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baenakinskywalker · 1 day ago

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hungry like the wolf

chapter four: in touch with the ground

Taggie O’Hara’s second night in Rupert’s bed goes like this: Once they’re actually in the room, she notices a large wicker dog bed at one end that wasn’t there before. Gertrude claims it immediately, sprawling out right in the middle and leaving poor Beaver to perch on the edge like a tightrope walker. “I feel like I should apologize for her already taking over,” Taggie says. “Don’t worry about it.” Rupert gives her a grin. “I bet he prefers it this way.” Then, it’s a blur of lips and skin and tongues — Taggie isn’t sure which one of them moves first, but she supposes it doesn’t really matter at this point. He wants her. In his life, in his home, and in his bedroom. God, she has to call Caitlin tomorrow. That thought is quickly replaced by Rupert dragging her to the bed, pressing her into the mattress, and popping open the button on her jeans. “This okay, angel?” he asks, tugging them down to her knees.

rating: E

words: 5,119

a/n: back again! shoutout to @berd-nerd, @popjunkie42, @early-twentysomething and the @rutagdiscord for the encouragement and suggestions as always. hope you enjoy!

read under the cut or on ao3!

Taggie O’Hara’s second night in Rupert’s bed goes like this:

Once they’re actually in the room, she notices a large wicker dog bed at one end that wasn’t there before. Gertrude claims it immediately, sprawling out right in the middle and leaving poor Beaver to perch on the edge like a tightrope walker. “I feel like I should apologize for her already taking over,” Taggie says.

“Don’t worry about it.” Rupert gives her a grin. “I bet he prefers it this way.”

Then, it’s a blur of lips and skin and tongues — Taggie isn’t sure which one of them moves first, but she supposes it doesn’t really matter at this point. He wants her. In his life, in his home, and in his bedroom. God, she has to call Caitlin tomorrow. That thought is quickly replaced by Rupert dragging her to the bed, pressing her into the mattress, and popping open the button on her jeans.

“This okay, angel?” he asks, tugging them down to her knees.

She shivers. “Yes.” Then she shimmies the rest of the way out of them, one sock getting lost in the denim along the way. Rupert’s warm hand wraps around her bare ankle. He kisses his way up the other leg, each press of his lips on her skin a jolt of electricity, a drip of melted wax. At the apex of her thighs, he pulls the flimsy cotton covering her cunt to the side and looks.

“Prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen,” Rupert says, and she preens — even thinking in the back of her mind that there’s no way. A man who’s had as many women as Rupert Campbell-Black? But he’s staring so earnestly, tongue peeking through his lips like he’s concentrating, trying to commit her to memory. Maybe it is.

Taggie tries to squeeze her thighs together to get a little relief, but Rupert’s hands push her knees open further. “I didn’t get to do this last night,” he says through a frown. “I’m a little impressed I managed to wait the whole day to take my first taste.” His eyes hold hers even as he dips his dead down.

And then his mouth is on her, tongue swirling across her clit, dipping down to lap at her entrance and — God, she’s almost too wet. She looks down, sees the shine of her slick on his cheek when he sucks a mark into her inner thigh. “Fuck, Rupert, that’s — ”

He slides his middle finger in, and she’s cut off by a moan that tears through her throat like a wild animal. Rupert looks up at her with dark, heavy eyes, and she fists a hand in his hair, taking careful note of the way that he groans against her cunt. “I want to fucking bottle you up,” he says, adding his ring finger and curling them both up in a way that has her knees shaking. He notices — of course, he notices — and does it again and again, that goddamned come hither motion that neither Ralphie nor Seb completely mastered.

“I’m…I’m,” Taggie whimpers, “‘m c-c—close.” It’s never this fast, never this easy for her to come. Not even by herself, fingers working furiously between her legs, thinking about kissing Rupert in the Priory. There’s always too much on her mind, from Mummy and Daddy’s latest tiff to making sure the groceries are stocked and the bills are paid. But now, Rupert’s lips wrapped around her clit and his fingers two knuckles deep in her, everything else fades.

