a Whole Lotta Smut

objectivly (sciles)

At first it starts out as no big thing, because objectively, Harry Styles is pretty fucking hot, and objectively, Stiles appreciates and recognizes that. You know, like the first time he saw Derek Hale, and objectively, Derek is very hot, but then he turns all broody, grumpy gus (for valid reasons, most of the time). Or, you know, like Isaac Lahey, and objectively Stiles thinks Isaac is hot, but fuck, Isaac is such a giant asshole and kind of a creep, but not Peter Hale creepy. Nobody is Peter Hale creepy.

And then there’s Stiles’ bossy boyfriend, Scott McCall, who is just hot, smoking hot and completely fucking beautiful when he’s stretched out on top of Stiles. Fucking Stiles into the bed, into the floor, giving him back burn, ass burn, knee burn - entire goddamn body burn.

Objective attractiveness, that’s the point here. Objectively, Harry Styles is pretty fucking hot, but Stiles doesn’t want to have sex with him; he only wants to be fucked through the floor by Scott McCall.

Which brings the point to this: Stiles has a problem, and that problem is constantly jerking off to Harry Styles. Stiles will get an itch, and he’s suddenly forty-five minutes into Google image searching “Harry Styles skinny jeans” and masturbating his cock off his body and coming so hard he’s shaking afterward. One time he shot come right onto his collarbone, and Stiles swears up and down he saw shooting stars; fucking Biblical ejaculation.

And that’s when Stiles is at the mall one day and finds a poster that is almost the exact size of his closet door. When he got back home that day it was a literal walk of shame past his dad who asked Stiles what the poster was for, what it was a poster of, and why Stiles, at the age of seventeen, was still at a point in his life where he bought posters for his room.

"I can’t ask questions about the poster?"

"Dad, it’s just a stupid poster."

"Stiles, if it were just a poster, it wouldn’t be as tall as you."

"It’s just a poster!" Stiles said shrilly.

And maybe Stiles was careful when he unrolled Harry Styles, and even more careful and precise when he put the poster putty on his door, and carefully hung Harry Styles up on the inside of his closet. Stiles was so precise that he took the poster down four times before aligning it just right, and then rubbed his face on Harry Styles’ crotch; Jesus Christ, he’s so glad to be an only child.

It’s been two weeks since he bought the poster, and Stiles has spent every single day coming home from school jerking off on Harry Styles. He barrels up the stairs to his room, throws aside his backpack, pulls open the door to his closet, sits on the old pile of musty clothes that he still hasn’t taken to Goodwill, and spends at least thirty minutes coming his brains out through his ears.

Today, though, Scott shows up.

"Stiles?" Scott’s muffled voice calls from his bedroom.

Stiles stuffs a semi-clean pair of socks in his mouth and shoots come all over Harry Styles just as Scott opens the closet. Stiles makes a squeaking sound and winds up on his back, dick still leaking, pants shoved down around his ankles.

"Jesus Christ, Stiles, what the fuck are you doing?"

"Scott," Stiles spits out the socks. "Hey. I am totally not covering Harry Styles in my jizz right now."