cw children, cw families. gojo and f!reader were idiots in love and they are now married and have a baby. my effortlessly good painter gojo hc won out over being normal in my brain today so yeah. reader is referred to as mom/mama/mother and princess, satoru makes a joke about readers breasts. wc 1.1k
Your morning has started far quieter than they usually do.
The day is overcast, no sunshine through your floor to ceiling bedroom windows, but you don’t mind. It feels good to embrace the cloudy days that have come with the changing of seasons, no harsh light to shock you awake. That job will be for your identical menaces in the coming months, the gummy smile of your morning person nine month old and her unabashedly obsessed father Satoru always eager to be your twin alarm clocks with their giggling and playful babbling at each other.
There’s nothing they love more than giving you the gift of four identical blue eyes blinking at you while you come to your senses every morning. You can almost admit aloud that you’ve become a morning person since becoming a parent, the delightful giggles of your daughter giving you the motivation to conquer anything and everything you can.
For today though, you wake gently, softly rolling from your side to flat on your back but something feels off. There are no hushed giggles, no silly songs being recited with children’s show host precision.
Your bed is empty and quiet and you feel…sad. Perhaps in the past you would’ve found this to be a luxury - no freakishly long limbs of your husband starfished across the bed to keep you pinned to it, no baby to tug at the earrings you forgot to take out last night, but instead it just feels like a less welcome start to the day.
Lingering in bed doesn’t feel good so you roll again, dropping your legs over the edge and sliding your feet into your waiting slippers. Scuffing across the floor, you yawn and stop in your tracks hearing voices from inside Satoru’s closet.
Well, a voice and some baby giggles, anyway.
“Can you say mama?”
Leaning against the door frame of the walk in, you stifle a laugh listening to your husband babble at his little girl who babbles back excitedly. Peeking around the corner, you see him standing in front of the portrait of you that he painted on your 24th birthday, little babe held to his chest and leaning her head on his shoulder.
“That’s her, that’s right. Your perfect mom.”
He sighs and your heart squeezes watching the two of them sway side to side, your baby who is growing into an independent toddler every day reaching out as if she recognizes your face. You’re sure she does, actually; the painting is an impeccable likeness and it still frustrates you 6 years later that he managed to become so good at a craft you’ve spent your life working on in less than a month.
Someday you’ll tell her the entire story, your version of it anyway. For now you’re content to let her father tell his side considering it was one of the most grand and romantic gestures he had performed at the time in an effort to show you how serious he was about your relationship.
“Listen, little girl,” he starts, unknowing that he has captured both of your attention. “I know I’m going to have to tell you this again eventually but do not ever bring a man or woman or anyone else into this house that loves you less than I love your mother.”
She coos at the sound of his voice and he chuckles down at her, kissing the downy white hair atop her head.
“I mean it. If they won’t stay up for four nights straight to get a start on painting your nose from memory, leave ‘em behind.”
With this, you giggle and the attention of both of your menaces is captured. Your daughter squeals from over Satoru’s shoulder, holding one little hand out and making a grabbing motion and he copies her excited babbling with his own.
“My little tricksters snuck out of bed this morning!”
Grinning, you cradle your little girl against your chest and kiss her temple, inhaling the clean smell of her shampoo and skin. She’s been bathed and everything.
“You’re the best.”
You feel the need to remind Satoru at this moment and he grins, bending to give you a good morning kiss.
“Duh.”
Giggling, you let your wiggly daughter settle herself and the three of you stand in front of the painting. You recognize the younger woman permanently captured in it, the soft lovesick look in her eyes, and it amuses you to know he took extra time to capture you exactly like that. Hopelessly in love.
He could capture you using the same medium and you’d look identical to how you did back then - utterly stricken.
“Did you really stay up practicing for four nights?”
“Princess, I stayed up practicing for four weeks.”
You snort, looking up at him from the corner of your eye.
“There’s no need to embellish now, you’ve already won me over.”
He shrugs, pulling the two of you close to his chest. He leans over his little family, cheek resting against the top of your head.
“But what if I never want to stop winning you?”
You reach up and brush his hair off of his forehead affectionately. Every touch you give him is full of love and every glance carries tenderness.
There will come a time when your daughter will be old enough to gawk at the love the two of you have for one another. Maybe she’ll stick her tongue out and roll her eyes just as you remember her father doing more than once or perhaps she’ll simply smile and hide her face in the collar of her shirt, dreaming of a love like what’s in front of her someday.
“I mean, I could paint you again. You are coming up on the big three oh and I have to say that a few things have grown since back then if you know what I mean.”
He waggles his eyebrows suggestively and drops his voice suggestively low. You flick him on the forehead and laugh about it, your daughter joining in on your giggles as a nine month old is apt to do.
The thing you hope she’ll understand the most is that sometimes love isn’t just big paintings and grand gestures and sweet looks. It’s being grounded enough to give each other a hard time when things are good and a good time when things are hard.
You are fortunate enough to have the best of everything with her father.
“Let’s go make breakfast, Monet.”
You turn on your heel and your husband follows closely behind, small steps to match your own. He looks over his shoulder one final time to look at the painting of you on his closet wall and he smiles, soft and warm.
“Whatever you say, my muse.”
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My heart. Children can be so cute sometimes.
I was at a family gathering and was sitting with my dog Ellie on my lap on the sofa when my three years old nephew came over and started petting her semi-roughly and got all up in her face because he thought she was cute. I was about to tell him he was being too rough when Ellie did it for me and snapped. I’m not sure what it’s called in English but we call it ��marking” where a dog will make a move like they’re about to bite but don’t actually bite. You know, the last warning a dog will give you to stop. He was understandably shocked and I felt bad about not stopping it sooner but he didn’t start crying or swat at her in anger. He seemed more embarrassed than anything and we had a talk about it.
Later I saw him sitting on the floor with a bunch of toy food and a tea set, and opposite him sat Ellie watching him with curiosity. He looked at her for a few seconds. I was worried he was scared of her now or possibly angry, but then he placed a plastic plate with fake broccoli in front of her and poured her a cup of imaginary tea.
It’s just to sickeningly sweet that neither held any grudges about what had happened and were now having a tea party.
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