“Darling, please,” Rupert begs. She sees the animal glint in his eye, and then his free hand is snaking under her jumper, working under her bra, and he’s pinching at her nipple. “Please, Tag, I want — I need to taste it.”

She’s all sensation, body burning white-hot under his hands, his mouth. With each thrust of his fingers, every press of his tongue, she barrels closer and closer to everything shattering. And then it does, Taggie’s vision going white and her whole body shuddering. Rupert groans again, lapping it all up, practically drinking her as she writhes and cries.

He finally pulls his fingers out, making sure to grind the heel of his hand against her clit. “Oh, God, too much — too much,” Taggie breathes, turning her head against the pillow. He grins, then brings his fingers to his mouth and sucks them clean. Her face heats.

“Good girl,” Rupert says when he finally joins her lying in bed. “I could do that all day.”

Taggie reaches for his belt, noting the thick outline of his cock and wondering what it would feel like in the palm of her hand. But Rupert’s hand circles her wrist.

“I’m afraid I wouldn’t make a very good showing at the moment.”

“Oh.” Taggie’s cheeks go a deeper shade of red. “Just from that?” she asks.

He nods, threading their fingers together. “Besides, when I finally take you, I intend to take my time. To do it right.”

“And you don’t have time now because…?”

“Impatient little thing.” He flicks her nose. “Venturer business bright and early. I’m hopping on a conference call with Freddie and a colleague of his in Bombay at noon, but I need to prepare. Plus, a few pieces of MP business – crown and country never wait.” She juts out her lower lip, and Rupert captures it in a kiss. God she could get used to this — kissing just because. “But you can wait, can’t you, darling?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Taggie says. “‘Course I can.” Nevermind the fact that she’s already been waiting for him since New Year’s Eve. The thought strikes her that sleeping with Rupert is not the reason she’s here, and she half-expects him to chide her for it, talk down on her like Mummy would when she misplaced her school bag growing up. But he doesn’t — just presses another kiss to her lips, then her forehead.

When they’re both ready for bed, lying under the covers, Taggie wiggles against Rupert’s front under the guise of getting comfortable, all in the name of fun. He pins her hips to his and whispers dirty things in her ear that nearly have her turning around and taking him for herself until he ends with a simple “Goodnight, darling.” It melts her heart.

Taggie falls asleep easily, exhausted and feeling more content than she can ever remember. Until she wakes in Rupert’s arms to a pounding at the door and Mr. Bodkin’s voice announcing that Declan O’Hara is waiting in the study.

—

Taggie’s trying not to eavesdrop — can’t, really, through the thick mahogany door to Rupert’s study. She stands there anyway, telling herself she’s there to shoo off the dogs, to keep them from causing a fuss and distracting from Venturer business on the other side of the wall. But the dogs are scattered across the estate, some sleeping on antique Persian rugs, a few running through the grounds. Gertrude, for her part, stands guard in the kitchen to ensure that anything Mrs. Bodkin drops while prepping for Taggie’s test appetizers (smoked salmon mousse and a salade niçoise) is promptly licked off the floor.

Taggie can pick out a few words: bed, promise, bastard.

So it’s not Venturer business, after all.

The door slams open, and she nearly jumps in the air. Daddy storms out, face steaming and fists clenched at his sides. Let him go, she thinks. Just let him stew and be mad back at the Priory.

“Can I get you some tea, Daddy?” So much for that.

He whirls around, somehow shocked to find her in Penscombe after all. “Tag.” His face softens. “Sorry, didn’t see you there. A cuppa would be great.”

She leads him through the halls, the portraits on the walls looking down on the pair of them. An Irishman and his daughter in Penscombe? Taggie wonders what they’d say to her now if only they could talk. With the way Daddy’s heavy steps echo, the way his breathing is slow to even out, it’s best not dwell on anything that could make her feel worse.

