#Rupert Campbell-Black

[jam3sacaster]

You have bewitched me, body and soul.

(Rivals) Rupert Campbell-Black x Reader

Suggestion by my sweet @megangovier 🫶🏽 / Although he finds dates terribly tedious, Rupert has to show up for his lady…

18+ FANFIC / Super sweet date with Rupert! Short Work. Reader character aged at 21. Hope you enjoy! 🩷

To put it bluntly, Rupert had been awful recently. Not returning your calls, smugly dismissing your idea of a date, jetting off to The Maldives right before your important appraisal at work. So you were more than surprised to hear the raucous beeping of a car outside your tiny cottage nestled into the bosom of Rutshire, and even more surprised to see Rupert — dressed impeccably in a two-piece grey suit — draped into his Porsche convertible on this fresh, bright Summer morning. Dressed rather elegantly in a loose white linen dress, blindingly white kitten heels and your tawny hair scraped into a bun, a few tendrils of loose curls escaping.. you pulled open the door and laughed defeatedly as Rupert wiggled his eyebrows towards you suggestively.

“What on Earth are you doing here?” You asked, feigning displeasure and crossing your arms over your chest. “I’ve been a terrible shit lately, angel. I’m sorry. Get in.” He called out to you, watching on smugly as he saw you spin to lock your door. Clambering into the passenger seat, you giggled in delight as the Porsche sped off, rolling over the hills of Penscombe. “Where are we going?” You question, closing your eyes and basking as the sunlight enveloped you like a warm embrace. “You’ll see.” He teased, waving every few moments to passer-by’s who undoubtedly recognised him and swooned at being noticed.

You paid no real attention as the car approached the heart of Cotchester, slowly beginning to halt outside the library. Cotchester Library was most certainly a grand building — made of limestone and magnificently large. “The library? You told me this was the worst idea for a date you could think of.” You tutted, hopping out of the car and frantically trying to maintain Rupert’s pace as he wandered through the doors. Whilst he did think the library was excruciatingly tedious, he would most certainly endure it to see that twinkling smile on your lips. You were most certainly in your element.

-

Meandering through the library’s aisles at a lackadaisical pace, Rupert began to tear books away from their shelf. “1801 - I have just returned from a visit to my landlord… Dear God, this is just a diary. What is this drivel?” He questioned, rolling his eyes pompously. “Wuthering Heights,” You whispered, prising the book from between his fingers, “It’s a love story. Between a strong-willed heroine and the Byronic hero that falls in love with her.” You inform him, an air of a chastising tone in your voice. Rupert rolled his eyes once more and continued to silently judge the literature section. “Do you… have a favourite book then?” Rupert attempted to whisper, and couldn’t quite believe he was asking such a mundane question. “I do, actually.” You mutter, and pull out Pride and Prejudice. “I’ve read this.” Rupert enlightened you as his eyes scanned the title, and your heart could’ve flipped itself over in delight. He took a hold of your hands and cupped them over his chest, allowing you to feel his heart thumping rhythmically in his chest. “You have bewitched me, body and soul. And I love, I love, I love you.” He quoted before planting a soft kiss on your lips.

There was no love story that you adored more than that of yours and Rupert’s — the intimacy written between these lines forever immortalising your fairy tale.

[davidtennantgenderenvy]

I have now finished Rivals. It is one of the most deeply unserious television programs I have ever seen. I want ten seasons.

[fabiolajyx]

RUPERT CAMPBELL-BLACK AND BASIL "BAS" BADDINGHAM Rivals - S01E08

[aidanturner]

just rupert and declan being chaotic

Video: lvnareditss, TikTok

[batmanlovesnirvana]

— ‘the frenchwoman.’

RUPERT CAMPBELL-BLACK x FEM!READER

words : 4k

synopsis : You’re no journalist, but a last-minute favor thrusts you into an interview with Rupert Campbell-Black, the infamous Olympian-turned-MP. You hate everything aristocratic, a sentiment no doubt rooted in your French ancestry and your country’s history with the elite. Still, the lines between duty and danger blur with every word.

A/N : English isn’t my first language, so I apologize in advance for any mistakes. I’m not entirely sure what I just wrote, but I hope it’s still enjoyable! :)

THE RUTSHIRE COUNTRYSIDE unfolded before you like a scene from a postcard: undulating hills, pristine fields, and the occasional splash of wildflowers in vivid hues.

It was undeniably beautiful, yet to someone who’d grown up in Paris and now lived in London, where beauty was always wrapped in the chaotic buzz of life, it felt unsettlingly perfect—almost too serene.

You weren’t a journalist—not by any stretch. Your expertise lay in veterinary medicine, not in chasing headlines or conducting interviews.

But when your friend had called, her voice trembling with desperation and barely holding back tears as she tried to explain why she couldn’t make it to England for an urgent assignment for her boss at a high-profile media firm, you hadn’t been able to say no. She’d stammered through her plea, insisting it was a last-minute decision, that none of her colleagues could take her place, and that you were the only French person she knew living in England—making you the perfect stand-in.

She wasn’t famous, but the company she worked for certainly was. Thankfully, they didn’t have a photo of her on file, just the knowledge that a French journalist was coming to interview the infamous womanizing MP.

You fit the role perfectly—or at least well enough to fool them.

So, with a deep breath and every ounce of courage you could summon, you stepped into her shoes, ready to play the part.

The house—no, the manor—loomed ahead, a lavish testament to old money and unchecked arrogance.

Stepping out of your worn-down car, your high heels crunched against the polished gravel of the estate’s driveway of the Campbell-Black estate.

