#papa!rumple

[intothewickedwood]

Ouattober 2022 Day 20 - Family

[depressedstressedlemonzest]

Late but here. Comments thoughts and pics from 2x14 and 2x15!

He looks so excited to have been called for the front and I know it's gonna be terrible. Milah is actually nice here.

ITS BAE!!!! ITS NEAL!!!!! HENRY IS NEAL'S DAD!@ I MEAN NEAL IS HENRY'S DAD!!!! RUMPLE IS A POP POP!

Also again rumple wearing socks matching his tie is so cute.

Now I'm imagining henry getting him gag ties and socks to match.

What are you bitches up to? Hook included.

I'm just SCREAMING !!!!!!!!!!!

One of my favorite screen grabs "you left me amd let me go to jail because Pinocchio told you to??!"

EMMA SWAN YOU TELL HIM RIGHT NOW!!!

Yes Snow! You lay it down for your daughter!

UNKNOWN GRAMPY AND GRANDSON BONDING TIME. BESTOW THE WISDOM POP POP

Yeah fucking right rumple. Sing that tune now.

The seer's look is cool but the eye hands freaked me out.

I'm going to be a father?

😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

[starwrittenfates]

OOC ;; Finally starting my re-watch of Season 2 of OUAT and we already see my boy, Baelfire/Neal Cassidy! 🥺❤️ I love him so much. He deserves the world— everything!

[obsolescent]

I definitely imagine ghost like this when he comes back from a few months away and he’s just absolutely pissed that reader hasn’t being taking care of herself to take good care of the little ones😭https://vm.tiktok.com/ZGJsu6BM3/

Woven Together

Pairing: Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x AFAB!GN!Reader

Author’s notes: Ough I am a sucker for domestic Simon. Honestly, after all he’s been through I feel like he would be a wonderful father and would want to be one, too. To set an example and show that he can and will be different from what his father was. Oops I’m getting carried away, I just love letting characters heal lol. Thank you for your request! Also…Gender neutral names for a parent are kinda hard to find, lol.

Content Warnings: Marriage, mentions of pregnancy, reader has given birth, reader has been neglecting themselves a bit, just in a forgetful way. Reader is called Mapa, a mixture of mama and papa.

CRASH

The sound echoes throughout the house. Your feet are moving before your brain realizes. You clutch the sling that your infant is nestled into close to your chest, trying to keep them asleep while rushing to your other child. You begin to hear them starting to cry and quicken your pace.

You round the corner into the living room, spotting your child. Your oldest, your son, is in the stage known as the “Terrible Twos,” which is an understatement. He’s so curious, getting into any and everything and it’s hard to keep up with him now that you’ve had your other child, your daughter. She’s just turned four months old, still quite small and sleeping throughout most of the day with feedings every couple hours. You have her in a sling secured around your chest while you made lunch for your son, before the sudden loud noise occurred. 

You see now what’s caused the loud racket and his sobbing. The lamp that was on the end table is now broken on the floor, likely due to him running and bumping into it. “Uh oh!” You exclaim, coming towards him with outstretched hands. He runs into your embrace, while hiccupping an “Uh oh” back to you. It’s something you’ve been able to teach him to say when something like this occurs, whenever he makes a mistake or gets hurt, you’ve realized it helps him calm down and to let him know that accidents happen and he isn’t in trouble.

While cooing in his ear and rubbing his back, you hear keys slide into the lock at the front door. Your head snaps to the sound and you watch your husband, Simon, walk inside. He had been able to be at home for the birth of your daughter through paternity leave, but had to leave again after those six weeks ended. He had been gone for a month now and you were so glad to have him home again. Your son also looks toward the sound, now excited at seeing his father home. “Dada!” He yells, rushing towards him. 

He sets his duffle bag aside and crouches down with his arms wide. “Hello, my boy!” He says, scooping him up and hugging him. You beam at the display, before making your way to them both. “Hello to you, too, my loves, " He says, bending down and giving you a quick kiss to the lips, before crouching further to plant one on his daughter’s head. He holds your cheek in his hand, studying your face. He must notice the bags under your eyes, unruliness of your hair, the rumpled clothing. You wince. “Darling…” He trails off, narrowing his eyes at you. 

 “It’s been a rough month without you, honey,” You answer honestly. No use in hiding it, you reckoned, for it was bare to his eyes. “Sit.” Simon instructs you, putting an arm around you, directing you towards the couch. You take a seat, while he sets your son down. “Hold Esther while I put the sling on,” He says, waiting for you to hand it to him. You look up at him, confused. “You need rest, love. Let me watch the children while you relax.” “But you just got back from a mission–” He stops you by cupping your face in his hands. “No arguing. Now, the sling, please.” You grumbled under your breath while slipping your daughter out from the cloth.

After unwrapping yourself from the sling, you hand it to Simon, who begins to place it around himself. Once finished, he scoops up Esther and places her against his chest, safely securing her inside its hold. She begins to fuss, but soon settles after Simon begins rubbing her back and cooing to her. You can’t help but smile at the display, your heart full of love and warmth for your little family. 

Simon grabs your son’s hand. “Timothy, we’re going to let Mapa take a break, alright? Let’s go have ourselves a snack, yeah?” Your son eagerly nods his head, tugging him towards the kitchen. Simon looks back at you with a smile, “Enjoy your break, darling.” “Thank you, Simon. I love you.” “Love you more.” You stand up from the couch and head towards yours and Simon’s room. Slipping into your pajamas, you crawl into bed, sleep gently taking you. 

Waking with a start after feeling the bed shift, you feel arms wrap around you. “Simon?” You asked groggily, looking over your shoulder. “It’s me, love. How was your nap?” “It was wonderful, thank you, honey.” You sit up and wipe the sleep from your eyes, blinking a few times as your eyes adjust to the dark, slivers of moonlight poking through the curtains. “How long did I sleep for?” You asked, remembering it was around one o’clock in the afternoon when Simon arrived home. “It’s nine now,” He replies, running his fingers through your hair. Nine?! 

“Oh my Lord, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to sleep that long, I must’ve been worn slap out.” You feel guilt gnawing at you for leaving Simon alone with the children for so long, before he says, “It’s fine, didn’t want to disturb your rest, you needed it.” He kisses the back of your hand. “The children are asleep, just me and you now.” Oh. You return to his hold, wrapping your arms around his neck and pull him into a kiss. 

“What would I do without you, Simon? Thank you for today,” You say, now running your hands through his short blond locks. He hums with a grin, “Bare minimum I could do, was glad to have the time with the little ones anyways.” He was never one to accept praise. “Now, I want to spend my time with my spouse. Are you hungry?” The mention of food causes your stomach to growl, loudly. You both laugh, before Simon pulls you from bed. “Let’s order some takeout and watch a movie, yeah?” You grin and nod, excited at the prospect of an at-home date with your husband. 

