The Amount Of Baby Fever I Got From This Is Insane - Tumblr Posts

Hey! I know your requests are closed but you said this is one of the prompts you will be writing so for dad timo could u make a little boy who looks just like him? and maybe his kids having french names, it would be so cute (:

hiiii! thank you for requesting this, i had the best time writing it and hope you like it 💗

crayons

it’s the curls, you decide. or maybe it’s the shape of their smiles. or the way they both sneeze the exact same way. almost always it’s the laughter, the way it fills the room, loud, unabashed belly laughs merging into one beautiful cacophony of happiness.

it’s everything, you decide, everything about luc reminds you of timothée. and you’re sure you’ll never be able to comprehend your luck, your life with him, with them, with all this love.

watching them from the kitchen, you play spot the difference as a teething luc dribbles all over timothée’s fingers on the living room floor: his tiny scrunched nose is an exact replica of timothée’s, smattered with the same dusting of freckles that you kiss nightly. his pudgy hands are just as wild as his father’s, banging together in a sort of applause while he gurgles and shrieks at timmy’s funny faces.

“baby?” you call from the doorway, stifling a giggle when both heads whip around simultaneously. your boys. you smile at them. “can you reach that pan for me?”

timothée’s up in a flash, pecking your cheek as he passes you, kind of like a habit. you smile, admiring the stretch of his arm as he retrieves the pan from the highest shelf.

“thank you, darling,” you smile against his lips when he kisses you again, he can’t help himself, and you use the pan to push him gently back towards your very unsupervised twelve-month-old.

“hey, monkey!” timothée laughs, hurriedly sitting back down on the living room floor and prying a red crayon from his son’s mouth. “that’s not food.”

he only looked away for a second, but your son is exactly where the baby books say he should be: pulling himself up, a strong grip, a teething nightmare, and he’s a little menace for it.

everything, everything, ends up in his mouth. hair, soap, the tv remote, one time your engagement ring – a terrifying day for all involved. and you’ve tried everything: teething toys, chilled fruit, cold washcloths, all to no avail.

now, your twelve-month-old son peers up at his father, craning his neck so high he almost topples over before timothée steadies him.

“nomnomnom,” he babbles, one pudgy hand fumbling for another crayon.

“nuh uh,” timmy sings, laying down on his stomach and holding the crayon in front of luc’s face for a beat.

he’s mesmerised by the colour, the shape, and timmy loves his curiosity, but he also loves his son not throwing up rainbows.

“drawing, dessin,” timothée says, english then french, pressing the crayon against the paper in between them, “not eating.”

he draws some lips, a smiling mouth, then switches colours, adding eyes, nose, ears, hair, colouring and shading until that delightful shriek —

“mama!” luc cries in recognition, banging his hands together in what timothée interprets as a clap.

“that’s right, it’s mama!” timothée smiles at his son, his mirror image, and then hands him the crayon to draw his own picture.

luc immediately shoves it into his mouth.

“nonono,” timothée rushes out, quickly fishing it out of his mouth. “not eating. drawing. like this—”

delicately, he takes his son’s hand and works it into a fist, slotting a bright yellow crayon into his grip. together, they cross the paper, luc gurgling happily at the lines he’s making, at the crazy scribbles and swirling marks.

“think you can do it by yourself?” he asks, watching his son intently. “luc draw?”

luc nods, his chubby fists reaching for more colours, first a pink, then a blue, adding more and more until it’s the most beautiful mess timothée has ever seen.

“yay!” luc shrieks, cheeks flushed in excitement. it seems he’s realised he is the one making the lines, as he studies each mark intently in the cutest damn concentration face timmy ever did see. it kind of reminds him of your laser sharp focus on the morning crossword; it kind of makes him want to cry. he sees so much of your beauty in him, and every day he can’t believe it. to be given the greatest gift: more of you in the world.

“more paper, buddy?” he asks, watching luc work out where to mark next on his scribbled masterpiece. of course, the next sheet goes directly into his mouth.

“jeez, you’d think we never feed you,” timothée giggles, lying the paper back on the floor with an affectionate kiss to luc’s curls.

this time, luc loves the colour purple, and is suddenly inspired by your hardwood floor.

“no, not on the floor, monkey,” timothée guides, nudging his son’s fist back to his paper.

luc just gurgles, climbing over his father instead, a much more interesting canvas, crayon running over timmy’s sweats.

“hey, cheeky,” he chuckles, rolling onto his back and hoisting his son into the air.

luc shrieks in laughter, kicking his legs out as his grabby hands reach out for timothée.

“dada!” he cackles, tugging on his father’s curls when timmy’s mouth lands on his tummy, pretending to chomp.

“you know how much i love you? how much mama loves you?” timothée asks, placing his son astride his stomach.

luc looks down at him inquisitively; timmy’s almost convinced he understands him sometimes. those eyes, like his, swirl with a thousand thoughts, constantly learning, seeking, growing.

he almost wants time to stand still. just for a little while.

timothée watches his son choose another colour, smiles to himself when he sees luc’s thoughts as they pass over his face: grab, sniff, dada, what does it taste like—

“nononono, luc!” timothée chuckles, removing another gnawed crayon from his son’s mouth.

“drawing, baby,” his father reminds him, setting out more paper when luc clambours off of him.

he could watch him make random scribbles all day. it’s luc’s unbridled joy as he does it, as he squeals happily when colours overlap, or he goes really fast with the crayon.

“dada, look!” he cries suddenly, little head snapping up to meet his father’s eyes, those eyes alight with pride, love, so much love.

“it’s me?” timothée asks, heart tripling in size at the messy squiggles. “you drew me?”

“dada, mama!” luc corrects, flapping his arms happily and adding a green squiggle in the corner. “luc!”

“me, you and mama?” timothée lets out an incredulous laugh, blinking back tears. “buddy, i love it.”

dazed, he had no idea he could love this much. of course, he loves you so much it scares him, but this burning desire to protect, to care for this tiny human you created together, it’s unlike anything he’s ever known.

it’s his very own work of art.

“gah, we love you so much,” timothée shouts, grabbing his son and peppering his scrumptious cheeks with loud kisses. luc shrieks in delight, a proper belly laugh overtaking him that makes timmy double down his efforts, tickling his son’s little feet.

the most beautiful sound, timothée chases it, springing into a cross-legged position and cradling him in his lap just to munch on those deliciously chubby legs.

luc’s giggles amplify as he kicks his feet, tiny hands tugging at timmy’s tshirt, his laughter bouncing, infectious, hilarious.

it’s the most beautiful sound, the most beautiful sight from where you stand against the doorway.

the pair of them together, a joyous mess of curls and squiggles, your very own work of art.