Already, you regretted your choice of footwear, but it was necessary—you had to look the part.

Dressed in a sharp, polished red blouse and matching skirt, you quickly verified that the notebook containing the questions your friend had painstakingly prepared was still tucked safely in your bag. Adjusting it under your arm, your fingers tightened momentarily as you glanced at the grand manor towering before you.

God, you just hoped you wouldn’t embarrass yourself—or blow the cover entirely. The sheer weight of history and expectation seemed to hang in the air, pressing down on you as you took a deep breath, steeling yourself for the charade that lay ahead.

“Ah, and here she is.”

The voice, smooth and laced with amusement, came from your left. You turned to see him leaning against a sleek sports car, arms crossed and radiating an air of smug privilege.

Rupert Campbell-Black.

He towered over most, tall and broad-shouldered, with an air of infuriating self-assurance that seemed to demand attention without even trying. His smile, sharp and knowing, was the kind that could either make you want to roll your eyes in disbelief or, if you were feeling particularly bold, slap it right off his face.

Everything about him screamed aristocrat, from the crisply tailored blazer that looked like it had been made for a throne to the way he carried himself with an effortless arrogance, as if he owned the world and was simply letting the rest of us pretend we had a say in it.

It wasn't that you hated him—not exactly. It was more the idea of him, the things he represented, the polished, perfect image he projected of old money, entitlement, and an almost offensive ease with the luxuries of life.

You despised that.

But your irritation with him had mostly been built from the things you’d read in the tabloids. You didn’t want to buy into the gossip, but it was hard not to when everything you read painted him as the worst kind of privileged, pompous snob. Still, like everyone else, you couldn’t help but feel a certain curiosity toward him.

And when you saw him in person—standing there with his smirk and that goddamn perfectly disheveled hair—you had to admit, he was more handsome than you'd imagined. The kind of handsome that made you want to look away just so he wouldn’t notice how much you were looking.

Of course, you wouldn't let him know that.

“You must be the journalist,” he said, his voice smooth and rich, like the kind of tone one might use when speaking to someone far beneath them.

He straightened up, his movements calculated and assured as he began to saunter toward you with that predatory grace, as though he had just spotted an interesting mouse.

You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms with deliberate calm. “And you must be the aristocrat who thinks it’s still 1815,” you fired back, taking in his perfectly polished shoes, the tailored cut of his suit, the way he walked as if he were the only person in the room worth noticing. You couldn't help but scan him from head to toe, that critical, discerning eye you had well-practiced over years of dealing with people like him.

He halted in his tracks, his smirk widening as though your words had delivered precisely the challenge he’d been anticipating. “French, then?” he asked, his tone laced with a hint of amusement, underpinned by that ever-present air of casual superiority.

Of course, Rupert already knew the journalist was French—he would have done his homework before agreeing to the interview. No, this was just him, toying with you.

“Oui,” you replied with a quick glance and a little more bite than usual, your arms still crossed tightly over your chest. "Is that going to be a problem?" you added, the challenge in your voice clear, daring him to say something, anything, that would prove your impression of him wrong—or, more likely, confirm it.

“Not at all,” he said smoothly, with a flourish of his hand toward the house. His voice carried a casual, almost theatrical quality as if he were performing for an audience. “In fact, it’s quite refreshing. Most journalists they send are painfully polite. You, on the other hand, seem… different.”

You rolled your eyes, a small, exasperated laugh escaping you. “If by ‘different,’ you mean I’m not here to stroke your ego, then yes, I suppose I am.”

Rupert’s laugh rang out, deep and assured, as if he were privy to some private joke. The sound both irked and intrigued you. Without missing a step, he fell into stride beside you as you neared the entrance. “Miss Duvallet, is it?” he asked.

You opened your mouth, ready to correct him with your real name and a sharp insult, but then it hit you—you were supposed to be Miss Duvallet.

Swallowing the sudden lump in your throat, you simply nodded and replied with a curt, “Yes.”

“Tell me,” he said, his tone shifting slightly, taking on a hint of curiosity, “why take this assignment if you’re so clearly opposed to everything I represent?”

You shot him a look, your response as blunt as ever. “Work,” you said simply, shrugging as if that were the only answer that mattered. “Not all of us have the luxury of inheriting a manor.”

“Touché,” he replied, a flicker of amusement in his eyes, before he opened the door for you, ushering you inside.

The manor greeted you with all the grandeur you’d expected—high, vaulted ceilings, furniture so polished it seemed to shine even in the dim light, and walls adorned with heavy portraits of ancestors whose eyes followed you as you moved. It was all so… much.

You paused, taking it all in, trying to stifle the small twinge of awe that prickled at your insides.

“Impressed?” Rupert asked, his voice light with amusement, clearly savoring the effect his surroundings had on you.

Yes, you were impressed. It was a beautiful place, no denying that. But you would never let him know that.

You glanced at him, your expression flat, even though a part of you was bristling with the impulse to give a biting reply. “If by ‘impressed,’ you mean mildly nauseated, then yes, I suppose you could say that.”

Rupert’s laughter rang out again, deeper this time, full of genuine surprise. The sound was so unexpected that it caught you off guard, making you wonder if you had misjudged him. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said, clearly entertained by your response.

Shaking your head, you redirected the conversation. “So, where do we start? I assume you’ve prepared some kind of agenda.”

“Of course,” he said, leading you down a grand hallway. “But first, let me clear the air about one thing.”

You stopped, turning to face him. His tone, while still light, carried a sharper edge.

“I don’t know what you’ve read about me, but I’m not quite as terrible as I’m made out to be.”