After ordering food, you settle down to wait for the delivery, nestled against each other on the couch. You lay down while Simon’s situated against you, his head on your chest while holding you close. You don’t take for granted the time you have with Simon. Always glad to be in his company. It’s times like these you cherish the most, able to make the most of the time allotted to you two. “I love you,” You whisper to him, brushing your fingers against his cheek. He turns his head up to stare into your eyes, his honeyed gaze filled with adoration. “Love you most.”

[green-eyedfirework]

There--Dick was weakly shifting in the ground, movements uncoordinated and breaths hitching. Now it was time to find out what Dick was trying to hide so badly.

Jason kicked open the bedroom door and it hit the wall with a crash. Nothing stood out of place at first glance--the bed had a rumpled nest, the room was neater than Dick usually kept it, there was an odd looking dresser in the corner--

Jason realized it was a cradle the moment he heard the high, thin wail.

Jason's body moved despite his numbness, steps creeping closer to the crib. He could hear a choked sound from outside the room.

Jason, helmet off but gear on, gun in one hand, armored up, reached the edge of the crib and looked down.

At the infant shaking a tiny little fist and shrieking at the top of their lungs.

Something inside Jason had gone unmoored.

"No," came the strangled sound from the hallway, low and broken.

Jason, stuck in a daze, holstered his gun. The baby was still strenuously protesting, kicking their tiny little feet, tucked in a bright yellow duckling patterned onesie.

They were heavier than Jason expected, and he carefully supported their head while he cradled them in his arms.

The green was gone. The green had no say here, with a tiny infant--his nephew? His niece?--tucked into his arms.

He could hear the whisper of cloth against wood, like something was being dragged slowly.

"Shh," Jason hushed the baby, rocking them and nuzzling the top of their head, marveling at the soft fuzz. "Shh, sweetie, I'm sorry I woke you up."

The baby proved as obstinate as their papa though, and kept wailing. Nothing Jason did could quiet them, and he could feel his distress ticking higher the longer he heard those heartbroken wails.

Jason stomped out of the room. Dick had managed to crawl three steps, fighting against the submission for every inch. His desperation made a lot more sense now.

"They won't stop crying," Jason said, brusque.

Dick twisted until one blue eye was looking up, twisted in fear and distress. His voice was cracking, "She's probably hungry."

Oh. That made sense. Jason headed for the kitchen--Dick made a high, panicked sound--but couldn't find any formula. "How do you feed her?" he called out.

Dick's expression was tight and strained. "I feed her."

Jason looked down at him, at the blood covering the golden boy's face, the way those eyes were fixed on the child, the trembling, outstretched hand inches away from Jason's boot.

Jason's grip tightened on his niece. She continued her screeches.

Fine.

Dick's movements were still weak and uncoordinated and Jason could haul him up with one hand and drag him to the couch, ignoring the faint struggles. He waited until Dick had righted himself before extending the baby girl. He didn't even know her name.

Dick snatched her the moment she was in reach, curling protectively around her and shaking with barely audible sobs. The baby kept crying.

"Feed her," Jason hissed, abruptly angry again.

Dick cowered back at the growl, but decided to follow the order. He stayed pressed against the back of the couch, half hunched to hide the baby as much as he could while he pulled down one side of his shirt.

The little one was definitely hungry, she latched on immediately and began sucking away. Dick covered her as much as he could with still-trembling limbs, his flat-eyed gaze fixed on Jason.

Jason felt extremely awkward now.  He was aware he was looming, and he took a step back.  “…What’s her name?” he asked hesitantly.

Dick looked down at the infant, and back up.  “Marian,” he said quietly.

Marian.  Jason had a niece and her name was Marian.  He shifted a little closer to see her face, and Dick coiled over her again.  “I’m not going to hurt her,” Jason said slowly, because he could see how Dick had gotten the wrong impression.  But Jason wouldn’t—Jason couldn’t hurt the child.  She’d done nothing wrong.

Jason had a niece.

“If you do, he'll kill you," Dick said, voice soft.

"What?" Jason wanted to laugh. Batman hadn't killed the Joker, and Dick thought he'd make an exception for him?

Batman had made his rules clear. He wouldn't break them, even for his favorite child.

"He'll kill you," Dick repeated, absolutely certain. "No matter where you hide, he will hunt you down and tear you to pieces. And he'll make it slow."

Ooh, Golden Boy was more bloodthirsty than Jason had expected.

"Batman's not going to save you," Jason sneered. "He's always too late for his birds."

Dick blinked, forehead scrunching in confusion. "I wasn't talking about Batman."

"Oh?" Jason raised an eyebrow. "Then who're you talking about?"

"Slade," Dick said, like it was obvious. "He'll destroy you and everyone you love for hurting his daughter."

The words took a stretching moment to register. What was Deathstroke's daughter doing in Dick's apartment and why was Dick so protective of--

No.  No.  "You slept with Deathstroke?" Jason squawked.

Dick looked even more confused before his expression ticked back into distress. "Who are you?" he asked hoarsely. "What do you want?"

Jason had wanted a fight, and the Replacement was too well guarded, so he'd searched out his dear older brother who had given up the vigilante life to play rich socialite--and that made so much more sense now--and Jason had been so angry and--and he'd come here looking for a punching bag.

Jason looked at Dick's face, bruised and bloody and lined with exhaustion, and felt ill.

"Don't change the goddamn topic," Jason snapped. "Why the hell did you decide that getting into bed with the world's deadliest mercenary was a good fucking idea?"

“I really don’t see how it’s any of your business,” Dick said frigidly.  He was glaring at the helmet like he wanted it to burst into flames.

“He’s a goddamn killer,” Jason nearly shouted. “Is that who you decide to spread your legs for?”

Several emotions crossed Dick’s face, flitting too fast for Jason to track, but it settled on a blankness that unsettled him.  “Is this a savior complex thing?”

“What?”

“Are you trying to save me?” Dick asked, voice eerily toneless. “Is this supposed to be a rescue?”

Jason drew up short.  He looked at Dick—at the gaunt face below the bruises and blood, the way he’d been so exhausted he hadn’t registered Jason until the sucker punch.  He’d threatened that Deathstroke would come for the baby.  Not for him.

“Yes,” Jason said, startling himself with the speed of the response.  He stepped closer and crouched near his older brother and Dick tensed but didn’t flinch.  “Yes, this is a rescue.”

Fuck Bruce.  Fuck every single hero that had seen Dick with Deathstroke and hadn’t done a thing to stop it.  Jason didn’t know what sword Slade was holding over Dick’s head, and he didn’t care.  He’d get them free, Dick and Marian, and he’d blow the mercenary to pieces when he found him.

“It’s okay, Dickie,” Jason said, low and soothing. “You’re safe now.”

Dick withdrew into the couch, eyes lowering, his arms rigid around Marian.  He was trembling again.  Jason dared to put a gloved hand on Dick’s arm, and internally rejoiced when Dick didn’t shove him off.