Taggie feels his eyes on her back as she navigates to the kitchen with ease. It’s a large estate, yes, and she’s only been here two days. But she moves through the rooms like she belongs here: the Lady of Penscombe in dungarees and clogs. What a painting that would make.

In the kitchen, Mrs. Bodkin takes one look at the pair of O’Haras and leaves, nodding at Taggie on her way into the hall. Gertrude follows. The counters have been cleaned after all of the different ingredients for this afternoon have been prepped. In the fridge, she spies the smoked salmon, the chopped olives and anchovies for the salad, and whole, peeled hard-boiled eggs. It’s a wonder to see everything there, to not have to lug bags of groceries in from the car and wash produce or portion out meat. All of it’s already taken care of.

After she fetches the milk and has the kettle going, Taggie turns back to Daddy, sitting at the little breakfast table with a scowl on his face. “What did you come to talk to Rupert about?”

He shakes his head, unusually quiet.

“Was it for the franchise?” Taggie asks. She already knows the answer, but like the water in the kettle, this whole situation is nearing its boiling point.

“No. It was personal.”

The kettle whistles with a loud shrill, and Taggie pours the steaming water into two teacups, then adds black tea bags to both. She delivers them on white saucers to the table, then goes back for the milk, a bowl of sugar cubes, and two spoons.

The tea steeps, and they sit in silence.

Finally, Daddy says, “I don’t fucking trust him with you.”

Taggie’s heart cracks in two. She takes a sip — still too hot, the tea burning the tip of her tongue. “But you trust him with your franchise bid?” The words come out cool, measured. Like she’s not talking to her father but a perfect stranger.

“Tag,” Daddy starts, then closes his mouth. He takes a drink, the heat making him wince. “That’s different,” is what he finally settles on.

Different. It’s always different for her. Patrick, the golden boy, can pine after Cameron Cook, kiss her at his bloody birthday party, and it’s fine. Caitlin gets to go to boarding school and get up to God knows what with no parental oversight. And Mummy — for Christ’s sake. She wanted to take Rupert to bed first, and Daddy wasn’t this upset. But for Taggie, slow, dim-witted, hiding in the kitchen, never wanting anything for herself before, it’s different.

Because she’s different.

The years of playing second fiddle to Patrick, the way she’s kept Daddy afloat every time he’s nearly drowned, all of it bubbles up. Her skin feels too tight. Her body, too big for her clothes. It’s like Taggie is watching herself sit at the table and melt into an entirely new person. Her tongue goes sharp. “So he’s great when you need his money, or his support, but not when he makes it clear that he wants me? Is that what you’re saying?”

Daddy’s eyes go wide. “You’re my daughter.”

“Exactly. Not your…p-property!” Taggie stands, knees knocking into the table on the way up. She paces, winding up behind the island, gripping the edge of the counter with white knuckles.

“He’s going to ruin you!” Daddy’s hand slams down on the table, and the teacups wobble.

Before she can think, before she can make herself stop, Taggie fires back. “Like you ruined Mummy?” It’s unlike her to defend Mummy, to give her any grace at all, but what she said before Venturer got the green light for the bid has been rattling around in Taggie’s brain since. Why in fuck’s name did I do that? Why in fuck’s name am I going to let someone else run my life?

Daddy’s face goes white. “Your ma and I aren’t your fucking business.”

“I think you are,” she shoots back, pulse thundering in her wrists.

“Our relationship has nothing to do with you.” He’s the kind of angry she only sees from him on TV.

“It does,” Taggie presses. Her vision moves in stop-motion, everything slow and choppy. “It does, because I’m the one you begged to get Mummy to stay when she left. And I’m the one who’s been holding you together now that she hasn’t come back.”

Daddy stares. Doesn’t say anything, just stares with eyes so angry, you’d think she was Margaret Thatcher. Without another word, he leaves the kitchen, and all Taggie hears is his thundering steps and the slam of the front door.