You tilted your head, a small, skeptical smile playing on your lips. “Let me guess. You’re not like the other rich men?”

His grin widened, wolfish and unapologetic. “I’m worse.”

You hummed, clearly skeptic about him. "Very well, Mr Campbell-Black."

“Rupert,” he corrected smoothly. “If we’re going to spend time together, you might as well call me by my name.”

“Fine,” you said with a shrug, keeping your tone professional. “But don’t get any ideas. I’m here to work, not to feed into whatever thing you think this is.”

“Perish the thought,” he replied with mock solemnity. “But I should warn you—things around here can get… unpredictable.”

You sighed, the weight of the situation settling on your shoulders. Already, you were questioning your life choices. “Wonderful,” you muttered under your breath, yet you forced a polite, practiced smile—one honed through years of dealing with difficult interview subjects.

Rupert led you into another room, as grandiose as the first, if not more so. He referred to it as the green tea room, a name that seemed almost as carefully curated as the room itself. Emerald green walls framed the space, accented by high ceilings and sculptures that, if you had to guess, cost more than a year’s salary. The furniture—rich, heavy pieces that seemed to whisper of luxury—only reinforced the wealth that dripped from every corner of the manor.

He guided you to a plush, velvet-red canapé, the cushions soft beneath you as you sat. “Drink?” Rupert asked smoothly, uncapping a whiskey bottle and beginning to pour himself a glass.

“No, thank you,” you answered, your tone firm.

But Rupert, ever the charming host, wasn’t easily deterred. “Not even wine?” he pressed, his gaze flicking toward you with mild amusement.

“I don’t drink,” you replied, trying to maintain your focus.

He raised an eyebrow, unperturbed. “Tea, then? I can call the maid to prepare us some,” he offered, as if suggesting something as simple as breathing.

You leaned back slightly, your patience thinning. “With all due respect, Rupert, I’m here to discuss politics. Shall we start?”

For the first time, a flicker of surprise crossed his face, his posture shifting as he registered your refusal. His usual easygoing charm was momentarily unsettled. “Straight to business?” he asked, amusement creeping into his voice. “Not even a little foreplay? Do all French journalists lack a sense of occasion, or is it just you?”

You didn’t flinch, meeting his gaze with an evenness that only made his grin widen. Then, uou inhaled deeply, willing yourself to remain professional. “Again, If you think I’m here to flirt or fawn, you’re mistaken. Let’s just say I’m not your usual… audience.”

Rupert’s laugh was low and lazy, like a cat stretching in the sun. “Oh, I like you. Sharp. Refreshing, really. Most people who visit spend the first ten minutes fawning over the place.”

“Then let me save us both the trouble,” you said crisply, gesturing vaguely at the ornate surroundings. “It’s very big. Very… lovely. Now, can we start ?”

Perching on the edge of the overstuffed armchair, you pulled out your notepad, determined to stay focused.

“So,” you began in a neutral tone, “the Tory Party. What inspired your allegiance to them?”

Rupert leaned back in his chair, his posture relaxed, yet his confidence radiated with every movement.“Allegiance? That’s a bit strong for my taste,” he said with a faint smile. “Let’s just say I appreciate certain efficiencies, the kind that get results. I’ve always been drawn to winning teams, the ones that know how to play the game and come out on top.”

His eyes sharpened, the casual tone shifting into something more calculating. After a brief pause, he swirled the liquor in his glass, the crystal catching the light. “And as for ‘inspiration,’ that’s a bit too lofty for me. I’ve always believed in the importance of tradition, in maintaining order. That’s what keeps everything running smoothly.”

You jotted his response down but didn’t look up, deliberately keeping your tone sharp. “Do you think the party reflects the realities of modern Britain?”

His eyes sparkled with a challenge as he met your gaze. “That depends. Whose reality are we talking about? But you’re French, aren’t you? Tell me—what do you think of it all?”

You met his gaze without flinching. “I find the British fascination with monarchy and class structure quite intriguing, especially for a country that prides itself on being ‘modern,’” you finished, emphasizing the word with two fingers forming quotation marks.

His smile sharpened, full of challenge. “Careful, you’re starting to sound like a revolutionary.”

You smirked, leaning back in your chair. “Don’t worry. I left the guillotines at home.”

“For now,” he added, his grin widening.

You rolled your eyes, but a faint smile tugged at the corner of your lips. “If we’re done with the banter, let’s get back to the topic. Do you believe your policies address the needs of modern Britain, or are they focused on preserving this… tradition and order you mentioned?”

His expression grew thoughtful, though the amused glint in his eye remained. “A good politician knows how to balance the old and the new,” he said. “The past is what grounds us, but the future… that’s what keeps things interesting.”

You jotted down his words, biting back the urge to challenge him further. Rupert Campbell-Black might be as infuriating as he was charming, but he was certainly keeping your interview lively.

“Are you always like this, or do you save the charm for interviews?”

“Only when the company’s as delightful as this,” he replied smoothly, leaning forward slightly. “But tell me, do all French journalists enjoy poking the British aristocracy, or is that just your particular specialty?”

You raised an eyebrow, refusing to be drawn in. “I ask questions. Whether or not they’re uncomfortable is up to you.”

His chuckle was low and unhurried, as though he had all the time in the world. “Fair enough. Though I do hope this isn’t all business. You’d miss the best parts.”

You ignored the bait, your pen poised over the notepad. “Let’s stick to the topic. How do you think the Tory Party’s policies address the concerns of everyday citizens?”