“Dickie?” Jason ventured quietly. “Do you have a diaper bag for Marian?”

Dick nodded.  “It’s in the bedroom,” he said softly.  He wasn’t looking at Jason, his gaze fixed downwards.

“I’ll go and get it,” Jason promised. “Wait right here.”

“Okay, alpha,” was murmured so quietly Jason wasn’t quite sure he heard it.  Shaking off the unease at the compliant tone, Jason hurried into the bedroom to grab the bag.  He still needed a go bag for Dick, but he could get Dick new stuff.  New ID, new clothes, new everything.  Talia was not Dick’s biggest fan, but if Jason asked really nicely, she might help.  Hell, he’d bet the demon brat would be thrilled to be an uncle.

Dick was right where Jason left him—the submission, his mind hissed at him, which, oops, he’d forgotten about that—and Jason again dropped to a crouch in front of Dick.  “Is there anything else we need to get?” he asked.  Dick mutely shook his head.  “I’ll keep you safe, Dickiebird, I—”

His older brother raised his head, his eyes alight again.  “Don’t call me that,” he nearly growled, and Jason stared at him, wide-eyed, before Dick widened his eyes and ducked his head.  “I’m sorry, alpha,” he said quietly. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Jason unstuck his jaw, “Hey, Dickibir—Dickie, it’s okay.”  He reached a hand to settle it on Dick’s elbow, and he could feel the tension as Dick held perfectly still.  “Dick—Dick, I’m not going to hurt you,” Jason ground out, but he was staring at splotchy bruises and dried blood that he’d caused, and the words rang flat in his own head.

Jason shifted up, until he was sitting on the couch beside Dick, and attempted to draw his brother into an embrace.  Dick always liked hugs.  But now, Dick was stiff and unyielding, and his heartbeat was too fast, his elbows jutting out as he curled around Marian.  Jason tried to arrange them more comfortably, and Dick moved with his nudges, leaning back against Jason’s shoulder and tipping his head to one side to bare his neck.

It was a show of trust.  But Dick’s heart was racing and his breathing sounded fast and wet, his body tense like he was bracing himself.

Jason looked down at the expanse of Dick’s neck, the bloody bite a ghastly image against the smooth, tan skin, and something clicked in his head.

He nearly shoved Dick off in his rush to get off of the couch.  “Dick, no,” Jason said, already working at the catches of his helmet, “I’m not going to—Dick, it’s me.”  He finally managed to pull the broken helmet off and tossed it aside.  “It’s Jason.”

Dick stared at Jason for a long moment, his face growing ashen as his expression grew more anguished, and he finally shook his head.  “No,” he murmured. “No, no, no, not now, I can’t—please not now—”

“Dick?” Jason tried. “Dickie?”

“Please,” Dick’s voice cracked, his eyes screwed shut as he rocked slightly in place. “Five—five things I can touch, I—the couch, my pants, Mari, Mari’s clothes, my ring.  He’s not real.  He’s not real.”

Jason felt like the world had been shoved sideways.  “Dick, I am real,” Jason said slowly, beginning to realize that coming here with no intel had been a very bad idea.  “Dick, I’m right here, it’s me, it’s Jay, please open your eyes.”

Dick shook his head, gasping, “No, he’s dead, he’s dead, you can’t be him, this isn’t real, I can’t—I can’t—”

“I came back,” Jason said over Dick’s increasingly strident tone. “Dick—Dickiebird, I came back, okay, I crawled out of my grave, it’s me, please look at me!”

Dick snapped open his eyes.  His gaze crawled over Jason’s face, hope warring with terror in a painful fracture.  “Jay?” his voice broke. “What—what happened?”

“Funny,” a low, deep, dark voice growled, causing a prickle down Jason’s spine, “that’s just what I was about to ask.”

[ghoulangerlee]

this has been in my drafts for a while tbh, I thought of it one day, scribbled the idea out and then never committed to it.

So, I challenged myself to write this out in the 30 mins I have before bedtime (I seem to have went over by a few oops)

Copiaether cockwarming ahead <3, a bit contemplative, soft and full of love. The book Aether's reading is House on The Cerulean Sea by TJ Klune :) hope you guys enjoy!

-

Time around him goes syrupy and sweet, slow like molasses the longer he kneels there, mouth stretched around where Aether’s somewhere between hard and soft.

He'd been told before, however long that was, to kneel and be good, open his mouth and let the thick head of Aether’s cock rest against his tongue.

No sucking, just resting, keeping him warm and wet while Aether reads—and he is reading, from a novel that Aether had been picking his way through.

The words don’t mean much to Copia, not like this, not when he’s surrounded by the scent of Aether where it’s the thickest—kneeling here between his spread legs, mouth full, content—

Oh. He shifts, there’s a sharp pain in his knees despite the soft pillow he’s resting on, he shifts again, makes a sort of garbled, grumbling sound in his throat, vibrates down his chest as he opens his eyes, disgruntled at the way his body had so easily pulled him from that floaty place of contentment.

He taps, once and then twice more against Aether’s bare calf, gaze trained upwards as Aether stops reading and lowers the book, cataloguing his expression despite everything.

“Do you need something, darling?” Aether asks, pitching his voice low, just as he had been reading, placing the book face down over the arm that he's closest to.

Copia doesn’t speak, doesn’t pull away until Aether’s hands gently guide him up and away, his mouth open still as he mourns the loss of the fullness, but Aether shushes him, rubs a thumb over his lower lip where its shiny and slick with spit, “Use your words,” he chides gently, stern in a way that makes Copia want to obey.

“My knees,” he finally says, hating the way his voice goes wobbly, something about being here for Aether, kneeling at his feet while Aether practically ignores him makes him feel in ways he didn’t think was possible. “Can we change positions?”

Aether smiles, spreads his legs wider and leans down to kiss at Copia’s slack lips, warm and encouraging, “Come up here on the couch, darling.”

It takes him a few minutes to comply, his knees twinging painfully as he stands, but Aether’s hands are cool as they slip under his T-shirt, gently funneling magic into him, letting it wash over his stiff joints to soothe as he guides him up onto the couch.

Copia sighs as he stretches out, lies on his belly so he can nuzzle his way back into Aether’s lap, making a contemplative noise—Aether’s thickened up a bit in the meantime, and he peers up at him, blinking slowly, “Can I—?”

Aether cards his fingers through Copia’s hair, gentle and light, “Is that what you want?” he asks softly, thumb brushing over the graying hair at his temples, “We can shift to something else. Take this to the bed…” he trails off, glances over at the bedroom door, opened to reveal the rumpled sheets of Aether’s bed.

“No,” Copia says, the word catching in his throat as he shifts on the couch more, it’s located in the perfect spot, a grand window overlooking the forest at the back of the church, the sunlight coming through the crack between the curtains bathing the couch and the two of them in warm light.

