom light.

But then he's reaching out, sticky hand impatiently curling around yours, trying to guide the toy toward himself. "I want..." his head shakes, searching for words. "Want..."

If this were any other day, you like to imagine you'd play dumb. Force him to put into words exactly what he wants and how. But the rodeo crowd and the booming voice of the announcer are still out there, anticipating his celebratory return, and that new, sparkling record ought to warrant him a reward.

He knows that he's getting what he wants, too. Hand sliding back to his base, holding himself still as you lower that dripping toy onto him.

His head tilts backward with a gasp, falling onto your shoulder.

All that and you've hardly slid the thing past his flushed tip, almost have to squeeze him to you in order to keep him still, working down him inch by devastating inch.

"Oh my god," a little waver in his voice, hips involuntarily jerking up into the sleeve. Those knees buckle, knocking into each other. "Fuck."

A giggle rumbles out of him, and you don't need to look in the mirror to know that his cheeks have turned a nice shade of strawberry, set off by the sound of his own voice. One of these days, you'll get him to believe that he sounds pretty like this, but right now, you've got a different agenda on your plate.

"Tell me how it feels," you whisper, slowly drawing that toy back up, squeezing your fist past his cock head, then beginning to draw down again.

"Feels..." but he's forgotten how to talk, mouth floundering without a sound. "'s tight...and—mmh!"

Maybe it's your fault for twisting back up so quickly, but you just can't help it. Not when his ass is squirming back into you, unsure if he wants to push into the toy or wriggle away, mouth hardly muffling that long, drawn-out groan. Even through the thick silicone, you can feel the way he twitches, jerking in your hand like a live wire.

So, so sensitive after a couple days of no fun.

Your hand is already quickening. Too eager to hear those breathy little oh, oh, oh's, set off by the flick of your wrist when you pass over his head. Thighs squeeze together, one of his hands flying out to brace himself against the mirror. The one that you can't quit looking at. Downright obsessed with the sight of this clear silicone hugging tight around his cock. The way precum is already spilling out of him and dripping onto the floor below.

"Feels—feels good," tripping over his own words, voice so high that you hardly recognize it. "Fuck."

And just like that, your hand stops. Squeezing firm at his base as he involuntarily jolts forward.

A whine echoes through the bathroom. Pitchy. Frustrated. "Why...why did you..." He tilts his head to meet your eye. "You stopped." Speaking dumbly.

"I know." Grinning. Your hand loosens just enough for him to move again. "Try and fuck it by yourself."

Almost automatically, he tries to jerk forward. Boots stumbling across the floor, forearm flying up to catch himself as his upper body falls forward. Forehead against the mirror, dark blue eyes locked on the sight of that sleeve wrapped around his cock.

Weak, his hips begin to move.

Hissing as he draws back, almost hesitant to move, like he's afraid to slip out of the toy entirely. And it's...fuck that's a sight you haven't seen before. The obscenity of Rhett fucking a cock sleeve, how his balls sway with the motion of his body, perfect for you to reach down and grab. Heavy in your palm, so full that you worry what may happen if you do anything more than run your thumb up and down them.

"This ain't—I can't," Rhett croaks, tongue darting out to wet his lips. "This is hard."

The hand around his dick tightens, sends him jumping. "You can do it."

And he just can't help himself. Feet shifting the slightest bit, trying again. Quicker this time, the lube squelching so loudly that it bounces off the wall. His mouth falls open, fogging up the mirror, panting like a dog on a summer day. Soft noises tumbling out of him, unable to stop a single one of them.

"There you go," you murmur directly into his ear. "That's a good boy."

Pearly white teeth sink into his bottom lip. Eyes squeezing shut.

He's trying.

He's trying so, so hard. But he just can't move quickly enough. Trapped in the crevices of this awkward position, fucking himself into your hand, arms braced over his head, legs too close together. So frustrating that you can hear it in his little grunts, bubbling out of him with every thrust.

"Please," he rasps, head thunking against the mirror. "Please, please, please."

You've got a feeling you know what he's after. "What do you want?"

"I wanna cum!" He's blurting before you've even finished talking. "Please—please let me cum."

The buzz of yet another eight-second ride sounds. Loud. Booming through the walls and into this little bathroom. But it's not enough to cover up Rhett's sob as your hand begins to move once more. Pumping him in tandem with his frantic hips. Drinking in those airy cries rolling off his tongue, hanging halfway out of his mouth.

"This what you were wanting?" Coy, your teeth find the lobe of his ear, tugging gently.

"Mhm," is all you're getting out of him. And he's reaching down between his own legs, dragging your hand out from where it's still toying with his balls and squeezing it tight. Needs something to cling to. Anything that isn't this cold mirror in front of him.

Those darkened eyes peel open, locking with yours through the reflection, and his mouth is shaping around what you think is your name, but not a syllable is escaping. Almost immediately, they flicker shut once more. Your wrist flicks once.

