Work Text:
Renoir frowned at the canvas before him, tilting his head to the side to catch a little more of the moonlight. It wasn’t unheard of for him to paint by night, but rarely did he and the stars meet this close to the witching hour. He hefted his palette, redoubling his grip on the smooth wood. Only then did he allow himself to look at his beautiful muse.
Verso lay on their mattress, asleep. The whole king-size of it rested on the floor of the atelier, gold and black among starkly empty canvases and easels. Renoir’s own little angel lay in the middle of it. Those dark curls were spread over the pillows, already painted in the most gentle whorls of white and black. He’d done a few of the curls with charcoal, some with his own fingers. Verso’s hair was so long now, nearly to the small of his back. Renoir smiled, remembering how Verso gasped when he wrapped around his fist, how he blushed when Renoir tucked a lock behind his ear.
Verso’s lashes were long, casting shadows on his cheekbones. He’d been wearing mascara before he’d cried it off, and the last remnants of it were shadowy in the soft curve beneath his eyes. Renoir’s gaze traced further down. The dimple in his nose was an easy thing to paint; Renoir had traced it and drawn it a thousand times. It was not inherited from him or Aline. Rather, it was something that belonged only to his son. Verso’s pink lips were parted slightly in his slumber, still shiny and swollen from Renoir’s kisses.
Renoir was frozen for a moment. He could only admire his son, his greatest creation, his finest work. He may not have been able to reach into Aline’s womb and mold Verso into the most beautiful creature in the world, but he wasn’t sure if even he could have done better than the sweet shuffle of genetics. The moonlight streaming in turned his flushed cheeks to alabaster, his lips into petals. The late hour and the skies themselves blessed his boy into marble perfection, marred only by the perfect dimple in his nose.
Renoir had to shake himself back into his work. Verso would awake soon, and he would no longer be allowed to paint. He did not begrudge that idea. He missed the warmth of his boy’s arms, the soft welcome of his cunt. Renoir wore little more than an unbuttoned shirt at the moment in a vain attempt at modesty. He suppressed a shudder from the night breeze that rattled at the windows and continued to paint.
Further down, now. The curve of Verso’s collarbones, the soft swell of his breasts. The teardrop-roundness of them that fit so perfectly in Renoir’s hand. They were fuller now, flushed with sweet milk that Renoir remembered on the back of his tongue. His nipples were bigger now too. Renoir had to dip into a crimson red to communicate their brightness, the incredible flush of them that drew the eye. If Renoir was not already spent, his cock would have twitched at the thought. He had done that to his boy, with his mouth and his hands and his cock. The naked proof of it was undeniable.
Carefully, Renoir lingered over the curve of that tiny waist and the soft swell of his son’s abdomen. Renoir had not cum inside of Verso this time. His hot release lay in heavy pearls across Verso’s body, glimmering in the moonlight. The very seed that had made his boy’s body, that had made the child that slept in that sweet womb. Verso’s body knew who it belonged to. It knew its creator, its god. Renoir gazed down at his second-born, his Eve, and he smiled as he painted the shine of his semen onto the canvas. He carved his paintbrush through the thickness of his medium, empathizing the dips of Verso’s hips and the spaces where his thighs and his apex met. All of these drew the eye to the focal point; to where Verso’s body grew their child.
Renoir thought it would be a single girl, but he would be happy regardless. Verso thought it was twins. Eventually, they would learn that they were both wrong. For the moment, Renoir lived in blissful ignorance of the inevitability of four diapers to change at once. All that existed was himself and his son, his wife, his sleeping beauty. He painted the curls of his mons, the swell of Verso’s thighs. He tenderly colored the flush of his knees, the delicate curve of his ankle and the arch of that perfect foot. He drew his brush up, painting fingers, hands, Verso’s palms resting over his abdomen. The diamond ring that Renoir’s family had kept for generations sparkled on his finger. The dim atelier and the bright moonlight turned the facets of it into silver. Renoir painted his elbows and his biceps and his shoulders, imagining the kisses he had pressed to each of them as they’d made love.
Renoir finally pulled his paintbrush from the canvas. He was panting. He set palette and brush aside; and just in time, too. Verso’s beautiful eyes were blinking open, those perfect lips parting in a yawn. He blinked up at Renoir with eyes heavy with sleep, fondness set deep in those moonlight-colored eyes. Renoir staggered towards his boy, his darling, falling to his knees and crawling to him. Verso cupped his cheeks, drawing him into the soft benediction of a kiss.
“We aren’t in our room anymore, papa.” Verso murmured. Renoir could feel his smile against his mouth. “Did you drag the mattress all the way to the atelier?”
“I had to paint you.” Renoir said, raw in his honesty. “You understand, angel?”
“Of course I do.” Verso kissed him again before drawing him back into his arms. Renoir nuzzled into his boy’s collarbone, pressing soft kisses there and smiling when his beard tickled just enough to make Verso giggle. He rested his head there, his nose pressed against his son’s sweetly scented pulse point. Verso carded his hand through his hair with one soft hand, the other pulling the blankets up around them as he hummed some familiar lullaby. Renoir felt his own eyes grow heavy.
“Sleep, papa.” Verso’s voice was a soft indulgence above him. Renoir breathed it in, letting that sound fill him before dissolving like sugar on his tongue. “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
Renoir closed his eyes, and he slept.