“I want to stay,” Copia continues, “Right here. For a bit longer. Finish your chapter,” he glances and the book on the arm of the couch, the colorful cover bringing a sense of calm over him, “Maybe two more chapters. And then...” he trails off, uncertain.

So unlike the persona he puts on when on stage, Papa Emeritus the Fourth, so larger than life, yet here he is, feeling as if he’s suggested something terrible for the two of them, even when—

“Two more chapters, huh?” Aether asks, cutting his thoughts off, “I think I can do that. I am enjoying the book,” he admits, “And the company.”

Copia hides his face against Aether’s bare thigh, the dusting of hair there tickling against his skin, he’s flushed, embarrassed, knowing how fast he's slipping if a sly comment and a wink causes him to act like this.

“Can I—?” Copia manages, muffled against Aether’s thigh for a moment, before he lifts his head, peers up at him with half lidded eyes, “I want to keep you warm again, my ghoul, while you’re reading.”

Aether’s hand slips down from his hair, thumb brushing over his cheek, then to his bottom lip, guiding his mouth open, “Mm, I think you’ve earned it,” he says sweetly, “Do you remember my rules?”

Copia nods, trying not to look too eager at the idea of getting his mouth back on Aether, “No sucking, no licking, I’m just keeping you warm.”

“Good boy,” Aether says warmly, leaning down to press a kiss to Copia’s forehead, nuzzling at his hairline for a moment, “Two more chapters and then we’ll move to the bedroom,” he murmurs.

A noise, something excited, slips from Copia’s mouth as he lets Aether guide him back to where his cock has chubbed up, thick and resting there between his legs, fitting his mouth over the girth of it feels like home.

Or maybe it’s just being with Aether that feels like home, and Copia settles into it, rests one arm over Aether’s thighs while the other one curls under his chest, comfortable and warm now that he’s not kneeling on the floor.

Aether pets through his hair a few times, murmuring a soft Good boy before he’s picking up his book again, sinking back against the couch as he starts reading aloud from it again.

The whole time, Copia drifts—warm and comfortable as time goes syrupy thick again, his eyes fluttering closed as he feels his entire body relax once more. His mouth stretched around Aether—chubby and thick in his mouth, making his jaw ache just a little with it, while Aether reads above him, voice warm and low, welcoming.

“A home isn’t always the house we live in. It’s also the people we choose to surround ourselves with."

[kissingghouls]

If You Remember This Tomorrow

Phantom Ghoul x GN! Reader - Fluff, Tipsy Kissing, 1700 words

Heard a song, had an idea, wrote some fluff. I don't even know. Thank you to @ramblingoak because you're always so dang supportive. 💜

fic list // ao3 // Little Ghost (pt2) // A Late Night Call (pt3)

The room is loud, almost unbearably so. There are bodies everywhere, some paired off and some not, but all of them are illuminated by lights that flash in a wonderful rainbow of pretty colors. The dancefloor is full, and you feel as though you’re floating after that last drink that tasted more like red than anything else.

A smile spreads over your face as Swiss sways a little too excitedly and stumbles over his dance partner. None of this is new, not even the multi-ghoul falling over his own feet. He barks out a hearty laugh from his new spot on the floor, his whole body shaking. Somehow, he manages to get back to his feet without spilling a drop of his drink. It’s an impressive feat that earns him a kiss on the cheek as a prize before the pair spins off together to get better acquainted.

The success of the Ghost project meant that a good portion of the Ministry was on tour more often than not anymore. While the Ministry parties had always been wild, the more recent homecoming celebrations left most of the congregation with little to no memory of the night before.

A thick fog rolls over the floor, that sickly sweet smell of chemical syrup pumped out from the machines filling the air. Phantom materializes in it, a vapor turned solid shape that now blocks your path. You bounce off him, unsteady and unable to correct your course in your current state. He grabs your elbow, keeping you upright and off the ground with a soft smile. His teeth have a red tint to them, much like your own, but it’s too bright and too loud to make out what he’s saying.

He leans in to repeat himself, his grip a little tighter on your arm. He smells like strawberries and some kind of alcohol. But under the top notes of what you guessed was the last drink he had was the soft smell of a cologne so nice you wanted to bury your face in it.

You hadn’t spent a lot of time with the newly summoned ghoul—time was a luxury neither one of you had. But the pull had been there from the beginning, ever since he clawed his way out of the Pit and locked eyes with you. It’s a dance, one with several complicated steps and neither one of you had felt compelled to lead.

He says something else, words that taste like fruit punch and candy. You grin lazily and pat his shoulder, allowing yourself the first intended contact from you to him. His breath hitches, grip tightening once more. He’s so close now you can feel the heat of his skin through his clothes. A uniform you dare to imagine, for a split-second, rumpled in a pile on your floor.

It’s clumsy at first and your teeth clash together more than your lips, but the two of you are in such a stupor that you don’t stop. His hand moves to your back, pressing you close as he adjusts and kisses you properly. Behind you someone whistles—most likely Dew or Cumulus—but it doesn’t distract the ghoul from the task. He brings a hand to the side of your face, fingers splayed over your cheek and neck as he pulls the breath from your lungs.

You grab handfuls of his collar and break away, keeping your forehead pressured to his as you struggle for air. Kissing him is like drowning and you want nothing more than to be underwater again.

“‘M sorry,” he mumbles against your lips. He draws a line over your cheekbone with the pad of his thumb and moves in again.

The next kiss is dizzying, knees buckling under the pressure and the flick of his tongue. He keeps you upright with a firm hand on your back and the one on your face slides into your hair. He tugs lightly, a smile hidden between you as you let out the tiniest moan.

Someone clears their throat nearby and the pair of you split apart like you’ve been caught behind the bleachers at a school dance. Papa offers Phantom an almost fatherly smile and pats him on the shoulder. He suggests the two of you get some air to avoid the cluster of ghouls watching nearby.  Phantom is flustered, a pink tinge highlighting his cheeks as he stares back at his captive audience. Mountain and Rain each give him a thumbs up paired with toothy grins.

Your own cheeks heat up as you realize at some point you had been the topic of discussion between the ghouls. Some lonely night had passed between them on the road, maybe on the bus or in some dingy greenroom, and you were the reason he asked for advice from the others. The revelation makes you feel too warm in your clothes, a blush now spreading over your entire body.

You press your face against his shoulder, hiding a shy smile. He slides his hand down your arm, fingers brushing as the lace with yours. He asks if you would like to go with him and yes is the only word you know for a moment.

You don’t miss the smile on his face when the two of you start moving toward the exit, hand in hand.

“Wait!”

Sunshine, ever the perpetual dealer of chaos, approaches carrying two large cups filled with that same red drink that now tastes like Phantom’s kiss. She drops a wink in your direction that is the opposite of subtle and tells you both to have fun before sending you away.

