AN: Woohoo, waiting for a hurricane to pass, so what do I do? The obvious of course: edit a one shot I wrote a few days ago and post it! Haha, well anywho, wrote this while writing the next chap of But Sons Do It Better (which is on its way!) just some silly/sweet (read: near sickly sweet)/vaguely smutty Style fluff. Thanks so much to every one who is reading and/or reviewing! I hope you like it! :)

Legal notes: I don't own SP or its characters.

Enjoy!

EDIT: Since I just got a very rude little review to this story I wanted to say this is NOT, I repeat NOT a known ripoff of someone else's story. To the best of my knowledge I personally have not read another story like this previously. I have no doubt that there could be one out there, that has happened from time to time in the history of the written word, but neither this nor any of my other stories have been directly based or influenced by another fanfic writer's works. I take writing and plagarism very seriously, especially the latter of the two and I found it both infuriating and repugnant to be accused of something I have not done and personally detest. If someone wants to accuse someone of something like plagarism they should have the decency to at least ask or seek some confirmation that it is true before they point the finger.

Kyle loved watching Stan paint.

The other boy was standing barefoot and shirtless in front of a blank canvas, opening jars of paint as the newspaper lining underneath made crinkling noises. Kyle watched the toned muscles in Stan's back flex as he bent over a stained side table, arranging brushes and palettes as though they were holy relics. He could imagine the concerted frown that he was certain had settled into Stan's brow as his raven black bangs fell over his eyes.

Stan straightened and stood gazing at the canvas for a few moments, first with his hands on his hips and then with one hand rubbing his chin in a state of fixated contemplation. Kyle dared not move even a centimeter while Stan mentally processed his next work, he knew from experience that anything less than complete silence would disrupt Stan's artistic vision. Anything less than a perfected vision realized would lead to an extremely frustrated and insufferable Stan Marsh, something he also knew from experience.

With sudden deftness and certainty Stan reached for a palette and a brush. He began to attack the canvas with gusto; it was a passionate trance of artistic creativity and birth. Kyle still remained silent as he lay on Stan's bed, but his attention was rapt as he tried to drink in every detail of the scene before him: the fluidity of Stan's movements, the hundreds of tiny muscle contractions as he worked, the way the colors splashed across the canvas, the flecks of color that landed on the newsprint below and on Stan's unseen skin, the contrast of the He-Man football player body that contained the soul of a impassioned artist, the beauty and greatness that was the boy in front of him. Watching Stan paint was as much a work of art as his finished painting would be.

Unluckily for the rest of the world, however, Kyle was the only one who would ever see this spectacular show. Stan was private with his art and his passion; it was a secret expression of what he felt and would never say, his outlet and his first love. Though really this was how Kyle saw it, not how Stan had said it. One day however, after having just watched Stan complete one more painting, he had asked Stan about the matter; Stan, shirtless and covered with flecks of paint, had laughed as he contentedly cleaned his brushes and only said, "My dad's gonna flip a shit when I go to a liberal art college without a major football team," and had just shook his head with a smile at Kyle's pressing.

Time passed, but Kyle didn't mind. Kyle was never bored when he watched Stan completely engaged in his work, even though Stan was oblivious to all else around him; had there ever been an earthquake while Stan painted Kyle doubted he would notice anything as long as his canvas and paints stayed where they should. And so time continued to pass, with Stan focused on his painting and Kyle focused on Stan, and neither of them noticed as the sun began to slide behind the mountains.

Finally a contented sigh was exhaled from Stan's lips. It took a moment for Kyle to realize that Stan's flurry of movements had ceased for good this time; the painting was complete. Stan's broad back and shoulders prevented Kyle from seeing the finished work that Stan had created, but he could still see the finished Stan that the painting had produced. The already paint-stained denim jeans had received even more flecks of color from the latest endeavor; paint had also reached the tops and soles of Stan's feet from his steps over the newspaper-ed floor. Paint had even managed to reach Stan's back and his fingers from when they had replaced the brushes at some point.