Rupert tilted his head, his expression unreadable for a moment before he responded. “That’s a rather broad question. Perhaps you’d like to narrow it down. Or would you prefer I give you the polished party line?”

"Why don’t you surprise me?” you countered.

His lips twitched in a faint smirk, but he didn’t take the bait. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers as if weighing his options.

"Minister of Sport—it’s quite the title. How did that come about?” you pressed, switching tactics.

He relaxed further, his expression a mix of amusement and pride. “I suppose you could say it was a natural fit. My background in racing and polo gave me some credibility, and my, shall we say, people skills helped me secure the role.”

You snorted softly, scribbling in your notebook. “People skills. Is that what we’re calling it?"

“Well,” he said with a self-assured grin, “knowing which hands to shake and which backs to pat is half the battle in politics, isn’t it? Or did you imagine my ascent was purely a matter of sporting excellence?”

You smirked, meeting his gaze head-on. “I imagine most ascents, political or otherwise, involve a little grease on the ladder.”

His laughter was warm, though tinged with challenge. “I suppose your right. Do you apply the same cynicism to journalism? Or do you reserve that for the likes of me?”

“That depends,” you shot back lightly. “Are you going to give me a real answer, or keep playing the charming aristocrat?”

“Ah, but why not both?” he replied smoothly, his grin widening, leaning slightly forward. “I’ve always believed in a balance between charm and substance. Something I’m sure you’ll appreciate.”

You gave a small, knowing nod. "I’m starting to see that."

"Careful," he warned, though his tone was light. “I might start to think you’re underestimating me.”

“Never,” you said, matching his smirk. “But I am curious—what’s your vision for British sport? Surely it’s not all polo matches and champagne receptions.”

Rupert’s smile faded slightly, replaced by a look of genuine focus. “It’s about more than just the elite sports, though they’re important. Grassroots programs, improving facilities, getting kids involved in physical activity—that’s where the real work is. If we want to compete on the world stage, we need to start at the bottom and build up.”

It was an unexpectedly thoughtful answer, but you weren’t about to let him off the hook. “And yet, critics have accused you of focusing too much on prestige projects—Wembley renovations, international events, things that benefit the few rather than the many. How do you respond to that?”

He chuckled, but there was a sharpness to his gaze. “Critics always find something to complain about. But let’s be clear—those ‘prestige projects’ bring in revenue, jobs, and attention. They’re investments, not indulgences.”

You tapped your pen against your notepad. “Fair point, but how do you balance that with ensuring access for underprivileged communities? Because from where I’m sitting, the gap between elite and grassroots sports seems to be widening.”

Rupert’s jaw tightened slightly, and for a moment, you wondered if you’d pushed too hard. Then he nodded, as if conceding the point. “It’s a fair criticism. And it’s something I’m working on. But change takes time, and unfortunately, not everyone has the patience for that.”

You leaned forward, deciding to test the waters further. “And does your political affiliation ever get in the way? The Conservative Party hasn’t exactly been known for prioritizing social programs.”

His laugh was low and sardonic. “There it is! The classic dig at the Tories. Tell me again, do all French journalists come armed with clichés, or is it just you?”

You shrugged, unfazed. “I call it like I see it.”

“Well,” he said, his tone softening, “to answer your question—yes, politics complicates things. But if you spend too much time worrying about what everyone else thinks, you’ll never get anything done. My job is to fight for what I believe in, even if it ruffles a few feathers.”

“And what do you believe in?” you asked, genuinely curious now.

He hesitated, a rare moment of vulnerability crossing his face. “Opportunity,” he said finally. “The chance for everyone—no matter where they come from—to excel at something. Whether it’s sport, business, or, hell, journalism.”

You arched an eyebrow. “I didn’t peg you for an idealist.”

“Don’t let it get out,” he replied with a grin. “It would ruin my reputation.”

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Oh, don’t worry. I’m not in the habit of sharing state secrets—yet.”

Rupert chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “Good to know. I do have a reputation to uphold, after all.”

You smirked, tapping your pen against the notepad. “And what exactly does that reputation entail? The charming, polo-playing, politician with a knack for public appearances?”

His eyes twinkled, but there was a hint of seriousness behind his smile. “I’d say it’s more about the vision—being able to see the bigger picture and making things happen, no matter how tough it gets. The rest is just...window dressing.”

You studied him, weighing his words. “So, you’re not just about the photo ops and the VIP events?”

“Not by a long shot,” he said, his tone firm. “But sometimes, you need the spotlight to shine on the issues that matter. If it means people pay attention for a moment, then so be it.”

You nodded, impressed despite yourself. “Okay. But what happens when the spotlight moves on to the next shiny object?”

Rupert’s gaze softened, his eyes narrowing just slightly as if he was weighing your words carefully. “Then you keep working, quietly if necessary, until the next opportunity comes along. The real work doesn’t stop just because the cameras are elsewhere.”

You held his gaze for a moment longer, feeling the weight of the silence stretch between you both.

Then, with a deliberate motion, you snapped your notebook shut, the sound cutting through the still air like a signal.

Rising to your feet, you extended your hand, offering a final gesture of professionalism. “Thank you, sir, for the meeting.”

He looked at your hand for a heartbeat before raising an eyebrow, his voice tinged with amusement. “We’re back on formalities, then?”

“The interview is over,” you said simply, your voice unwavering, though there was a subtle shift in the air around you. You felt the pull of something lingering, a moment that hadn’t quite finished yet.

But then, in a smooth, almost predatory motion, he reached for your hand. Instead of shaking it, he pressed it gently to his lips, his breath warm against your skin. It was an act of such quiet intimacy that it caught you off guard, the sudden closeness making your pulse quicken.