Rhett cums with a strangled moan. Body jerking against yours. Feet stumbling. And your hand is moving so fast that the toy catches that first rope of cum before it can splatter on the mirror, then the second. Smearing it across his spasming cock, creates a dizzying mess with the lube, so much of it that he's dripping, little spots of it scattering on the floor and the toe of his left boot.

"Fuck," his breath fogs the glass. "That was...oh."

Your hand freezes halfway down his length. Almost forgot it was moving to begin with.

"No, no, no," lazily tilting his head to peer over his shoulder, "keep goin' for a second."

And so you do.

Slow as you can possibly manage, dragging the mess of a toy up and down his cock. He's sensitive. You know he is because he's shifting his weight onto the tips of his toes, fist tightening until his knuckles whiten, but there's a shiver visibly running up his spine. Cum spills out of his swollen tip. Hardly enough to count, but it's something.

"'s good," Rhett murmurs after a moment. You've hardly got to do anything; he's already pulling away on his own, drawing that softening cock of his out of the toy altogether. Falls limp against his thigh, that sickly mixture of cum and lube already beginning to stain his jeans.

It's a mess that'll have to be dealt with in the privacy of your hotel room because he's already tucking himself away. Pulling up his zipper and fastening that gaudy championship buckle. One of a kind.

A selfish part of you hopes that tonight's buckle is a little easier on the eyes.

One of his knees buckles as he turns, a big hand flying out to catch himself against the wall. "Shit," he's giggling, peering at you through the hair that's fallen into his face, "y' got me all weak in the knees, doll."

"Don't tell me you need to be carried," you're saying as if you're not intrigued by the idea of giving it a shot.

"Nah," shaking his head, smile so big that his teeth glint in the overhead light. "Might need a few kisses to get me through the night, though."

Eyeroll. Your free hand darts out, grabbing hold of his shirt collar and hauling him in, meeting those pale, swollen lips for a sloppy smooch. The first one lands awkwardly on the corner of his mouth, both of you leaning in the wrong damn direction. But then Rhett's tilting his head, nose bumping into yours, and he's meeting you properly. One little chaste kiss after another.

A muffled voice creeps through the walls. Distorted, but you can still hear those two little words all the same.

"They're calling for you, Abbott," speaking against his lips, making no real effort to pull away. It'll be a few hours before you get to steal this many kisses again.

He hums. "Which one?" Kiss. "There's two of us standin' here." Kiss.

Weak, your hand thunks against his chest. "The dumb one who climbs on dangerous animals for fun."

"That's both of us, sweetheart," he had to have been storing that. There's no way he could have come up with that so quickly on his own, grinning like a cat that's gotten the cream.

"You're not a wild animal," adjusting the hem of your shorts, blindly feeling about to make sure that they've fallen back into place.

Nobody will know what you've been up to, so long as they don't see the bite mark on your inner thigh.

"I can be," Rhett winks.

That's an argument that you'll have to settle in the hotel room. Before you can even say another word, he's darting for the door, sliding open the latch, a melody of laughter trailing behind.

"Hurry!" He's barricading himself up against the entryway. Feet dug into the ground, hair sticking up every which way. "Before Archie comes lookin' and figures out 'm not actually sick."

You can't get to the sink quickly enough.

And if anyone notices that Rhett is a little looser than usual when he climbs that stage to accept his award, nobody says a word. Too focused on the hoopla of a brand new record, the glimmer of a brand new belt buckle, tacky as all hell and a lifetime worse than the one that sits sideways against his belly.

...but they might notice when he turns his head and flashes a ruby red bruise lurking just below his ear.

Sure wonder where that came from.

#rhett abbott x reader #afab reader #oneshot #rhett abbott #outer range #but also ->#oc: archie morton #though his existence is only implied

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kaitaiga · 3 months ago

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Archie “Frost” Campbell Profile

》[Open Profile] Disclaimer: as I’m still working through the lore of Task Force Dagger, Archie’s biography is still quite bare. Everything else is finished :)

General

Name: Archibald (Archie) Charles Campbell

Callsign: Frost, Dagger-01 (TFD)

Age: 29

Birthday: 16th November, 1995 - Newcastle, NSW, Australia.

Face Claim: Callum Turner (Specifically - ‘Bucky’ from MOTA’)

Occupation: Fast Jet Pilot (F-35A Lightning II)

Affiliation: Royal Australian Air Force (RAAF - 75th SQN)

Rank: Flight Lieutenant (FLTLT)

Height: 183cm (6ft)

Education: Bachelor’s Degree in Aviation

Languages: English, Spanish, German

Appearance

Hair: Dark brown, wavy hair. Short back and sides.

Eye Colour: Grey

Facial Hair: Pencil moustache

Marks: None

Tattoos: None

Family

Unnamed Mother and Father

Grandfather (Former RAAF 460 SQN)

Pet: Vader (Black cat with white markings on face)

Affiliates

Task Force Dagger

Captain Lachlan Jones (2CDO)

Sergeant Damien Whitlock (2CDO)

Sergeant Daniel Greenhill (2CDO)

Sergeant Joseph “Joey” Hernandez (CCT)

Talullah Jones (ASIS)

Personality

Myers-Briggs Type: ISTJ (Logistician)

Honest and Direct: Archie is a straightforward, no-bullshit kind of person. Will tell his peers how it is without holding back.

