#working with such a tiny little canvas was fun. and figuring out how to imitate the viewfinder was neat

[rabbit-rays]

and the war has been over for years since you gave up.

[pseudofaux]

Aaww i’d like the ikevamp boys with babies please 🥺🥺

🥺

Wouldn’t we all?! DaddyVamps! I’m soft!!! I’m not sure who you like best, so I’ll mix up the group of three so you get different kinds of baby-holding ikemen. How abouuuut... Jean, Leo, and Theo(!)? I hope they are ones you like! ♥️

{ETA April 28, 2021: I did more on another request! Comte, Dazai, and Vincent here.}

Jean is exactly as tender a father as you’d imagine, very serious and careful (and solemn) in the first few days. Around three months, when the baby giggles for the first time, his happiness and wonder become more evident to anyone who sees them together. Eye crinkled at the outer corner, his voice even softer than usual. You knew all along, of course! Jean takes so little sleep to begin with that he takes charge of anything overnight that you don’t absolutely have to do. He will not wear the baby, but he will carry the child everywhere and gets really good at doing things one handed. Infants love light/dark contrasts so Jean’s baby is going to be fascinated with his eyepatch and hair and how they stand out against his face. Jean quietly croons French lullabies and nursery songs to the baby day and night. He’s not territorial but he is very hands-on, so you may have to encourage him to give the baby back to you sometimes. He is very, very devoted to teaching your child to read. 💜 Baby grows up grave and very, very gentle, only showing ferocity when their sharp sense of justice is violated.

Leonardo is astonishingly choked up at first (everyone who knows him is astonished, anyway), and treats your newborn like a precious and delicate treasure. When a few weeks go by and he has the time to see baby literally growing more sturdy before his eyes, he relaxes back into his usual chill, drawly ways. The baby seems to be soothed best of all by Leo holding or wearing them against his chest, subtly bouncing, and humming out little “huh huh huh, huh hun hun, ah ah ah”s as he pats their bottom with one hand and paints or turns pages with another, and the sight makes you want to work on another baby IMMEDIATELY. As baby gets even stronger, Leo’s the type of dad to hold bambino/a by the back and flip them over until they get the gurgle-hiccups laughing. He carves them so many wooden toys, lots of figurines of all baby’s zii in the mansion, and tiny simple machines. Tries to teach the baby to say “il cuneo, la puleggia” and the other names way before they are ready to talk. Their eventual first word is “papà” and he gets choked up again—visibly tearful. Covers the baby with kisses until they laugh. Later, 100% the kind of father to hold the child upside down by the ankle at the beach. 🤎 Baby grows up industrious but dreamy, obsessed with locomotives from an early age.

Theo mocks the baby... gently. “Why all the fuss, huh? Disrespectful. You disturb the peace of this place,” he says. And then he doesn’t even check to see if anyone is looking before he rubs his nose against the tiny one in the swaddle he holds. He and the newborn have staring contests* and Theo begins, quickly, to be proud of the child’s intense, assessing gaze. Baby loves Vincent so much and that’s... a good thing... it is! The baby has taste! The baby is smart enough to recognize family! That playful, ever-fun Uncle Arthur is another of baby’s clear favorites makes Theo tch so much it’s one of the first sounds the child attempts to imitate. Theo keeps his manners but despite his mellow sarcasm toward the child, he is DEFINITELY the most boastful of the fathers toward everyone else, quick to bring up what magnificent new thing the van Goghling has done. “This child grasps my finger with strength you would not believe! This small child prefers to look at ultramarine, of all the blues! This child toddled toward the finest color on their uncle’s canvas!” For awhile, Theo has trouble finding his footing in love, now that his heart is in thirds and his purpose includes fatherhood. He figures it out, though. 💙 Baby grows up ruthlessly practical and shrewd, with a hidden gift for lifelike sketches with charcoal pencils.

*Theo calls them staring contests

[womanfromblackwater]

First RDR Fic!

Whoo! Two years of making up stories in my head, first one actually written down!

Marston family pre-game, leading to John resolving to be less of a dick. Although pre-character development John is fun to write!

July, 1896

A crash of thunder followed by a high pitched scream pulled John out of a restless sleep. They were camped far enough south that the late night storms had become a regular occurrence and were quickly learning that Abigail’s son was deathly afraid of the noise. He could already hear her singing softly to the boy, but it was doing nothing. The screams continued, and he heard Arthur’s voice asking if there was anything he could do. If Morgan wasn’t the kid’s father, he did a good imitation of it. It was something of a relief- now Hosea wouldn’t come in and ask John when he was going to go try to comfort the squalling child. He loved the man like a father, but John was getting sick of the not-so-subtle hints that this was his responsibility. He and Abigail had been close, sure. Maybe he’d even been starting to feel something for her. But in her line of work that didn’t mean he had to be the one who got her with child like she insisted. It had been worse when the whole camp seemed to take her side. Even Dutch would make a point of pointing out the boy’s “Marston nose.” 