For a split second, you hesitated, caught between politeness and a strange surge of discomfort. But before you could think too much about it, you jerked your hand away, the movement sharp, almost defiant.

Rupert chuckled lowly, a knowing glint in his eyes. “Touchy, aren’t we?” he remarked, the words laced with amusement but underpinned with something else, something harder.

Your heart thudded in your chest as you turned away, taking a breath to steady yourself.

The conversation, the unspoken tension—it was all unraveling, leaving behind the brittle veneer of professionalism that had kept you in check.

Despite your protests, Rupert insisted in accompanied you to the grand entrance of the Campbell-Black estate, his presence beside you unexpectedly warm despite his usual aloofness.

There was a slight tension in the air, an unspoken undercurrent that made the walk feel longer than it should have.

Perhaps it was the way his casual remarks seemed to chip away at your defenses, or maybe it was something in the way his eyes lingered on you just a second longer than necessary. You couldn’t decide.

“So,” he said, his voice dropping slightly, “you’re really not going to tell me anything about your life in Paris?”

You glanced up at him, surprised by the sudden shift. “Paris?” you teased, a grin forming on your lips. “Do you know that I live in England? In a town, not far from London.”

He chuckled, raising an eyebrow. “I suppose Paris could get a little too chaotic. But I imagine life in an English town must be… more peaceful?”

You shrugged playfully. “Peaceful, yes. Maybe too peaceful. I mean, quiet streets are more my speed than the… vibrance of Paris.”

He smiled, clearly amused.

Before you could reply, a loud bark interrupted the moment, followed by the pitter-patter of paws on the marble floor. Two large, slobbering dogs came bounding around the corner of the hall, tails wagging enthusiastically.

They spotted you instantly, and before you could react, one of them lunged toward you, nose twitching excitedly.

You froze, your eyes wide and your heart pounding. Dogs. You hated dogs. It was strange, considering your work as a veterinarian, but when it came to dogs, you always braced yourself. Most of the time, they were calm, and if not, someone was there to help. But seven dogs charging straight at you? Yeah, no.

“Woah!” you squealed, taking an instinctive step backward, hands raised in a panic. “Oh my God—”

Rupert’s laughter boomed through the hallway, but there was no mockery in it, just pure amusement. He quickly stepped in front of you, guiding the dogs back with a firm but gentle hand. “Sorry about them. They’re a bit enthusiastic.”

You were still frozen, trying to suppress the irrational panic building in your chest. “I—I’m not really… a dog person,” you managed, your voice tight.

He raised an eyebrow, a playful curiosity in his gaze. “Really? Then what do you like?”

You were still half-hidden behind him, trying to avoid the dogs, and your brain, in a panicked scramble for an answer, came up with something entirely ridiculous. “Cows.”

Rupert blinked, clearly taken aback. “Cows?”

You rushed to explain, the words tumbling out in a flurry. “Yeah, you know... they’re calm, low-maintenance. I grew up on a farm... in the countryside, and—” You trailed off, realizing just how absurd you must sound.

Rupert’s smirk returned, though this time it was softer, less mocking, almost like he was seeing a different side of you. “Well, that’s a first,” he said, the amusement dancing in his eyes. “I’ve never had a woman tell me she prefers cows to dogs.”

You felt a flush rise to your cheeks, embarrassed, but oddly relieved by the absurdity of it all. “It’s the truth, though. Cows are just... easier to handle.”

“Fair enough,” he said, stepping back to give the dogs a little more space. They sniffed you cautiously, their noses twitching in curiosity but respecting the invisible boundary you’d created. “I’ll make sure they keep their distance from now on.”

The dogs seemed to sense the shift, obediently sitting beside Rupert, their tails giving a lazy wag, as if in approval. The air between you both lightened, the earlier tension dissolving into something a little more comfortable, though still charged with an undeniable undercurrent.

Your eyes met his briefly, and in that fleeting moment, there was something unspoken between you—a spark, perhaps, or just the ridiculousness of the situation. You couldn’t tell. 

As you walked toward the door, Rupert’s presence beside you was oddly comforting, though you couldn’t quite shake the awareness that something else lingered in the air between you.

Just before you reached the door handle, one last bark echoed from behind you, and you turned to see the dogs sitting, tails wagging furiously.

Rupert glanced back, a grin spreading across his face. “They’ll be fine. I promise.”

“Thanks,” you said quietly, then added with a laugh, “And for the record, I’m still more of a cow person.”

He shook his head, still grinning. “I’ll remember that. Cows, not dogs. Got it.”

The door clicked shut behind you, an uneasy feeling lingered in your chest. The awkwardness, the subtle tension, his smile that never seemed to falter—all of it replayed in your mind, leaving you wondering what just happened and how everything had shifted so quickly.

You shook your head, trying to push the lingering thoughts away. It was over. You’d never have to face him again.

At least, that’s what you told yourself.

Still, a quiet, persistent voice deep inside whispered that this was only the beginning.

As you glanced in the rearview mirror, watching the manor shrink into the distance, you whispered to yourself, A bientôt, Monsieur Rupert.

[coterieofroses]

the bluebell wood

Taggie O’hara x Rupert Campbell-Black

part one | part two

Summary: Taggie and Rupert navigate their feelings post 1x08, canon divergent, an excuse for smut really

Warnings: 18+, fluff, angst, pet names, gagging, kissing, cheating, oral sex (male and fem receiving), praise kink w/c: 2.2k

Also available on AO3

The Bluebell Wood

​​It was mid-April, the first April since Rupert Campbell-Black had acquired the Bluebell Wood from her father. Settling his debts in the early onset of their bid for the franchise had left the woods with a new air for Taggie as she passed through the fresh blossoms.