Outside the night is unseasonably cool, a rare break from the heat of summer and the abbey’s sweltering ballroom. You both close your eyes, enjoying the gentle breeze that blows over the grounds. It’s quiet as the wind stills. No one else has made their way out from the party yet. In a few hours the lawn will be filled with your friends and his, but for now it’s just you and Phantom and maybe a curious spirit or two.

You sip carefully from your cups as you walk, the red dye staining your lips and teeth. It doesn’t matter to either of you anymore.

Phantom trips over a gnarled tree root, his drink spilling sticky red liquid over his fingers as he drops to the ground. You can’t help but laugh, the alcohol in your system doing you no favors. He pouts beneath you and wipes his wet hand across your thigh, smearing juice and dirt into your clothes. As you move to help him up, you catch the same root with your own feet and land in the grass next to him in a fit of giggles.

“You ok?” he asks through his own laughter, smiling wide when you nod. He settles on the lawn propped up on an elbow as he watches you.

The minutes pass, the pair of you splitting the remainder of your drink as you sit together in the grass. It’s a clear, beautiful night—a lot like the night he was summoned and pulled from the ground by Papa himself. You smile at the thought, the memory now a tiny movie in your head.

“I think I’m stuck,” he tells you and sinks into the ground a little more.

You shuffle closer, the space between you reduced to maybe half an inch. He drapes an arm over your waist, closing the gap even more with a soft sigh.

“You’re nice to look at,” he admits happily, a small hiccup breaking the sentence.

“Am I?”

“Mmhmm. There’s a word for it up here—I can’t remember it now, but in the Pit we’d say,” he pauses for a moment and brings his mouth to your ear before making a noise that sounds like a dryer full of gravel. “There’s not a word for word translation, but it’s close.”

You do your best to imitate the noise, giggling at his surprised face.

“You kiss your mother with that mouth?” he teases, clutching a hand to his chest in fake shock.

You laugh harder at his stupid joke than you mean to, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

“No,” you finally manage as you dare to reach for his waist. “Kissed you with it, though.”

“Oh, yeah,” he says thoughtfully. “We should do that again.”

“We could. Or you can tell me more about how I’m nice to look at.”

He buries his face in the space between your neck and shoulder with a tiny whine. “Words are hard, ok?”

“So you’re not going to kiss—mmph!”

He catches your lips in another slow, passionate kiss that leaves you lightheaded. Your legs tangle as he pins you against the soft ground and you can’t think of anywhere you’d rather be. He tastes like heaven or maybe hell, syrupy sweet from whatever the ghouls had put in those cups.

He sounds smug as he mumbles something about being right to want to kiss you again, not quite pulling away enough to be fully understood. It doesn’t matter because you’re both smiling, completely drunk on fruit punch and each other.

Minutes become hours, but Phantom keeps you warm through the night. You talk about everything as you slowly sober up. He tells you about his time on the road, stories about mischief and misbehaved ghouls and the thousands of happy faces that he’s seen. You explain what he missed while he was away, like the time the hell hound puppies escaped their crates and dug up part of Primo’s garden and the day Cowbell fell into the fountain.

The two of you rest against a tree—the same one with the root that had taken you both down. In the comfortable quiet you fall asleep on his shoulder, his arm draped around you to keep you close. When his eyes begin to feel too heavy, he presses a kiss into your hair and rests his head on yours.

It won’t be long before your friends find you and tease you while you all nurse hangovers and swear never to drink that much again. There will be stories about what you missed and who came searching for you, who fell in the pool and who taught Papa the latest dance. You’ll listen to all of it while Phantom holds your hand and you will know you were right where you were supposed to be.

[oautincorrectquotes]

Rumple: My papa always said that if all the other kids were jumping off a cliff, i should too.

Belle: Your father said that?.

Rumple: He was not a nurturer.

[the-price-of-magic]

Ruth is making her way downtown walking fast. She’s keeping to the brightest parts of the sidewalk. And she hears someone drunkenly talking as she approaches the Main Street. Almost to grannies.

@storybrooke-and-cinnamon

Rumple is blabbing on about the so called fight he had with Belle earlier but Neal has long since stopped listening. He sees the stranger approaching and tries to usher his father off to the side and out of the way so she can pass.

It takes Rumple a moment to register why he's being moved but once he clocks the young woman approaching the last of his filter vanishes. "Baelfire, look, a pretty young woman around your age! Pretty young woman, would you like to go on a date with my son?"

Neal's face goes red and he almost drops Rumple, "papa! Shush, she is a stranger, you cannot speak to people that way!"

"I want more grandkids! Henry is wonderful but he tattles on me!" Rumple whines.

"Papa shut up!"

[depressedstressedlemonzest]

Just the shocked heartbreak on rumple's face.

Okay but neal

LOOK AND SEE IF HE HAS A FUCKING SHADOW IF YOU THINK HE'S LYING!

Pulled the ol switcheroo

She's just SO FUCKING PRETTY.

More like stfu self.

I just love david and hooks tete a tete.

If

Oh.

Had a face.

Ariel!

Watching this: how the fuck would peter dickbag pan know rumple's favorite breakfast?

Now: FUCK YOU YOU FUCKING FUCK!!

Also the breakfast of choice of V from V for Vendetta.

Fitting comparison.

Don't believe her! Right?

[imagine-darksiders]

I want to share a snippet from chapter 3 of The Lovelorn King, a little moment between Junior and Y/n, because I'm feeling angsty and apparently can't keep my WIPs a secret. :P

----------

"Peach makes him sad..."

Junior's fingers pluck at a loose thread on the blanket, his gaze falling from the book in your hands to the fucshia sheets rumpled below his chin.

"How so?" you respond absently, thumbing through the pages to see when the chapter ends. With any luck, once it's finished, you might be able to encourage the young prince to return to his own bed and leave you in relative peace.

The Koopaling's muffled response, however, is strange enough to snag your attention.

"Cos' he loves her, but she hates him..."

Loves...?

Lowering the book into your lap, you lean back a little further until your spine hits the head board, blinking mutely at Junior as you finally take note of the deep furrow between his brows and his downcast eyes.

Bowser is in love with Princess Peach...?

Your heart goes out to the poor woman.

Yet, if Junior is to be believed, it sounds as though your royal pen pal doesn't share the same affection for her would-be suitor, a fact that seems to have put the young koopaling in a glum frame of mind which in turn tugs at your feeble heart strings.

For the umpteenth time, you give yourself an admonishing kick for immediately trying to think of ways to set his mind at ease.

Perhaps it wouldn't have hurt to inherit some of your father's apathy after all...

But though Junior may be the son of the tyrant who locked you in this room, you can't get away from the reminder that you're dealing with a mere boy, a young child, as evidenced by the way he stole in here and asked you to read him a bed time story....

What quarrel would any self-respecting Queen have with a child?