Gertrude pads back into the kitchen, but Taggie doesn’t register it. Her eyes are still trained on the spot where Daddy stood thirty seconds ago, like she can bring him back if she just concentrates hard enough. When it’s a minute, two minutes later, and he’s still gone, the enormity of what just happens knocks into her gut like a car around a blind corner.

Taggie crumbles. First, her eyes water, then tears dribble down her cheeks and turn into rivers, and she’s full-on sobbing before she can catch her breath. Her whole body shakes, but her fists keep her anchored to the counter even as her shoulders slump and her face scrunches, ruddy and wet and full of snot. Taggie hasn’t cried like this since Mummy and Malhar — the first time.

A pair of arms come around her, and she’s pulled into a warm, solid chest. Gradually, her hands go limp at her sides, and Taggie allows herself to be turned and collected in a hug. Rupert’s hand strokes her hair as he whispers in her ear. “There, there. Let it out, darling.”

So she does.

Taggie cries like she did when she was four and fell out of a tree in Dublin, ankle twisting and knee splitting open on impact with the ground. Patrick ran to fetch Mummy from inside their apartment, and when she came outside and saw Taggie on the ground clutching at her foot, blood soaking her sundress, she shouted, asking why she’d been so bloody stupid, before loading her into the car to go to A&E for stitches. It was only when Daddy came home from work that anyone thought to comfort her — he pulled her into his arms and rubbed her back while the tears reappeared and she cried herself hoarse. He told her he was sorry he wasn’t there for her, and that she had been so brave.

Sobbing now feels like she’s taken a ride in a time machine, like the scar has been ripped open.

When her eyes are puffy and sinuses aching, Taggie pulls back. Sees the wet spot on Rupert’s button down and nearly runs. But his arms still cage her like a frightened puppy.

“Are you okay?”

She wipes at her eyes, residual tears clouding her vision. “I think so. God, sorry.” After a steadying breath, she braves a question. “What did he say to you?”

“Based on what I heard from the hall, you got the gist. The specifics…aren’t that important” He’s protecting her — it must have been truly awful. So maybe he deserved what Taggie said. But she thinks about all the times he was there for her when Mummy wasn’t. Then the times neither of them were. Her forehead creases.

She hates him. She loves him. She’s his daughter, despite it all. “I was awful to him.” Taggie sniffles. “And cruel. God, now he might not even come on Sunday.”

Rupert squeezes her arm. “He loves you, angel. He’ll be there.”

Maybe it’s the wounded daughter in her that makes Taggie ask it. Maybe it’s the curiosity about Rupert’s family — the way that they’ve never spoken about it. “Would you? If it were Tabitha, and she were in my situation?”

Something unreadable flashes across Rupert’s face. His whole body tenses, and he drops the cage around Taggie’s body. “Yes,” he answers. “Yes, of course I would.”

A knot starts tying itself in her gut, whispering in her ear to keep going, keep pressing. “Do you miss them? Your kids?”

Rupert swallows. “Yes.” He meanders around the kitchen like he’s tracking a ghost, tracing the steps his children used to take. “But Helen has them most of the time, so that’s that.”

Taggie nods. “Of course.” She imagines a world where Mummy left years ago, back when she probably should have — a world where she and Caitlin and Patrick only had weekends and a few holidays with Daddy. It must be hard for everyone. “You know, I talked to her once.”

“What?” Rupert freezes across the island from her.

“When Daddy had you on the show. I-I wanted to see if she could convince you not to do it.” She cringes, feeling the weight of the overstep finally sink onto her shoulders. “It didn’t work. Obviously.”

His brow creases. “I could have saved you the trouble if you’d checked with me first. Helen and I aren’t on the best of terms, and that’s putting it…nicely.”

“She said that you saw her as something you’d enjoy breaking.”

Silence stretches between them. Then, “I suppose I did.”

Maybe this whole conversation was a mistake. How to save it — how to make it better? Taggie tries a light laugh. “She thought we were sleeping together.” She gives a weak smile. “How silly, right?”