The woods were still the same, yet the air felt different. As if the land had taken on the form of the man who now owned it. Where once the air had been serene, calming even, there now lingered a faint trace of unease. Taggie felt it like a weight in the air, heavy and undeniable, as she walked beneath the canopy of budding trees.

Each step she took on her walk drew her further into the heart of the woods that had been her sanctuary since her father had moved the family west. But today, even the familiar smell of damp earth and fresh blossoms couldn’t calm the restless stirring in her chest.

Things had been left complicated between her and Rupert.

The memory of his touch lingered on her skin, the brand of heat where his fingers had brushed over her as they’d stood together in the kitchen, a moment that had felt like forever. She could still feel the pulse of it, as if his fingers had never left her, leaving a mark that refused to fade.

But it was her confession that truly haunted her, the words that traitorously spilled from her lips.

Far too late, she heard the crunch of gravel beneath boots behind her and stiffened, waking from her usual daydream to realize she was no longer alone with her thoughts. The sound had been too soft at first, drowned out by the rushing pulse of her heart, her wandering mind. But now, it was unmistakable.

Her breath hitched, and before she could even think of turning around, she already knew who it was.

Rupert Campbell-Black.

She could feel his presence before he spoke, the shift in the wood personified, embodied, and standing before her.

"Angel."

His voice was smooth, and low, with a subtle edge that sent a flicker of unease coursing at the sound of the pet name she hadn’t heard for weeks.

They hadn’t been alone together since the incident in her kitchen, the whirlwind of the bid consuming them both. Simultaneously dousing their flames, and pulling them back toward other companions.

The weeks since that moment had been a blur, meetings, negotiations, and social obligations. Each day bleeding into the next. Rupert had been a constant presence, but whenever their paths had crossed in the chaos of the bid—at dinners, in crowded rooms, there were far too many onlookers for them to have another chance.

“Rupert,” she answered. Her voice betrays her, and surprise and unease are evident in her tone.

Taggie could feel her heartbeat in her throat as she faced him, and for the first time in a long while, she didn’t know how to breathe. She had spent the last few weeks convincing herself that she was in control, that the chaos of the bid was more important than whatever unspoken connection had simmered between them for so long.

But now, with Rupert standing in front of her, there was no denying the pull. It was as if the universe had decided to make them confront it. He didn’t speak for a moment. His gaze held hers, the intensity of it cutting through the space between them, almost like a weight. A soft, charming smirk played on his lips after a brief moment.

“We shouldn’t…” she finally croaked out, unsure, her voice faltering. “Linger out here alone.”

“I know.” His voice was softer now, his dark fixing on her. Reflections of the bluebells beneath them gave a cool tint to his gaze she could see with his approach. “We can’t, but that doesn’t change what we feel, does it?”

Taggie took a step back, her mind racing. She had to get away, had to pull herself together. But the spring ground was slick and far more yielding than she had expected and she began to slip.

 Rupert reached out and grasped for her, his movements sure. His hand closed around her waist, pulling her toward him with a strength and precision that seemed to steady them both. The suddenness of it left Taggie breathless, her pulse racing as she collided with him, the heat of his body engulfing hers.

He was careful with her, but there was something in the way he held her that made her feel both protected and exposed all at once.

His breath was shallow now, but his eyes never left hers. There was something different in the way he was looking at her, something raw and unguarded. Their faces were so close that Taggie could feel the warmth of his breath on her skin.

“Taggie… just one moment,” he whispered, his voice carrying the weight of the words they both feared to speak.

“We shouldn’t…” she murmured up to him, but now, entrapped in his hold, she hardly could bring herself to pull away from his touch.

Rupert didn’t respond right away. His thumb brushed gently over the curve of her waist, a soft, almost tentative movement as if he were waiting for her to make the decision. But even as the tension pulled tighter, he didn’t lean in.

The stillness lingered, a moment feeling like an hour. The sound of their breaths and the soft breeze through the trees is the only thing an onlooker might catch. But for Taggie, all she could hear was her quickened pulse pounding in her ears.

“I…” she started, but the word came out like a wisp, dying on her lips.

Rupert’s hand moved then, sliding from her waist to gently cup her cheek. He leaned in and his lips brushed against hers softly. It was a whisper of a kiss, a question more than an answer.

Taggie’s heart, already racing, pounded harder in her chest. She answered him by leaning in, deepening the kiss, warm and gentle. She still held some reservations, but they began to melt away as they lost themselves in the moment. Lips locking with an increasingly frantic nature.

Rupert, a rake known for his many dalliances with women, was crumbling to youthful trappings in a way he hadn’t in many years. Frantic searching kisses that were more commonly exchanged between adolescents who were searching more due to lack of experience than a burning desire to quench a long pushed-off thirst were freely traded between himself and Taggie.

Taggie gasped softly into the kiss, breaking it only to catch her breath. Her hands moved to rest on Rupert’s chest, a gesture that caused him to pause. Their eyes locked and he wore a devilish smirk as they looked at each other. His thumb moved to idly trace over her kiss-swollen lips.

Her fingers curled into the fabric of Rupert's shirt, torn between pulling him closer and pushing him away. The rational part of her screamed that they were treading on dangerous ground. Exposed in the woods, where anyone may wander across them.

"Taggie," he murmured, his voice low and husky. "Tell me to stop.” he offered softly, a broken plea that was pure evidence he’d like to do anything but.