When he turned Kyle could see Stan's handsome face covered with a rainbow of pain dots and once monotonous hair now sported streaks of red and orange and green. He was beaming, practically basking in a glow so intense it verged on sexual. Such a sight was more of a work of art than Kyle could ever imagine in another human being.

"You look happy," Kyle said with belying banality, "Is this the one you're going to enter?" He gestured to a stack of canvases along the wall next to the bed, each one a once viable contestant for Stan's entry in a local art show. Stan had been pawing over each of them obsessively with frustration for the past week. Each painting had been picked apart by their creator until he was disappointed and angry with himself; today's painting had brought the talented young artist more joy than Kyle had seen all week.

Stan laughed as he made his way over to Kyle and placed one knee on the edge of the bed between the redhead's open legs. "Nah," his eyes sparkled with mirth as he towered over Kyle, "not this one. I'll do another later."

Kyle rolled his eyes at the intentional ambiguity, a tactic used solely for Stan's amusement. "Why?" he pushed, "you obviously like this one."

Stan chuckled slyly. "I don't think you'd speak to me again."

An orange eyebrow quirked up at the remark. "Why? What did you paint?"

Kyle's suspicion and curiosity were piqued. Before he could push himself up to get a better view of the painting Stan had wiped his hands on his jeans and then planted them on the bed, one on each side of Kyle's head. He laughed mercilessly as Kyle fruitlessly first pulled at his wrists and then pushed on his bare chest; he remained stubbornly over Kyle until the other teen heaved a sigh and scowled up at him, arms crossed.

"I hate you."

"No you don't."

They both knew how true it was, but he wasn't going to admit it right now, he was too busy pouting. Instead Kyle tried to deepen his scowl as he looked into Stan's smiling face, but could only last a few seconds before he shook his head and his face cracked resigned smile. "You're an idiot," he said without malice, "so, what did you paint anyway?"

"Well, you were my muse, so I guess I can let you see it," Stan teased dramatically and pushed himself off of the bed, extending a hand to the prostrate Kyle after he stood.

"What do you mean 'I was your muse'?" Kyle questioned as he was led by the hand around Stan to stand in front of the canvas. As soon as he laid eyes on the painting Kyle's question need not be repeated; it was very evident how he had been the muse for this latest work. "Stan, I swear to God, if you show this to anyone I will kill you."

Stan's arms slipped around Kyle's hips. He pressed a kiss into the scorching scarlet flesh of Kyle's neck as he cushioned himself against the smaller teen's back. "Aw, you don't like it? I thought I did a pretty good job," Stan whispered as he grazed his teeth over the delicate flesh of Kyle's ear.

Kyle stifled a moan and squirmed with both discomfort and arousal. "It's…not that. It's…just…uh…mm…re-revealing…Stan." Stan's name left Kyle's mouth in a gasp as Stan's teeth and tongue began to explore Kyle's ears, neck, and skin exposed by the collar of his t-shirt.

"Mmm, I don't think it's revealing enough," Stan's hands slid under Kyle's shirt and slipped up to touch his stomach.

"I'm practically naked Stan," Kyle wryly stated with a finger pointed at his painted likeness, "I'm only wearing a towel…a small towel…"

"No you're not, but we can fix that." Stan speedily yanked Kyle's t-shit over his head before his now half-dressed boyfriend could protest, spinning him around in the process. Now face to face Stan resumed his urgent wooing, pulling Kyle close to him and pressing his lips fervently to the other's.

Stan's persistence was again thwarted as Kyle placed his hands on his chest and pushed away slightly. "Seriously, don't enter that in the competition," Kyle looked up into Stan's deep brown eyes, knowing his voice was somewhere between a plea and a demand. He hated and loved that moment; looking into Stan's eyes, filled with love, love for him, made his request seem childish, but he also found himself momentarily lost in the sparkle and depth of warm chocolate brown and its swirls of both passion and compassion.

A chuckle echoed from Stan's parted lips, his voice now deepened by lust and urge. Shaggy black locks fell over his eyes as he looked down at Kyle and ran a hand through the landscape of orange hairs; looking up into this nearly pornographic portrait of sensuality Kyle found it hard to focus on Stan's words and away from his need to recreate an approximation of the painting behind him. "Don't worry. I'd never do that."