Clearing your throat, you duck your head in an attempt to catch the koopaling's eye, hesitantly responding, "Hate is a... strong word. I'm sure she doesn't-"

"-She does!" he suddenly insists with a shout, tossing the blanket aside and pushing himself up onto his stubby arms to glare at you from across the bed, "She hates him! She says he's a monster! And she hates monsters!"

As soon as the words leave his mouth, the young koopa falls uncharacteristically still and quiet, lowering his eyes down to his hands with a sombre expression, eyebrows once again sliding together over his forehead.

Startled away from speech, you can only watch on as he slowly curls his hands into tiny fists, and in doing so, hides his claws from sight.

"If she says Papa's a monster..." he croaks at a volume you didn't think he was capable of achieving, "Does that... make me a monster too?"

------------

Thanks for reading <3

You can find the whole fic here x

[rumbelleshowdown]

-

Author: Muenster Maven

Group: C

Prompts: A new hobby. Lady Belle, Peasant!Rumple. Another kid.

-

Of Shepherds and Sizes

Lord Maurice rubbed his forehead in the space between his furrowed eyebrows, the way he always did when his daughter confounded him.

“A new hobby?” Wearily, he let the parchment fall onto his cluttered desk. 

Belle bristled, but tried not to let it show. If her father would only bother to read the proposal she had written out, he would know exactly what this was and why it was important. As it was, she would have to explain it to him.

“These endeavors are not hobbies, Papa. I’m trying to find ways to help Avonlea. With the rumors of ogre attacks in nearby lands, we might not be able to rely on imports for many of our goods. But if we invest in making things ourselves, we can bear the lack of foreign trade and perhaps eventually compete against those lands. It’s practical!”  

He gave a nod that agreed and dismissed at the same time. Belle’s father was a kind man, though he treated her ideas as whims to be indulged rather than actionable policies for rule.

“As long as it’s not more goats,” he grumbled. “Last thing we need is another kid eating the tapestries in the great hall.”

“Pet goats were ill-advised, I admit. But it’s not goats this time, Papa. It’s sheep.”

He looked with tired, disbelieving eyes. “We have sheep in the fields all over our land.”

“Yes, and I want to use all of them to establish a breeding program. If we can take the smallest sheep from every flock and breed them together, we might be able to create a family of sheep that stays small throughout generations. Those would be easier to keep in a small location, such as within the castle walls.”

Her father sighed. “You’re going to be a shepherdess now?” 

Belle’s face went hot. “I’m going to be someone who can provide wool and meat and milk for our people if the castle is ever under siege!”

“Don’t get upset.” He raised a patronizing hand. “Of course you can do whatever you like. We’ll hire someone who knows sheep and announce an interest in buying the smallest healthy breeding stock we can find.”

“Make sure they’re from all over our lands,” Belle instructed. “We want to pull from a wide variety of flocks to ensure there’s plenty of good blood.”

Lord Maurice picked up his pen and wrote a few lines on a scrap of parchment. He handed it to the steward, who would see that the lord’s will was carried out. Then he moved on to matters of more critical importance. He dismissed Belle with a thoughtless, “Whatever you say, dearest.”

****

A few weeks later, Belle was ankle-deep in mud, squinting in the bright sunlight. The cottage and barn in front of her looked ready to tip over in a strong breeze. The man in front of the sheep pen looked about the same. Spindly and gaunt, he was leaning on his staff more than any shepherd she had ever seen. This was the man Papa had hired for her project? Was he trying to insult her? Did he think that giving her second-rate resources would discourage her enough for her to abandon the endeavor? 

Drawing herself up to her full height, Belle strode purposely toward the hunched-over peasant. She would not give up on her project, no matter what the obstacles.

“Rumpelstiltskin?”

The shepherd turned. This close, she could see the lines years of worry had worn on his face. Gray streaked though his long hair. His clothes were patched and mended. He bowed deeply, holding most of his weight on his staff. 

Belle furrowed her brow. This man was crippled. This man was old.

“Why did my father hire you?”

The words came out more bluntly than she had intended. Inwardly, she chastised herself. Disappointed or not, there was no excuse for her to be rude.

The old man made a resigned grimace, as though he had been expecting the question.

“To be frank, milady, it’s because I was cheap.” His voice was raspy, but not unpleasant. “For the wages of one man, you’ll get myself and my son.”

He waved his staff to the other side of the sheep pen, where a young boy was  pouring water into a trough. His son? The boy couldn’t have been more than fourteen. Perhaps this shepherd wasn’t as ancient as he seemed. 

“But that’s not fair,” Belle said. “How can two men live off the wages of one?”

Rumpelstiltskin shrugged. Again, Belle had the impression that this situation was familiar to him. 

“Bae’s a boy and I’m a lame coward,” he explained. “Neither of us deserves the same amount of food as would go to a real man.”

Belle’s blood boiled. “That’s preposterous! Growing boys are always hungry, and you look like you’ve never had a good meal! This is absolutely absurd. I’ll talk to my father and make sure both of you are compensated fairly for your service.”

“Please don’t, milady,” Rumpelstiltskin protested. “We’re glad for any paying work. And I have faith in your mission.”

She blinked at him, indignation lost in the surprise. “You do? You think breeding small sheep is a good idea?”

“People underestimate the value of small things,” he said. Embers of a smile flickered around his mouth. “So many flocks are bred to be large and produce more wool, but larger animals require more grazing land and more food in the winter.”

“Exactly!” Belle said. “They become more expensive to maintain so fewer people can! My goal is to allow more villagers to have smaller flocks of smaller sheep. They’ll be easier to care for, but still useful--even to those who don’t have a large farm.”

He was the first person to understand her ambition with this project, the first man who didn’t automatically think bigger was better. Despite the infirmity of his body, Rumpelstiltskin was sharp and nimble in his mind. Of course he and his son deserved as much food as would go to other men.  

Gently, she put her hand on his shoulder. She lifted him up to look into her eyes. 

“Rumpelstiltskin,” she declared. “On this endeavor, you will be my right hand. We will work together, though the work may be hard and take many years. I will not have you limited in any way I can prevent. As a woman, there is much I cannot do in this world, but I can do this. Please allow me to ensure you receive fair wages for your labor.”  

A soft light glowed in Rumpelstiltskin’s eyes. That flicker of a smile kindled into a full flame. He looked overcome, as though this was the first act of kindness anyone had ever done for him.

He bowed, even more deeply than he had before.

“As you wish, milady.”

-

[sentenceme-leni]

Day 54. Friday. Minimum 5 sentences.

---

Neal glanced in disbelief from his father to Belle. "What are the two of you doing?!" The question increased in pitch as it went, reaching heights of flabbergasted horror. "I'm right here!"

The two of them wrenched their eyes from each other, and still had the gall to look at Neal with innocent confusion.

"What do you mean, son?"

Neal felt his mouth open, but words failed him. He gestured between them instead, wildly hoping they understood his meaning.