“I don’t want you to stop,” she whispered, her voice once again betraying her true feelings. Feather light and escaping before she could give them a second thought.

Without hesitation, Rupert pulled her closer and captured her again in a searing kiss. No gentleness or hesitation reserving him any longer. The months of pent-up longing poured into a single moment. Her hands slid up his chest, wrapping herself around his neck as she pressed her chest flush with his. Feeling his rapid heartbeat matching her own.

With a gentle but firm hand, he began to lower her into the soft bed of bluebells that carpeted the ground beside the gravel path they had been walking on. Eyes filled with an intense desire he seemed transfixed as he looked down to her as her hair spread out and haloed around her head.

The scent of freshly bloomed wildflowers being trampled and squished began to fill Taggie’s senses, nearly overwhelming as she felt Rupert’s searing gaze.

“I need to taste you.” he rumbled, a betraying admission of his own.

He chased such with action, however, unlike Taggie would. His lips pressed kisses over her freckled cheeks as he deftly moved to unbutton her trousers. Her sweater drifted to scrunch up over her stomach as she reclined, her hands grasping at the grass beneath her.

Rupert’s kisses drifted down her cheeks, over the crest of her jaw, the side of her throat, and dipped over the top of her breasts. Revealed to him by the v-neck cut of her sweater. Taggie was left breathless with his insatiable kisses, heaving breaths coming as her eyes drifted shut.

“Please, Taggie.” he sighed against her pale skin, tugging at the waistband of her trousers, now hovering to press soft kisses to the exposed skin of her stomach.

In answer, she arched her back and lifted her hips. For Rupert, that seemed to be all the answer needed to his plea. He swiftly tugged down her trousers and panties, revealing her slick petals to him.

The cool breeze through the woods caused her to shiver, and attempt to press her thighs together shut, something Taggie found impossible, as Rupert was both in the way and eager to hold her open to his lust-filled gaze.

“So beautiful, Angel,” he growled softly, eyes fixed on where her thighs were pulled apart. “Always such a good girl for me, aren’t you Tag?”

Taggie could feel the heat of Rupert’s breath on her sensitive flesh, a sensation that caused her to arch her back and let out a soft gasp of arousal. His teasing, however, was short-lived. A man so starved was eager to devour her whole.

He pressed several open-mouthed kisses to the swell of her slick core, a brief preamble before the muscle of his tongue found her clit and eagerly swirled around it.

“Rupert, what if...?” Taggie let out with a desperate, keening whine.

Rupert let out a soft snerk, a chuckle through his nose as he relented only to lean back onto his haunches slightly. His fingers move to part their way gently through her folds.

“I will feel no shame about being caught drinking from the fount of a forest nymph,” he replied, a smirk playing on his lips before he eased a few fingers slowly inside her eager walls.

A gasp left Taggie as her eyes squeezed shut and her back arched. Overwhelmed as his fingers gently began to pet at her inner walls, driving her through pleasure further and further.

His mouth returned to her folds, lips surrounding and suckling eagerly on her clit. Feasting and hardly easily sated, he drank from her until she was bounding toward her peak. His eyes fixed up toward her face as he attentively watched every quirk of her expression with rapt interest.

Feeling his gaze upon her, Taggie’s cheeks flushed red, and she draped an arm indelicately over her eyes. Hiding from the outpouring of whines and mewls of pleasure that spilled from her lips. If she could concentrate on any feeling but overwhelming pleasure she would feel the prickle of embarrassment at being pleasured so openly, only making its way in as Rupert’s mouth parted from her for a moment.

“Let me see you, Angel. Look at me and let me watch you fall apart.” he husked her, tone broken, and his pupils blown wide with lust.

A whine, petulant and greedy ripped from her. Loud enough any onlookers would certainly be clear about what was transpiring. Her growing need clearly ate away any hesitation as she pulled her arm from her face and her fists tightly grasped the grass again. The soft snapping of roots was heard as she squirmed in a desperate act to seek more friction mindlessly.

A smile, genuine and warm spread over Rupet’s face before he redoubled his efforts. Fingers, lips, and tongue greedily bring Taggie churning toward her climax. His eyes never left her.

In nearly no time at all she was brought through her peak. Waves of blissful ecstasy wracked her form as she cried out in pleasure. His fingers worked her through her climax, pushing through her inner walls as they clenched around him.

Only when he was satisfied did he part from her core, leaving Taggie gasping for her breath. A soft chuckle left Rupert as he pulled her panties and trousers back into place. Leaving them unbuttoned as she caught herself. 

“Beautiful, beautiful thing,” Rupert murmured, mostly to himself as he delicately used his still slick-covered hand to push some of her wild hair out of her face. Taggie reached out to grasp at his silky shirt, weak, as she clung to him for strength for a moment.

“We shouldn’t linger,” he warned, righting himself onto his feet, and save for the slick over his lips, and the grass stains on his knees, evidence of their tryst barely affecting him at all, whereas Taggie laid back in the bluebells, wrecked and dazed as he held his hand out to her from above.

[massdefibrillation]

the thing about watching Rivals as someone who likes seeing awful people get to have completely fucked up sex with each other (e.g age gap hate fucking) is that whilst i do really want Taggie and Rupert to get together i kinda don't want him to be a better guy first??? i want it to happen whilst he's still a total asshole and really doesn't deserve this beautiful angel and it would be completely wrong?????

[aquitainequeen]

Watching clips of Alex Hassell as Rupert Campbell-Black in Rivals 2024, with all the sex and sexual chemistry and seductions and naked tennis, really makes me wish that His Dark Materials the series had gone with the book's plot and given us Mrs. Coulter seducing Metatron.

[juuliaa-gooliaa]

Okay I know that there are SO many rupert & taggie playlists on Spotify right now (which I’m loving) but here I am throwing mine out there if you’re looking for one with a mix of genres and decades.

I am constantly updating and adding songs based off of lyrics, vibes, my unsolicited opinion, or all of the above!!

The rivals brain rot lives on

[thesistersarcheron]

Rating: Explicit Warnings: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat Relationships: Rupert Campbell-Black/Taggie O'Hara  Tags: Incest, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Daddy Kink, Age Difference, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, Past Infidelity, Smut, Oral Sex, Vaginal Sex, Divorced Father to Daddy to Husband Pipeline, Rupert Campbell-Black is Down Bad, so catastrophically bad that the trivial little fact taggie is his daughter doesn't stop him

"Oh my God, she's—" Maud stumbles back. "—she's a bloody child, Rupert. She's a dim-witted child who can't even read." Disgust curls her lip. "She's your child."

He reels for a single moment. The whiskey he's been sipping all night hardly works against him when he does the quick calculations in his head—nine months from his romp with a no-name, auburn-haired actress in November 1965 to August 1966, twenty years from August 1966 to December 1986. It checks out.

But Rupert Campbell-Black is a cad. A rake. A playboy, and a million other things the so-called journalists who write for celebrity gossip rags have called him.

A beast no better than his dogs and horses.

And he still wants Taggie.

——— Read Chapter 1 on AO3

[dtmsrpfcringe]

the way me and my husband looked at each other during the tennis scene was almost comical it was exactly like the emoji

🤯

[jam3sacaster]

masterlist 🩷

hello guys!! it’s meeee, jam3sacaster! if you’re new here, i’m a rivals fanfic writer with an always open ask box for requests for any scenario, any character! 🫶🏽💋 thank you for all your lovely comments so far & i appreciate you all sm 🥹 i will update it here every time i post 🫶🏽

rupert campbell-black

smut/vague smut

• “i can’t breathe without you.”

• “i’ll be gentle, angel.”

• “you’re such a dirty girl.”

• “i think i rather like that.”

• “let me warm you up, darling.”

• “i will never forget your touch. it will linger on me.”

• “the lady doth protest too much, methinks.”

• “bubbles hide a multitude of sins.”

• “i pray you, do not fall in love with me.”

• “say my name.”

• “well, i am a member of the clitory party.”

soft/protective rupert 🥺

• “what did you fucking say?”

• “i can’t sleep. i just think of you.”

• “just breathe with me, darling.”

• “you just don’t see it, do you?”

• “you belong to me.”

• “let me take care of you, darling.”

• “you must be careful, angel.”

• “you have the body of a goddess.”

• “you can ride my pony anytime, darling.”

• “she’s the one, lizzie.” no reader in this story.

• “happy new year, angel.”

• “forever yours, r.”

• “i’m a heartless man at worst, babe. and a helpless one at best.”

• “i’m a great stress reliever.”

• “well, you couldn’t possibly dance alone.”

• “don’t worry about it, angel.”

• “i have waited for the day.”

• was i just a fool? / breakup with rupert :(

• “you deserve a real man.”

• every breath you take / proposal!

• you have bewitched me, body and soul.

storyline

• i don’t believe in god, but i believe that you’re my saviour. PT 1

• i don’t believe in god, but i believe that you’re my saviour. PT 2

declan o’hara

smut/vague smut

• “i’m gonna have ‘ta punish ya’.”

• “i think you know…”

• “ya’ want me to touch ya’ like that?”

• “how does it feel, my girl?”

• “how beautiful you are, my girl.”

• “don’t think i’ll go easy on ‘ya.”

• “what do ‘ya want me to do to ‘ya?”

• “time for a new one.”

• “do ya’ know how wrong this is?”

• “your turn.”

• earned it.

• all i need.

soft/protective declan🥺

• “for he would be thinking of love..”

• “how does it feel, huh?”

• “i can’t stand to see ya’ with someone else.”

storylines

• “miss baddingham, you are bad news.” PT 1 smut

• “miss baddingham, you are bad news.” PT 2 protective

• “you have no idea what ‘ya doing to me, do ‘ya?” PT 1 smut

• “there’s just something about ya’. PT 1” angst

rupert x taggie

smut/vague smut

• “daddy, can you…”

• “show me what you do to yourself, darling.”

rupert x reader x declan

love triangle storyline/smut

• “don’t waste your time with him.” PT 1

• “don’t waste your time with him.” PT 2

basil baddingham

smut/vague smut

• “jesus christ, you’re enchanting.”

soft bas🥺

• “well, my love…”

• “thank god you’re here.”

lizzie x freddie

• “i wish i could stop thinkin’ about ‘ya.” soft

taggie o’hara

• because i knew you, i have been changed for good. PT.1 platonic

random titbits (tony, lizzie etc)

• “well, she’s quite some lady…” rupert x reader ft tony

• “you have so much celestial light.” patrick o’hara x reader

• “that was gloriously naughty.” tony baddingham x reader

[modrntravlr]

live blogging rivals (which i totally DIDN’T forget i was doing, oops)

‼️ rivals spoilers below the cut ‼️

200 pages in. you’re telling me we’re supposed to like rupert? you’re telling me this is the man who is quite literally described as the hero of the story? get the fuck out of here.

[aidanturner]

Declan and Rupert, from enemies to friends 🤗

Photo source: weibo.com

[awitchatdinner]

Rivals has been renewed