“Not at all, I’m afraid.” Rupert’s eyes fall, and he clears his throat. “Listen, I’ve got to get ready for that call this afternoon.” He turns to leave the kitchen, and just before he’s gone, he adds, “I’m glad that you’re okay, darling.”

—

“You did what?” Caitlin screeches through the phone. “With Rupert?”

Taggie tilts the receiver away from her ear. “God, Caitlin, someone’s going to hear you!”

“Sorry. I just can’t believe you’re at his house. You’re in his bed!” Taggie imagines her sister jumping up and down in her dorm’s common room, phone pressed tight to her ear.

“Don’t get too excited — I might have mucked it all up.” She tells Caitlin everything: how Daddy stormed into Penscombe to yell at Rupert, and their fight after. Taggie reluctantly adds how she brought up Rupert’s children, and the weird way their conversation ended. “And I haven’t seen him come out of his study since. It’s been hours.”

Caitlin hums over the line. “Daddy is such a buzzkill — but don’t worry about him, Tag. You deserve this, and Daddy will come around.”

Taggie narrows her eyes like her sister can see her. “Have you met Daddy?”

“I’m rolling my eyes at you, by the way,” Caitlin says. “Okay, no, he won’t — but when you and Rupert are married, it won’t matter!”

“Caitlin!” Taggie’s head spins. “What are you talking about, m-m—married?”

“Come on.”“You come on!”

“Taggie, be serious. It’s obvious how he feels about you!”

“Obvious to who?” Caitlin huffs. “Well, Daddy, for one, if he marched all the way there to yell at Rupert. I guess I can settle for him as a brother-in-law — but I won’t stop staring, even if he’s your husband.”

“Oh my God,” Taggie groans. “Why did I even call you?” “Because you love me, and you miss me, and you need advice.” Taggie can hear her smile through the phone. “Am I leaving anything out?”

“No, but I’m not sure you’ve given me any advice.” She winds the phone cord around her fingers.

“It’s probably a good thing that you asked about his kids. Especially if you’re going to be their stepmother.” Taggie sighs, and Caitlin adds, “He’ll be fine. Just give him some time to…brood, or whatever it is men do.” Her voice goes quieter. “Besides, talking is good. Mummy and Daddy don’t — didn’t, I mean — talk about…anything, really.”

Taggie nods. “You’re right.”

“I know!” Caitlin says, probably jumping up and down again.

“Okay, enough about me. Have they found more condoms in the flower beds?”

Caitlin launches into everything going on at her boarding school, from sex scandals to vandalism, and Taggie misses her so much she could cry. She lets all thoughts of Rupert and Daddy and the bloody Prime Minister melt away, perfectly content to live in the world of exams and curfews for however long Caitlin has phone time.

“I love you,” Taggie says when it’s clear that Caitlin’s being forced out of the common room for a study hour. “Stay out of trouble, okay?”

“Love you, too, Tag!” Caitlin blows a kiss into the receiver. “And please tell me how big it is when you — ”

Taggie sputters, hoping to God that nobody can hear her sister, or that they have no idea who she’s talking about if they can. “Okay, hanging up now!” She slams the handset down and wills her heart to slow down.

On to perfecting her new dinner roll recipe, then.

—

Thursday morning, Taggie wakes up alone. When she rolls over, Beaver and Gertrude are on the other side of the bed, a mess of fur, tangled limbs, and soft dog snores. On her bedside table, there’s a note in Rupert ’s even handwriting.

Gone into London for work. Back tonight.

Yours, Rupert

It’s strange, being in Penscombe when he’s gone. Stranger, even, because they’ve left things a little tense. The halls feel bigger, the air a little colder — so Taggie bundles up in Rupert’s striped bathrobe and pads downstairs to start a pot of tea and take the dogs out. Mrs. Bodkin beat her to the kitchen, though it’s hardly past 7 AM.

“Morning, Miss O’Hara,” she says, pouring a cup of tea and offering her a fresh scone.