The cleverest couple in Storybrooke gave him a perplexed glance.

His father even tilted his head in that worried angle that Neal remembered from childhood. "Do you feel alright?"

Meanwhile Belle reached out to feel his forehead. "Perhaps the potion didn't settle well?"

Neal resigned himself to being checked for a fever by a woman three hundred years his junior. "I'm fine," he said when Belle was satisfied with her inspection. "It's... Look. We were having a normal conversation about how to handle Regina's sister, and suddenly the two of you just... switched gears."

"Oh." Belle was biting her lip. Great. Now he had distressed his papa's girlfriend. "We didn't mean to fight in front of you."

"That wasn't a fight," his father protested. "It was a discussion from different points of view."

"I wish," Neal muttered.

His comment, unsurprisingly, went unheard.

Belle was back to glaring at Neal's father. "Executions without trial aren't a point of view, Rumple. That's just tyranny."

His father scoffed. "Name a single judge who would let her go unpunished."

"I never said that!" Belle leaned forward, as if her words would make more of an impression if they were said inches away from her objective. "But she's done nothing Regina didn't, and we never would have allowed her to go on the block."

His father looked away.

"Rumple?"

"It was just an idea. Yours was better." His dad gave an ingratiating smile. "Happy?"

To Neal's mounting alarm, Belle did seem satisfied. She even placed her hand on top of her father's. "Then perhaps my idea has merit this time as well?"

By now they were in each other's personal space, eyes locked together and soft smiles on the faces...

"No!" Neal snapped. "No, no, no. That was not a discussion, you guys!"

"Beg your pardon?"

The horror. They even spoke in unison now.

Neal took a deep breath. "Look. I've had this debate with several people. It has never gone like..." He waved his hand between them. "You know!"

They exchanged a glance, no words said. Then Belle shrugged a little and his father pressed his lips together.

Neal had been around the couple enough to translate the wordless conversation: 'Your son, your turn to handle him.'

Before his father could question his health again, Neal pressed on. "You obviously lived together, by yourselves, too long. That was not a normal argument. Trust me. By the end, you were..." His brain vetoed the term 'eye-fucking' in a last ditch attempt to delete the imagery, so he settled for the milder description. "You were flirting so heavily, I'd be blushing if I weren't horrified."

Belle and his father looked at him with wide eyes, still clueless.

The most awkward pause in living history lingered...

"I believe you need to rest, son," said his father at last.

Neal decided he'd rather face a life of awkwardness than make another attempt to enlighten them. "Yes, Papa. You're probably right."

The End

24/05/24

[wastingstarsss]

What's your favorite part/element of Rumple's story arc?

SHSKSHS HOW DO I NARROW IT DOWN??? THERES SO MANY ELEMENTS I LOVE. Okay I’m gonna put this as a few points here.

My top favourite element, the first thing I thought of, is his relentless battle with himself for goodness. He is half and half, half himself and half the dark one. And he’s been this way for centuries, so of course it’s an ongoing battle that’s not easy to drop. He continues to fight it, continues to try to be good, even when he has moments of weakness. He picks himself up again and continues. Whether it’s for Belle or Neal, he doesn’t stop trying to be good. Isn’t that so human of him? Rumple believes himself a coward, but it’s so brave to continue to try to be good when you have a dark curse latched to your soul and the world is seemingly saying “hey, goodness is impossible.”

My second thought is how STRONG his capacity for love is. He takes the curse of the dark one for it. He battles against the curse because of it. When he becomes the dark one, one of the first things he does is end the ogres war and free all the children. He didn’t have to do that. Baelfire was not on that field, yet he did it anyway. He dies for love. He lives again for love. He continues to fight to keep his loved ones safe, even if that means he risks himself. He spends what, 300 years (?), living alone because of his love for Baelfire, because he’s so determined to find his son. And sure it causes some problems. He loses Belle because it’s either her or his magic, and his magic will lead him to Bae. He causes people to hurt because his capacity for love is so fucking strong, it’s never going to be a mild thing. It’s everything or nothing. He dies TWICE for love. And we can’t forget, before Rum became the dark one he gave what little he had to beggars and took care of his emotionally abusive wife, even when he could barely stand with aid. He crippled himself and ruined his reputation for love. His capacity for love fills him to the brim and I adore it.

Final point is: you mentioned his story arc, and he has many? It twists and turns a LOT. So far I’ve focused on elements but I think my favourite arc (and it’s HARD to pin down) is the bits with him and August in s1. And you might be thinking “Bella, that is a weird fucking choice” but hear me out. With August he faces what he’s feared for so long: that his son hates him enough to try and murder him. And he takes that wholeheartedly, actually goes to therapy for it, and approaches who he thinks is his son and delivers a heartbreakingly emotional speech. And even when he realises August isn’t Bae, after their little dispute, he reunites August with his father cause at the end of the day, Rumple is always going to be papa and he can’t stand to see lost children screaming out for their parents, whether that’s actually screaming out or a haunting look in their eyes. That moment of kindness? In the shop when he invites August in and Marco is there? He didn’t have to do that, but he did it anyway. Why? Because Rumple is a good man. He saw a lost child and it reminded him of his son, and isn’t that the point? Neal is his driving point. He is what makes Rumple good.

(Bonus arcs for your consideration: ALL of Skin Deep, the Neverland arc is hauntingly beautiful. And we get Goldstiltskin. Beauty in s7, oh- and that one moment where Rumple says to Emma “please, he’s my son” in s6 about Gideon. Heart wrenching. When he faces his mother and says the world is dangerous because of villains like her and himself- the tone in his voice and the look on his face!! I die inside. And finally, and this is more of a funny bit than a ‘deep’ bit, but that one scene in Underbrooke where he introduces Milah and Emma to each other always cracks me up.)

@martianbugsbunny thank you so much for the ask!! What are your fave elements in rumples story arcs?

[asnowfern]

It's just for tonight

A/N: A Mother's Day drabble! Happy Mother's Day to any mums who sees this🥰

This may or may not be my husband and I. Except I'm the sucker irl😂. This drabble could also be considered a part two to my Nessian pregnancy fic here.

Nesta winnows into the balcony of the House of Wind, walking into the room with a wide smile on her face. She loves her family, she truly does. But there is nothing like a girls night with Emerie and Gwyn. Just the three of them catching up on life and the latest collection of romance novels.

She walks past the growing mess in the corridor to crack open the door of her daughter's room, poking her head in. Only to find the room empty. The bedsheet is rumpled and the blanket lies on the floor, casually tossed aside.

Oh no, he didn't.

She moves on to their room with suspicion brewing in her belly. She enters the room and closes the door with a quiet thud behind her.

And there they are

Their daughter is hidden from sight, safely cocooned under her father's large wing. Cassian's face is adorned with a soft affectionate smile as he watches over his precious daughter.

"Cassian!" Nesta hisses quietly, "We were supposed to get her used to sleeping in her own bed!"