Stan once again tried to initiate their coupling, but again only succeeded in one planted kiss before Kyle pushed back slightly.

"Why not?" Kyle's voice came out in a near pout, true to his ever temperamental nature.

A sincere smile graced Stan's lips and he pulled Kyle close up against him, keeping him securely in his grip and procuring a soft gasp of surprise from his captive. Stan's mouth was right against Kyle's ear when he whispered, "Because I already have to share you with the rest of the world. I'll keep as much of you to myself as I can Kyle."

Kyle shivered in Stan's grasp. Once again he pushed against Stan, but only far enough to allow him to press his lips to Stan's hungrily, wrapping his lanky arms around Stan's muscular neck. Stan responded with vigor and within seconds both of them had fallen back on the bed, entangled in one another as they planted heady kisses and let out soft moans. They lay like that for several moments and only parted when they were both breathless and panting.

Stan rolled off of his petite boyfriend and both took a moment to catch their breath. With a content and self-satisfied sigh Stan rose and stretched, once again towering over the still prone Kyle, whose hair was spread under him like a fiery crown. From his position the prostrate redhead looked up at his lover. Stan was still basking in his passionate artistic glow…and still covered with bits of paint; and Kyle's heart swelled at the sight. His moment of admiration was cut short, however, by the subject of his affections.

"Shower time. Come on, join me." Stan held out a hand to Kyle, but the proffered hand was refused.

With a smirk and a shake of his head Kyle crossed his arms behind his head, eager to repay Stan for his previous teasing. "Nu-uh, I'm not the one covered in paint. I'm staying right here Stan."

"Hmm."

Stan crossed the room and returned quickly, unseen object gripped tightly in hand.

"What're you-hey!" Before Kyle could react Stan took a still wet paint brush and a dirtied rag to his naked chest, covering his pale skin with streaks of red, green, and brown. "Dammit Stan!"

"Whoops, sorry Kyle, guess you need a shower now," Stan seemed unperturbed by the cross green eyes staring him down. With feigned innocence Stan reached down and picked his slight boyfriend bridal-style, much to the protest of his cargo.

"Goddammit Stan, put me down! Jesus, you got paint all over your comforter too!" Kyle's remarks fell on apathetic ears.

"Eh, not the first time it's happened. Hm," Stan had stopped in front of the door, staring at it intently.

"So, are you going to put me down now or are you planning on opening the locked door with laser vision?"

"You gonna run away?"

Kyle rolled his green eyes, but couldn't help but smile at the pleading in Stan's voice. He gave Stan a quick peck on the lips as his feet were placed back on carpeted ground. "Of course not, you idiot," he grabbed Stan's larger hand and led him as he opened the door with a pop of the lock, "Come on art-boy, let's this paint off."

Stan let himself be led by Kyle across the hall to the open bathroom. As he closed the door behind him and locked it they embraced again with open mouths and roaming hands. They were busy pulling the remaining clothing off each other when a thought occurred to Kyle.

"Hey Stan?"

Stan didn't stop unbuttoning Kyle's jeans. "Hmm?"

"Is this why you only let me watch you paint when your parents aren't home?" He let out a small gasp as Stan took a nip near his collar bone.

"Maybe," Stan said coyly and sucked at Kyle's neck, pushing his jeans to the floor.

Kyle reached behind him and turned on the hot tap of Stan's shower. He reached back and attacked Stan's fly, relishing Stan's moan as it reverberated through his skin. In a momentary flash of clothes and painted skin and gasps and groans they were naked and preparing themselves for a new, more tactile, form of artistic expression. The water hit their skin and some of the stubborn paint swirled under them as it slid down the drain. It was a painting of their making that Kyle found himself liking almost as much as the ones Stan created.

Stan painted things he loved; he painted Kyle.

Kyle watched things he loved; he watched Stan.

Canvas, shower tile, even (grudgingly) himself, Kyle loved watching Stan paint.

And even more, Kyle liked the after effects of watching Stan paint.