Even stranger than Penscombe without Rupert is being waited on. “Call me Taggie, please.” She’s already told Mrs. Bodkin that there’s no need for formalities, that she’s here to work, too, but the older woman refuses to budge.

“The rest of the staff will be in today,” Mrs. Bodkin says. “That way we’re all ready for Sunday.”

“The rest of the staff? It’s not just you and your husband?” “Heavens, no.” She sips at her own tea in a mug from the Los Angeles Olympics. “You think the two of us can take care of an estate like this?”

Taggie frowns. “I’ve only ever seen the two of you.”

“When it’s just Mr. Campbell-Black, he releases most of the staff. Usually just keeps Mr. Bodkin and myself for necessities.”

“That must mean they lose out on wages,” Taggie says. It’s the kind of Tory move that Daddy would rail against on his show — surely something he uncovered in his research into Rupert’s life.

Mrs. Bodkin shakes her head. “No, no, they’re all paid their salary whether they’re called in for work or not. Mr. Campbell-Black is adamant about it.”

“Oh,” is all Taggie can say in response. She remembers Charles, and the aid for his mother. Has Daddy gotten into her head, convincing her somehow to imagine the worst of Rupert? The thought has her pushing away her plate, scone hardly touched. “Thank you. I’ll just let the dogs out, and then we can get started on prep before the others get here.”

“My husband’s already got the dogs. You can get dressed, if you’d like.”

She pulls Rupert’s bathrobe tighter across her pyjamas. “Right. I’ll be back in just a minute.”

The rest of the day is spent perfecting her Beef Wellington, pâté en croûte, and poached pears. When the rest of the team arrives — an assortment of kitchen staff, maids, butlers, and gardeners — Taggie begins. She rolls her sleeves up and assigns people to stations and roles, like she remembers from her disastrous stint in a London restaurant. She’s the chef de cuisine — Mrs. Bodkin, her sous chef.

A blonde woman named Rosemary acts as patissier, and a grey-haired woman called Pat, reminding Taggie of her grandmother, is rotisseur. A few others round out the kitchen, and Taggie commands them all with a nervous sort of authority. She’s never had this many people to help her, never been able to walk around the room slowly, to taste a sauce or make adjustments to knife work.

Through the kitchen windows, she can see more people mowing the lawn, pruning the trees, and planting flowers. It’s utterly insane, the amount of people that have been mobilized to take this already-stunning estate and make it worthy of the PM. In her mind, there’s simply no need.

They work until dinnertime. Taggie sends everyone home with leftovers, and then she and the Bodkins eat at the little breakfast table, sampling cuts of beef, different bits of pastry, and finishing with some of the red wine poached pears that Venturer, Corinium, and Margaret Thatcher herself will enjoy for dessert on Sunday.

“Fine meal,” Mr. Bodkin says when the plates are cleared. Taggie does the washing up this time, nodding at her companions as they leave for the evening.

On her way out, Mrs. Bodkin gives her a smile. “Not bad, dear.”

Taggie beams.

Only when it’s just her and the dogs left does she let herself look at the clock on the wall in the sitting room. 7 PM. She pulls out her legal pad and pencil to work on Sunday’s seating chart. Obviously, the PM at the head of the table, flanked by Rupert on one side and Tony on the other. Or maybe Rupert at one end, and Mrs. Thatcher at the other. She could seat Daddy opposite Rupert to show Venturer power. She scribbles out iteration after iteration, flipping pages every few minutes to try a new one.

7:30.

At the Priory, Taggie knew everybody’s schedule. She had to in order to make sure there was enough food on the table each meal. When Daddy worked late, she knew. He could be at the BBC offices until half-past midnight some days, depending on who was scheduled for the show that week. How late does an MP work?

7:45.

Taggie heads to Rupert’s study, a trail of dogs following her. She settles into one of the leather armchairs in front of his desk, curls her feet up beside her, and clicks the telly by the window on. Halfway through an episode of Four Men Went to Mow — she groans, but watches anyway, trying to let the time slide by without thought so that Rupert will walk through the door faster. It’s not exactly working.