Her mate reluctantly takes his eyes off his baby and gives her a helpless shrug, "She was crying papa!"

She huffs, looking away from the wide innocent hazel eyes and crosses her arms, "Put her back in her room."

Cassian has already turned his back to her and is once again facing his little angel, the soft look returning to his face, "But she's so cute. I'll move her in five minutes."

Nesta is not surprised to come back to the room after washing up to find her daughter curled up against her sleeping father. She takes a moment to take in the sight, letting it fill her heart and spill out of her chest. She slides in under the covers. Her lips curl into a smile as the wing covering her daughter lifts to envelope around her, bringing her into the fold.

Nesta breathes her family's presence in and feels herself drifting off. She can sleep in her own bed tomorrow. She can sleep with them just for tonight.

[priscilla9993]

Chess Allusions: Pawn Parallels

Rogers: “So you can use [her info] as leverage against [Belfrey]?”

Weaver: “Well that’s how this game works, Detective.”

Talking in the park, Weaver and Rogers both want the information that Tilly knows, the kind that causes Victoria to feel threatened, enough to blackmail Weaver with Tilly’s imprisonment and some CCTV footage of his misdeeds. Although both detectives covet finding and questioning Tilly for what she knows, their motives differ. 

Weaver has a “means to an end” approach, valuing Tilly only when she can be useful in his schemes. His selfish nature sides with his freedom and power over her wellbeing, and he’s okay with that. Tilly might be his informant with the ‘best eyes and ears in Hyperion Heights’, but at the end of the day, she’s replaceable, someone worth losing if it means he gains a stepping stone in the long game against taking down Victoria Belfrey.

Rogers: “Is that all this girl is to you and Belfrey? A pawn? Then why don’t we split up, since one of us actually wants to help her?”

But to Rogers, who doesn’t even know Tilly at this point, he sees Victoria and Weaver’s game as something where people win at the expense of somebody else and goes into full papa bear mode. Rogers wants to help Weaver as a partner and wage justice against Victoria, but not at the cost of using Tilly. He sees Tilly as a vulnerable person caught in the crossfire of a game they didn’t even know they were playing, rather than a soldier in a chess match, and wants to talk to her on equal terms. 

His opinion of Tilly being a bit off kilter but innocent at heart only strengthens when Weaver, in the hospital, unexpectedly pardons her of assumed criminal charges, telling Rogers an obvious lie about a masked robber being the one who shot the gun. Upon meeting Tilly outside of the hospital room, Rogers sees a confused, distraught, and guilt ridden young woman playing a game of chess alone. He tells her the facts with a kind opinion, “Look, you weren’t in your right frame of mind. He doesn’t blame you.” They build up an acquaintance and the budding start of a camaraderie over chess.

However, this all changes when the monster that is Gothel/the fire nation arrives Eloise Gardener gets into the playing field. Victoria and Drizella play cat and mouse, Weaver uses Tilly in a game of lies, and Rogers tries to make sense of things, inadvertently rescuing Gothel, the big bad spider.

Rogers to Weaver: You lied! And you made Tilly lie. Why did you do that?!

Weaver: Because you don't know what's going on around here... But I did it for one reason: to protect you from your bloody self.

(gratuitous physical violence scene bc I love the dynamic)

What Rumple could mean by ‘bloody self’ could be that Rogers lets his temper cloud his judgment first before he goes seeking revenge on/fighting for justice for those who deserve it most. I think that's where Rumple sees the most Killian come out from the supposed "Eagle Scout" detective, stubborn and determined to stick to his guns until he gets to his desired conclusion, which in this case is finding Eloise Gardener (Gothel). 

Rogers defends Tilly, despite only meeting her a few times, going so far as to bodyslam Weaver as he confronts him. However, he loses his respect for her after finding Eloise, where no explanation could outweigh the cost.

Rogers: What do you want?

Tilly: To say I’m sorry about the page. Weaver said it was for the best and I can’t always figure that out for myself.

Rogers: Take a look at what he was covering up. Now tell me, was that for the best? You know what? I understand. I’m just disappointed. You weren’t the person I thought you were.

Rogers is a man of many things, holding grudges being one of them and being rational in the other. The blonde informant had gone so far as to even lie to him about Eloise, dead of all things. As much as he wanted to forgive Tilly, he didn’t know if he could.

At the end of the day, in Rogers’s mind, Eloise needed help, rescue, and emergency aid, something that only happened because of his deep obsession with finding a missing girl from a cold case. And Tilly deterred him from saving a life, unintentional or not.

Roni: “Henry told me about how Weaver used that girl, Tilly.”

Rogers: “Well, it seems to me like she wanted to be a pawn.”

Rogers feels his trust was betrayed and remains disappointed in Tilly. He saw Weaver being a shady bastard from a mile away, but he didn’t expect her to be complicit in Weaver’s dirty schemes. He wanted to believe Tilly was the kind of person who questioned whatever she was told and made her own path on decisions like he did, not so easily roped into following plans, especially ones of slimy bastards like Weaver. If Rogers saw Tilly as an innocent victim of society before, moved around like a pawn, he feels wronged in his judgment and probably thinks she was content to be a sheep to Weaver’s mysterious whims. 

Who was he to believe she could be more than a pawn when she chose to be one?

Luckily, Roni was there to whack the obviously menacing poisoned cake from his hands and knock some sense into him.

Regina as Roni: “You know, people only let themselves be used when they don’t have any other option. How about you give her one?”

Tilly, even if a marmalade sandwich was needed as incentive, had been willingly helpful to his case. The only moment she hadn’t been was when she was under Weaver’s thumb, someone she had known and trusted like a father figure, unlike him who was a stranger in her eyes. People came and went from the older detective’s team, knowledge of informants and detective partners leaving frequently unless they had a special skill set or blackmail hanging over them. If anything, she wasn’t fully to blame.

What Tilly and Rogers can't see until it's too late, being cursed and all, is that they are good natured people afraid of getting hurt, wanting to help others, but unfortunately victims of manipulation, of those with ulterior agendas that use them as playing pieces, making them no better than pawns. 

Roni was right. People like Tilly wouldn’t let themselves be used like pawns if they didn’t have any other option. She had been brave enough to show up to the crime scene to apologize to him in person after what she did, not caring about being forgiven, and he hadn’t even given what she had said a second thought. Knowing Weaver, Rogers would have concluded that the old bastard probably didn’t even give her the entire picture and used her good intentions in an ill manner befitting the man’s deceitful ways, leading her to think it was for the best. 

This leads to Rogers making a step in the right direction. It doesn’t take more than Roni’s small nudge of advice to get him to internally forgive Tilly and go in search of her, eventually offering a chess set to help pass the time with a weekly game and a friend who’d listen if she’d accept. From then on, Rogers and Tilly both grow and begin to trust again, trying to protect the other from getting harmed as the consequence of another’s scheme.