His fuming was interrupted by the flap of his tent being pushed aside and Morgan’s head poking in. 

“Kid needs you, John.”

“What for?”

“Calm him down or somethin’. Abigail’s doin’ all she can, but you know how he gets. Boy needs his daddy.”

John huffed and flipped over to face the canvas wall. 

“He can go find him then.”

“That ain’t fair and you know it.”

When there was no response, Arthur sighed and left. He’d been almost as bad as Hosea, always telling John how lucky he was to have Abigail and the kid. Like he’d know anything about it. Like any of them would. The gang was supposed to be his family, but lately all they did was nag. He’d be better off on his own. 

John paused at the thought. That was what he needed. To get away from all of them, be his own man. Excitement started to bubble in his chest as he started packing his few belongings. If he was careful he could make it to his horse without being seen, start a new life without disapproving looks and crying babies and a woman who had seemed so much prettier before she started begging him for attention. He’d show them. They needed him more than he needed them anyway. 

July, 1899

Down south again. Another hot, humid day that promised a nighttime storm. Missing the dry heat of the western desert, John finished helping Charles secure anything that could blow way in a strong wind, then headed for his tent. No campfire tonight. No songs or poker games or drinking with Bill. Just a long night hunkered down in the tent, trying to read. The wind whipping the canvas was loud, and John had learned that the noise made it hard to focus. He’d lose his place some dozen times and then give up and try to sleep. He was lying on his cot and starting to doze off when thunder struck loud enough to jolt him awake. Startled and suddenly alert, he heard a loud sob from the other side of camp. Jack had gotten better for sure, but thunder still scared the boy more than anything. If he could hear him from here, he could only imagine how earsplitting the boy’s cries must be for the people near him. 

After a few minutes of sitting up on his cot listening for the wails to stop, John sighed and got up, shrugging his jacket on and grabbing his hat before stepping out into the rain. It didn’t take long to get to the awning that passed for a tent where Jack was clinging to Abigail, sobbing into her shoulder. Both were sopping wet, and Jack looked even smaller than usual with his hair plastered down over his head. Surprise was visible on Abigail’s face when she looked up and saw John holding out his arms to take their son. 

“Give him here. It don’t sound as loud in my tent, and at least he won’t be gettin’ soaked. He got dry clothes to put on?”

She nodded and handed Jack over, rubbing the boy’s back as he whimpered into his father’s chest. John watched as she pulled a tiny shirt and worn, patched trousers out of the chest that held their few belongings. Feeling a tug in his chest at the idea of her lying back down in the rain and mud, he put a hand on her arm. 

“You, too. If you want.” He could feel a blush creeping up his cheeks. “I mean, he’d be sad without his mama.”

“That the only reason?”

“Abigail, I… I don’t know. I just want you with us is all. Please?”

John couldn’t help but grin at the smile that flickered across her face. He’d never understand how she could still love him after all he’d done, but he was relieved that she did. He was also relieved that she seemed to have a plan for all three of them to sleep in a one-person tent. It wasn’t something he’d considered when he’d gone to get them, and it only occurred to him later that she had already known how to make his space a home for all of them. Maybe she knew him better than he knew himself. 

Once they were settled, John finally allowed himself to relax. Jack would still flinch at the thunder, but he didn’t seem as scared curled up between his parents, and he was finally able to fall asleep. Abigail had been stroking the boy’s hair and avoiding eye contact for nearly an hour when she finally spoke up.

“John?”

“Mmm?”

“We can’t be doin’ this.”

“Doin’ what?”

“Goin’ back and forth. It ain’t fair to Jack. He’s gettin’ old enough to start askin’ questions, you gotta decide whether you want to be his pa or not. Whether you believe me or not, that is your son and he loves you and more than anything in the world he wants you to love him back. If you can’t, that’s on you, but you can’t just care for him when you feel like it.” 

For a moment he couldn’t respond. She was right, he had to make a choice. Lying here with her and Jack warm in his arms felt right, but was it worth his freedom? Dutch had taught him that was what mattered most of all. 

“Do I gotta answer now?”

Her sigh told him that that had been the wrong answer. 

“No. But soon. You’ll know when its time.”

He had no idea what that meant, but women always seemed to be right about this sort of thing, so he figured he’s know soon enough. 

A few days later

She had been right. Rampaging through Braithwaite Manor, not caring about anything but finding his boy and bringing him home safe, John had known. His own life didn’t matter anymore. Not when Jack was there and innocent and needed his father to keep him safe. He had returned to camp that night and prayed for the first time in a long time. God could take him, he didn’t care. God could bring back Jack and strike John down and all would be right with the world. Anything for the little boy who loved adventure stories and candy and was afraid of the thunder.