8 PM.

Surely, Rupert would have said if he was going to be this late. When the credits roll, she stands, pacing back and forth and trying to decide if calling the police is a complete overreaction. “What do you think?” Taggie asks the dogs.

They only blink up at her — Gertrude even yawns.

Taggie reaches for the telephone on Rupert’s desk. “Lots of help you are.”

Her fingers hover over the dial when she hears the front door.

At once, the dogs bound out of the room and toward the foyer, and Taggie follows close behind. The panic unfurls in her chest when she comes around the corner and sees Rupert, coat halfway off and briefcase tipped over on the ground. The pups jump up at him and bark, clearly overjoyed that he’s home — Gertrude included.

“Welcome back,” Taggie says. She leans against the wall. “How was London?” Rupert scratches Beaver behind the ears. “Shit. Utter shit.”

She wonders if he’s still thinking about Daddy and the mess yesterday. “How come?” “More riots.” He picks up his briefcase and crosses the marble floor. “Is this all the welcome I get, angel?” Her stomach flips. “I thought you were…that you might be upset.”

“Upset? What, with you?”

Taggie nods slowly. “You left so early this morning. And that conversation we had yesterday…I would understand if you were upset.”

“Tag,” Rupert starts, curling his hand around her hip. “I had to leave so early because I had morning meetings. I got the call about them yesterday, and I was dreading them.”

She looks up at him with a frown. “So my father didn’t get to you?”

Rupert sighs, drawing her closer. “I’ve been a bad man. By most estimations, I am a bad man.”

She stiffens in his hold, waiting for the other shoe to drop. I can’t do this. You’re too young. Declan was right. Braces for nights alone in the Priory, looking at Penscombe through a window and trying desperately to hold onto the memory of her two nights here. She’ll cook for Daddy until he drinks himself dead, and then she’ll shove off to London, and her whole life in Rutshire will be a story she dusts off for cocktail parties. You know I lived in the countryside for a spell…

“But I want to be better,” Rupert adds. “For you. I want to be better for you.”

Her mouth falls open, and Rupert gives a little chuckle. “Did you think I was about to turn you out? Make you pack your things and walk home?” “Not really, but we didn’t get a chance to talk this morning, so I, erm…” She scratches at her neck. “Well, I think I overreacted.”

“Darling, you should know by now that I don’t easily give away the things I want.” Rupert pulls her closer, sliding his fingers into her back pockets. He looks down, and they’re nose to nose. “Besides, I don’t know if Beaver could bear to give up little Gertrude.”

“For what it’s worth, I don’t know if Gertrude could say goodbye to Beaver,” Taggie says. She leans up, and their mouths meet in an unhurried kiss — an exploration, a welcome home, an apology. His tongue sweeps into her mouth, and it deepens to need, want, longing. She sighs, and Rupert bites her lower lip just enough for the sound to turn into a long, drawn-out moan. “God, you’re good,” she says when they pull apart for air.

And she means it. Not just the way he kisses her or holds her — he’s good to her. Daddy doesn’t know because he doesn’t try to know Rupert, not beyond their franchise bid.

She’ll get Daddy to change his mind. She has to. Because she’s beginning to understand that it’s not just Gertrude who doesn’t want to leave.

—

Across the Bluebell Wood, a man sits at a desk littered with papers and crumbs. He nurses a glass of whiskey, eyeing the phone number for a hotel in New York City scribbled onto the corner of a napkin.

He dials, and reception patches him through to the room he’s looking for.

She immediately asks why the hell he’s calling.

“Cameron, I think you’d better come back.”

#rutag #angelblack #rupert x taggie #rupert campbell black #taggie o'hara #taggierupert #rivals #rivals 2024 #rivals disney+#my writing #hungry like the wolf #otp: i can't breathe without you #a semi-consistent upload schedule? for ME? who else is shocked??

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