Observer: Not one to talk much unless needed, Archie prefers to observe and analyse his peers or situation.

Archie is a level-headed person. He is calm and is able to keep his cool under difficult situations.

Archie doesn’t let his emotions drive his thought process. He is a logical person who bases his thoughts and opinions based on research and experience, and can become stubborn when he doesn’t particularly agree with something.

Skills

As a fighter pilot, Archie has inherited a range of skills apart from simply flying a fighter jet. There include:

Mental Skills: quick and accurate decisions, situational awareness.

Technical Skills: navigation, avionics, flight system and weapon proficiency.

Social Skills: effective communication, cooperation and working as a team, leadership.

Air Combat Manoeuvring (ACM), Fighter tactics and manoeuvres, etc.

Mission Planning

Maths and Physics, as well as creativity in situations.

Survival, Evasion, Resistance and Escape (SERE)

Archie also likes to partake in electrical work, commonly seen tinkering with devices and studying mechanical/electrical engineering concepts in his spare time.

Behind the Callsign

At a glance, “Frost” derives from his frosty attitude towards his peers around him. Being one to keep to himself majority of the time and only speaking when necessary, his attitude was often perceived as cold to others, even when he didn't mean it.

Though if you were to ask his squadron and ground crew, they’d tell you that they call him “Frost” due to his impressive flying skills, often leaving onlookers and other pilots frozen in awe. Almost like an advantage over opponents.

Biography

Archie was born in Newcastle, New South Wales, Australia on the 16th of November, 1995. Growing up, Archie would listen to his grandfather’s stories of being a pilot on an Avro Lancaster throughout the majority of WW2. Though a little incoherent at times, Archie still enjoyed them regardless as they shaped his childhood and future to come.

Throughout high school, Archie would spend a lot of time volunteering at an aviation museum alongside his grandfather as a technician assistant, working on maintaining planes on display whilst rambling bits of information of various planes to visitors. Archie would also frequent RAAF base Williamtown, where he would stand just outside the base and watch Super Hornets scream over his head. He wasn’t the type to stand out among his classmates, much preferring to stick his head in a book and soak up as much information as he could on various aviation and engineering topics. He graduated with a top ATAR score of 97.

Thanks to his constant exposure to the Air Force along with his grandfather’s stories, Archie knew he wanted to become a fighter pilot from an early age. In his later years of high school and after, he worked diligently preparing for multiple officer and screening boards during his application process. He managed to score one of five spots out of hundreds of applicants.

Archie then attended the Australian Defence Force Academy (ADFA), where he pursued a Bachelor’s degree in Aviation. He would be a maths tutor to a few of his peers in his spare time, but most commonly Joseph, his newly made friend who he bonded with over their love for Star Wars.

Upon graduating ADFA, Archie was sent to Perth to begin his initial specialist employment pilot training (ISET), where he spent a year flying the PC-21. He graduated from Number 2 Flying Training School and was recommended by his instructors to pilot the newly introduced and mighty F-35A.

Now part of 75th Squadron, Archie is posted to RAAF base Tindal in the Northern Territory to continue his training, also managing to deploy overseas to various locations such as the US and Japan.

At some point, Archie was approached and recruited into Task Force Dagger on recommendation from Joseph. Working with TFD would show him his first set of real combat outside of simulations and practice exercises. To be continued…

*(Archie would have been 26 years old when the F-35A was first introduced into the 75th SQN, a few years after he graduated ISET (22-23 years old). For story purposes, assume the F-35 arrived earlier.)

Trivia/Preferences

His favourite music band is Daft Punk. His favourite song from them is ‘Face to Face’. Also likes Coldplay, Kenny Loggins, Phil Collins, Foo Fighters, Linkin Park, etc.

In his spare time, he also likes to build lego sets and model jets. He’s also a gamer, preferring to play games like League of Legends, Cyberpunk 2077, Helldivers 2, etc.

He likes to wear Rayban Aviators in the colourway black/black or gold/green.

He is a big fan of Star Wars. His favourite movie is ‘A New Hope’ and he also really enjoys ‘Star Wars: The Clone Wars’. His favourite characters are Wedge Antilles and Commander Wolffe.

He likes to spoil Vader rotten! Buys him all kinds of toys. Even has a Death Star cat house. He has a really big soft spot for Vader which Joseph likes to tease him about, quote: “he is the only one to knock down that icy wall he’s built around himself.”

When Archie chose his aircraft preference, he originally chose the F/A-18F Super Hornet.

If he didn’t become a pilot, he’d become a mechanical engineer.

After his grandfather passed, Archie carries his ID tags with him as a source of comfort and support.

Archie was inspired by the character ‘Viper’ from Titanfall 2 and the song “Dodge This”.

#woohooo finally!!#I was gonna post him and Joey together but nah #he’s just a guy #archie campbell #task force dagger #my oc #my art #military oc #pilot oc

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