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Something Oedipal

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Melissa loves Stiles like a son. She loves him like an annoying redheaded stepchild she never actually adopted. She’ll always want him to be safe and happy and to not be in possession of a key to her house. When he and Scott leave for college together she thinks of him from time to time in a fond, absent-minded sort of way. Stiles answers Scott’s phone as often as Scott and Melissa always tries to check in when he does. How are you doing? How is school going? How much trouble have you gotten Scott into lately?

She sees him over Thanksgiving during the boys' freshman year, but between Stiles deciding to take summer classes and her ever more common double shifts over the holiday breaks, Melissa goes over two years without seeing him after that. When she bumps into him in the cereal isle at the only 24-hour supermarket in Beacon Hills she doesn’t recognize him for a minute.  

“God, I’m sorry.” She mutters, reaching for box she dropped, barely looking at the man she ran into.

“Ms. McCall?” She hears, and logically she knows its Stiles when she looks up, but those are not Stiles’ arms, or shoulders, or, fuck, has he gotten taller? He’s filled out since the last time she saw him. He’s still thin, but his arms are roped with corded muscle, his shoulders are wider, and he isn’t hiding under an oversized hoodie. The fitted t-shirt he’s wearing only accentuates the broadness of his shoulders, the cut of his waist.

“Stiles?” She chokes out, as he wraps his arms around her and picks her up and oh fuck, fuck, that is definitely not Stiles’ chest. Melissa puts her arms around his neck automatically, unusually conscious of the way her breasts press against him. He squeezes her once before putting her back down.

“God, Stiles, you…” Mellissa isn’t really sure what to say. You look great seems somewhat inappropriate considering how great he looks. You’ve filled out is even worse. “…got taller!”

And he has. His perpetual hunch has disappeared, too. He’s actually been bigger than her for years, but somehow she’s never felt small around him. Not until now, that is. He’s standing with his shoulders back like he’s comfortable in his own skin for the first time. It’s… different. 

“Yeah. A few inches, I think.” Stiles laughs a little, swaying forward onto his toes and then back on his heels.  When he shifts forward again Melissa realizes how close they’re standing. How she’s craning her head up to look at him. 

She takes a quick step back, heat rising in her face. It’s ridiculous really, acting like this around Stiles of all people. 

If he notices her awkwardness he doesn’t show it, still smiling as he reaches down to grab his basket. It’s filled with chips and energy drinks. At least some things don’t change. “It was great to see you, but I have to…” He thumbs over his shoulder at the checkout. “Dad’s waiting.” 

“Tell him hi for me.”

“Will do.” He says with a wink before heading off. A wink. She was just winked at by Stiles Stilinski. 

What has her life come to?

Stiles and Scott come crashing into the kitchen when she’s eating breakfast a few days later. They’re both drenched in sweat and speckled with dirt, their lacrosse gear dragging behind them. It should be a familiar scene, given the amount of times it’s happened before.  And it is, until Stiles grabs the hem of his shirt and pulls it over his head in one long move.

Melissa is staring. She knows she’s staring.  She knows she’s staring with her coffee cup frozen halfway to her mouth. Being aware of this predicament, however, is doing little to help the situation, as she can’t seem to look away. It’s not like she hasn’t seen Stiles shirtless before. Of course she has. That scar on his side is her handiwork, after all She sewed him up right here in this kitchen, laughed at him when he put up a brave front over the gash in his stomach but turned green at the sight of her needle. 

That scar is practically the only thing she recognizes at this point. The lines of his stomach, the cut of his hips, those are all new.

Stiles wipes his shirt over his chest, likely trying to sop up some of the sweat. All he succeeds in doing is smearing dirt on his skin.  A weak noise escapes from her throat before she can stop it. Scott and Stiles turn to look at her. She jolts into motion, her coffee barely staying in the cup when she sets it down too hard. 

“Oh, sorry Mom. We’ll clean up after we shower, I promise. Dibs on the first one!” Scott taunts, running for the stairs. 

Stiles trails after him at a more sedate pace. He glances back over his shoulder at her when he reaches the hallway. Not that she notices. Because she is not already watching him go.


Scott borrowed the car for wolf-adjacent reasons that morning and he’s supposed to be the one picking her up from work. The bright blue monstrosity parked (illegally) outside the emergency room tells another story. 

“Hey, Mrs. McCall,” Stiles say sticking his head out the open window. “Scott says he’s sorry, he just got caught up with—“

“Trust me, Stiles, I’m happier not knowing.” Melissa sighs, heaving herself up into the jeep. 

Stiles' hand stays on the gearshift as he drives. She spends the ride trying not to focus on how his fingers tighten on the head, how his arm flexes as he shifts gears. It’s a losing battle, to say the least. They’re good hands. