Stiles loves his new apartment, an expansive, high-ceilinged loft in Cap Hill, a wall of west-facing windows that fill the place with gorgeous natural light that makes the exposed brick walls glow with warmth, even on the grayest of Seattle days. He got a great deal on the rent, and it’s in one of the quieter corners of the bustling neighborhood, close to his new precinct, and there’s a great independent coffee shop on the corner. There’s even a comics store just a few blocks away, across the street from the dog park he takes Thor to on their days off.
It’s perfect, really, except for one infuriating neighbor who he’s never actually met. Whoever lives above him – D. Hale, according to his mailbox – is essentially nocturnal, which wasn’t a problem the first couple weeks after Stiles moved in and he and Thor were working nights. But now that they’re back on days for the foreseeable future, his upstairs neighbor’s tendency to stay silent during the day and make an insufferable racket almost every night is slowly driving Stiles insane.
It’s mostly the music: sometimes classical, sometimes obnoxious hardcore punk, sometimes nineties R&B, all of it horrendously loud until the wee morning hours. But there’s also the hammering and sawing, and once Stiles swears he heard a chainsaw, but he was coming off a 24-hour shift with the bomb squad so he might not have been thinking clearly. And if D. Hale’s noisy tools and erratic musical preferences weren’t bad enough, the near-constant scent of pot drifts down the vents, so strong Stiles is half-worried he’d fail a drug screening. Some nights, Thor still sits in front of the fireplace where the scent is strongest, barking softly to alert Stiles to the presence of drugs as he’s been trained. Stiles gives the German Shepherd the command to stand down, the police dog cocking his head, confused and irritated that Stiles isn’t letting him do his job.
The recent legalization of marijuana in the state of Washington (a law Stiles wholeheartedly supports) means he can’t cite the guy for drugs, even if he had any interest in using his authority as a cop to enforce basic neighborly courtesy, which he absolutely doesn’t. So he does his best to ignore it. He buys earplugs, but they always fall out. He downloads a white noise app for his phone, but that just adds to the din. He leaves a friendly note in his mailbox that goes unacknowledged. Finally, he sets out to email his landlord, and that’s when remembers that his landlord is a lovely woman named Laura Hale, and that when Stiles moved in she mentioned that her little brother also lives in the building. Stiles had sighed, deleting the unsent email, unsure of how the complaint would be received.
Finally, after nearly a month of too much work and way too-little sleep, on a sweltering summer night, Stiles…well, he kinda loses his shit. It’s nearly one am and tomorrow is his first day off in two weeks and he wants nothing more than to sleep, maybe forever, and the asshole upstairs is blasting Motley Crue, and Stiles is so, so done.
He punches his pillow with growl of frustration and jolts of out bed in an angry huff. Thor, the traitor, is stretched out on the foot of the bed, and he opens one sleepy eye to watch him stalk out of the loft in his Wolverine boxers, so irritated and amped with adrenaline now that he’s decided to confront his tormentor that he doesn’t bother to put on a shirt or even close the door behind him.
He stomps up the stairs to the fourth floor, muttering under his breath about common courtesy and the breakdown of the social contract, wondering if he should have just bitten the bullet and grabbed his badge so he can properly intimidate this jerk. Too late for that, he thinks, arriving at the door of the apartment directly above his. He pounds on the door with the righteous fury of a man who hasn’t had a good night’s sleep in weeks (and who hasn’t gotten laid in months, his exhaustion-addled brain adds, most unhelpfully). He crosses his arms and waits, unable to quell his growing curiosity, and despite his anger, finds that he’s actually kind of excited to meet this mysterious weirdo.
There’s no answer, so he pounds on the heavy metal door again, even though he’s already figured out that he can’t be heard over the music. He tries knocking one more time, and then gives the handle a pull; it’s unlocked, and even though he knows it’s a bad idea, Stiles pulls it open and marches in, determined to put an end to this.
When Stiles at last catches a glimpse of his neighbor, he stumbles to stop, tripping over his bare feet, mouth dropping open in stunned surprise, eyes going wide. The guy, D. Hale he assumes, has his back to him, and is extremely naked, standing on a big, stained dropcloth and facing a huge canvas propped against the big brick wall. He has a paintbrush in one hand, and there’s a thick ribbon of sour-sweet smoke curling around him in a dreamlike haze. His exquisite ass, a perfectly round, biteable bubble, spectacular as it is, is rivaled by his sculpted back, a glorious expanse of sweaty muscle with two utterly adorable dimples at the base of his spine that Stiles feels strangely compelled to kiss. His shoulders are broad and strong-looking, the kind of shoulders made for throwing your legs over, and it’s possible that Stiles whines a little bit at the thought of that. D. Hale is tall, just a little bit taller than Stiles, and he has a shock of spiky, ink-black hair, his left arm covered in an intricate and bright collection of tattoos.
Mouth watering, Stiles forgets his rant, forgets most words, in fact, lightheaded as he is from the hot rush of blood pulsing to his neglected cock, thickening and tenting his threadbare boxers. He bites his lip, shamelessly drinking in the unbelievable hotness that’s been living above him all this time. The guy, still unaware of Stiles’ presence, keeps painting, adding swaths of shimmering gold to the wildly colorful canvas.
Stiles doesn’t know shit about art that isn’t between the lines of a comics gutter, but he’s pretty sure this guy is talented, in addition to looking like something out of a wet dream, and he makes another pained noise of arousal. He really doesn’t need to develop a crush on the jerk who’s made his life miserable the past few weeks.
Please be weird looking, he begs silently. Please be weird looking.
D. Hale finally turns around.
He’s so not weird looking.
If Hale is surprised to see a stranger in his apartment in the middle of the night, or modest about his nudity, he doesn’t show it. A joint hanging precariously from the corner of his wide, shapely mouth, he saunters over to a cluttered table covered with palettes and brushes, jars of paint and murky water, turning off the ipod that’s hooked up to the large, paint-speckled speakers that have been the bane of Stiles’ existence.
The silence is jarring, even for all that Stiles welcomes it. Hale looks to be about Stiles' age, late twenties; his eyes, bloodshot but bright and alert, are a radiant gold-green that glow in striking contrast with his hair and the equally dark scruff contouring the sharp, unfairly perfect angles of his face, one elegant cheekbone streaked with gold paint. He walks towards him slowly, still holding the paintbrush and puffing on the joint. Stiles is unable to stop himself from raking his eyes down his bare body and biting his lip. Hale’s chest is covered in an alluringly thick spray of dark hair, and fuck, there are slender steel barbells at a diagonal through each of his nipples, and Stiles goes even weaker in the knees. His abs are fucking carved, and Stiles knows he shouldn’t look any farther down, but his questionable decisions tonight have thus far proved pleasantly surprising, so he gives in. Hale’s dick is nestled in a wild thatch of dark hair, hanging heavy and impressively big, enticing foreskin hooding his thick head. Stiles swallows hard, forcing his eyes back up to meet his neighbor’s smirking gaze, his ridiculously thick eyebrows raised in amusement.
Hale stops right in front of him, close enough that Stiles can see the barbell through his tongue when he finally speaks. “You’re the cop,” he sneers, lip curling up in a snarl that Stiles shouldn’t find as erotic as he does, voice sexy and thick with the disdain of a cocky, arrogant punk who fucks with authority for the fun of it.
The derision jolts Stiles from his daze, reminds him why he’s up here, reminds him that’s he’s a fucking officer of the law, goddammit, and he doesn’t take any shit from anyone, no matter how gorgeous or chiseled-from-stone. “Oh, so you are aware of the fact that someone lives below you,” he sneers back. “Your complete and utter lack of regard for your neighbors suggests otherwise, Mr. Hale.”
“Derek,” he says casually, pulling the joint away from his mouth with a gold and purple-specked thumb and forefinger.
Stiles glares at Derek, not letting the adorable smirk distract him again. He launches into his prepared speech, a near-month of rehearsed rants mashing together and tumbling from his mouth in a sputtering rush of indignation that he knows damn well is undermined by his reddening cheeks and flushing chest. In his defense, and to his growing excitement and nervousness, Derek’s unbelievable eyes are grazing slowly up and down Stiles’ bare chest too, and that’s almost as daze-inducing as Derek’s beauty, the idea that he might be attracted to him.
But Stiles powers on, starting in on the various noise violation and disturbing the peace citations he could cite Derek with, if he was so inclined to resort to such drastic measures, calls him a punk and a nuisance. Derek just stands there, smirk growing into a smile the longer Stiles rambles on, puffing on the joint and licking his lips as he brazenly checks him out.
Stiles finally stops talking, crossing his arms defiantly, breathing a little hard. Derek takes one more pull on the joint and tosses the roach into a jar of pink water before stepping even closer, so close Stiles can see flecks of blue and yellow in his whiskers and smell the acrid, biting scent of his expensive-looking paints mixing with the sweat shining on his skin.
Derek blows a puff of smoke right into Stiles’ face, making his eyes sting. “You need to relax, Officer Stilinski.”
Stiles bites back a cough, taking note of the fact that Derek not only knows Stiles is a cop, but knows his name as well. “I’ll relax,” he answers, refusing to look away from Derek’s playfully challenging gaze. “If you agree to keep your music down.” Derek rolls his eyes. “And it’s Stiles,” he adds.
Derek grins again, steps even closer, hardly any space between them now, paintbrush still in his hand, eyes narrow and hungry. “I’ll agree to keep my music down if you let me paint you.”
“What? Paint me?” At first, Stiles thinks that maybe Derek wants to paint a portrait of him, which is hella freaking weird, but then, judging by the heat he sees in his eyes, he knows that’s not exactly what Derek has in mind. Okay, so the guy is hot, talented, rude, and probably a little insane. Stiles is really regretting not running background checks on all of the building’s tenants before moving in. Laura Hale offered him such a good deal, he should have known there was a catch.
Like having to live underneath her obscenely hot brother who gets stoned and paints all night and says ridiculous things to the half-naked cop that barges into his apartment unannounced in the middle of the night.
“Paint you,” Derek repeats, a throaty purr, holding up the brush, gold paint clinging to the bristles. He slides it down Stiles’ chest in a slow drag, from the hollow of his throat to his sternum, making him shiver in surprise at Derek’s boldness as much as at the sensation of the slick, cool paint on his overheated skin. Derek circles around him, smile growing more wolfish, his hardening cock brushing up against Stiles’ ass when comes to a stop behind him. He runs the tip of one finger slowly down his back, a blunt fingernail scraping down his spine in a tantalizing tease. “Your skin is a beautiful canvas, Stiles,” he whispers, breath hot on his neck, ruffling through his hair. “I want to paint you.”
“Uh, um, okay, yeah,” Stiles nods, heart racing and dick throbbing, giving in completely to whatever it is he’s gotten himself into.
Derek makes a small noise of victory and walks back to the table, pulling Stiles along by the hand until he’s standing next to it, the stained dropcloth bunching under his bare feet. Derek moves back around to stand in front of him, still completely at ease in the nude, even obviously aroused. Stiles’ own erection is getting more obvious, the head of his cock starting to peek out from the flap in his boxers. He resists the urge to adjust himself, feeling fairly confident that he won’t be wearing them for much longer.
As if reading his mind, Derek, turns to face him, hands empty now, locking his gaze on his, pulling Stiles into his exhilarating, intoxicating sway even more. His hands, big and rough with calluses, flit across Stiles’ stomach, flicking playfully at the waistband. “As much as I love Wolverine,” he coos, slipping his hands under the thin cotton and cupping Stiles’ ass, “I think I’m gonna like what’s under here even more.” The whine that escapes from Stiles' throat makes Derek positively beam, and he can’t find it in him to be embarrassed at how needy he seems, at how needy he is, at how badly he wants this man’s everything.
A skilled roll of Derek’s wrists sends Stiles’ boxers off his hips and down his legs, fluttering to a pile around his ankles. Derek grunts in delight, trailing his eyes up and down Stiles’ body, lingering hungrily on his cock that's standing firm and full, clicking the barbell in his tongue against his teeth. He picks up a new brush, dips it into a vibrant, peacock-blue paint and holds it to Stiles’ chest, tip of the brush hovering just over the streak of gold between his pecs.
“You ready to get painted, Officer Stilinski?”
Thirty surreal, painstakingly sensual minutes later, Stiles is bracing himself against the table, mewling, as Derek drops to his knees, again. This time the paint is an intense green, the brush bristles sending another pulsing frisson of heat straight to his leaking cock. “Derek, fuck,” he huffs, impatient and demanding.
Derek looks up at him from under his long, pretty lashes, eyes even greener than the paint on the brush he’s sweeping across his hip, all faux-coy innocence. “Art takes time, Officer.”
Stiles has already given up on trying not to get even more incredibly turned on when Derek calls him officer like that, his throaty voice equal parts snide and sincere. Stiles groans, throwing his head back in the most erotic anguish of his life, delighting in the delicious torture Derek is visiting upon him.
He started with his neck, daubing the blue paint across his throat and down one collarbone before switching to purple, splattering it across his chest. Stiles stared, awed, as Derek freaking painted him, covered his chest, back and sides in a kaleidoscopic collage of pigment: yellow and fuschia, a deep red highlighted with gold, blue and forest green. Derek’s been focused on his body like it’s his magnum opus, each brush stroke deliberate and sure, sometimes biting his lip and narrowing his eyes in concentration, snorting and smiling at Stiles’ rambling and shuddering breaths.
And after a half an hour of this, Stiles is not only a living canvas, he’s an incredibly fucking aroused living canvas, cock throbbing, so much slick sliding down his shaft it’s starting drip down to his aching balls. He's so hard, so goddamned turned on, he's practically out of his mind with it, not entirely sure he's conscious anymore, drifting between hyperawareness and the unshakeable conviction that he’s actually floating outside of his body, watching this admittedly bizarre but undeniably provocative seduction.
Derek hasn’t touched him since pushing his boxers to the floor.
Stiles grips the wooden table, just cognizant enough to be properly stunned by the fact that Derek has worked him to this barely contained frenzy, this hovering, trembling edge, with nothing but bristles and paint and a come hither sneer.
He whines again, desperate, when Derek swoops the brush down the line of dark hair below his belly button, stopping just before he gets to the base of his cock. “Derek, please,” he begs, shameless.
The brush clatters to the floor and finally, finally, Derek puts his hands back on him, one sturdy and strong hand on his hip, the other circling the base of his dick. He looks up at him again, lashes fluttering as teases his cockhead with his tongue piercing. A sticky dribble of precome trickles on to his tongue, and Derek whines and jerks his hips, steely composure finally cracking.
Derek swallows him down with a hungry growl and a practiced ease that makes Stiles flare with inexplicable jealousy, hands twisting in Derek’s hair, pulling it harder than he means to. It seems to surprise Derek, who chokes a bit but recovers quickly, using his hands to jerk Stiles’ hips forward, practically a demand that Stiles fuck his throat. Stiles happily obliges and starts thrusting in quick little jerks, Derek’s head bobbing, his tongue pressing the barbell into the underside of his shaft, moaning like he’s the one getting a soul-shattering blowjob.
It’s a buzzing, slow-burning rush of pleasure, dragging a keening wail from his chest along with the orgasm Derek drags from his cock, no chance at all for Stiles to pull off, not with the way Derek’s clutching him so close, sucking him harder, thumbs smudging the still-wet paint on his hips. Stiles bucks and heaves, his skin pulled tight with drying paint and simmering with flames of silken heat that curl from deep in his core and the tips of his toes, from behind his knees and his twitching, empty ass.
Stiles would fall over if he weren’t leaning on the table already, gasping and wrung out, bucking so hard the table shakes, knocking over a jar of water that splashes onto the floor. He goes limp, but Derek, on his feet again, is there to catch him, pulling him close and into a kiss, their first, obscenely slick, Stiles’ come thick on Derek's tongue. Derek licks aggressively into his mouth like he wants Stiles to taste himself, his scruff rubbing sharply on his lips and chin, making him quiver. Stiles wants those lips, those whiskers, on every inch of his body, wants to know what that studded tongue feels like teasing at his rim, buried in his ass.
Without breaking the kiss, Derek picks him up like he weighs nothing at all, spinning them and dropping to his knees, lying Stiles out flat on his back on the floor and covering him with his body, pressing his flushed, arching cock into the crook of his thigh. Stiles' twists his fists into the rough cloth beneath him, looking for an anchor, for leverage to thrust up against him.
But Derek breaks the kiss and grabs his hands, pulling them above his head and pinning his wrists. “Don’t move,” he orders, eyes dark with lust and affection, rising up before Stiles can respond, like he just assumes Stiles is going to obey, which of course he does.
He straddles his waist, his sweaty chest and rippling abs a stained rainbow from being pressed against his body, a faded echo of the art he so lovingly painted on him. Derek licks his palm and takes himself in hand, grunting, gaze smoldering, stroking his big cock hard and fast, foreskin sliding smooth and slick over his leaking tip. Stiles’ spent cock, wedged between Derek’s ass, twitches, and he moans in awe again at the dreamlike, dazzling beauty of him, even more exquisite and stunning as he gives in to his pleasure, face going slack and tender as he stares down at him. Derek’s eyes roll back and his mouth drops open, grunting, raw and ravenous, spilling thick, white ribbons of come across Stiles’ painted chest and neck, the final flourish to complete his masterpiece.
Stiles comes back to himself, dazed brain coming back online, when Derek hauls him to his feet and carries him to the bathroom. “Oh my god, I am a semi-muscular adult man,” he complains, although there’s no truth to his irritation. Derek can drag him around anywhere he likes, for as long as he likes. As far as Stiles is concerned, his body belongs to this unbearably hot, utterly magic and completely ridiculous man, wants to let him use him up however he wants.
“And an officer of the law,” Derek adds, dropping him unceremoniously on the closed toilet so he can turn on the shower, hot steam filling the small room, clicking his tongue in mock disappointment. “Letting a punk and nuisance like me manhandle you,” he tsks, smirking.
As if to demonstrate his strength and Stiles’ utter submission to it, Derek moves him bodily into the steaming shower, stepping in the narrow stall behind him, lips finding his neck before he even closes the glass door. Stiles gasps at the heat of the water and the heat of his mouth back on his skin, making him tremble anew, forehead falling to rest against the cool tile.
Torso pressed along his back, half-hard cock snug in the cleft of his ass, Derek circles his arms around him, hands gentle as he washes him clean, using the same purposeful, careful strokes with his fingers that he used with his brushes when he was painting him, hushed murmurs of appreciation tangling into Stiles’ hair. “So fucking beautiful,” he mumbles, hands reverent and sure, igniting a fresh, slow-burning heat low in Stiles’ gut and in his thumping heart. “So perfect.”
The water cracks the dried paint and come, loosening it from his skin, rivulets of rich color sliding down his body. “Your art,” Stiles mutters, watching the paint swirl around their feet in a miasma of hues before sputtering down the drain, a little sad to see Derek’s creation on his skin disappear so quickly, so easily.
He feels more than hears Derek’s laugh, a tender-sweet vibration behind his left ear, tip of his tongue flicking the lobe. “You’ll have let me paint you again,” he whispers, a question and a promise that Stiles answers by twisting his head back to catch his mouth in a wet, uneven kiss, body further dissolving under his touch, knowing down to his bones that he’ll gladly be Derek’s canvas again and again.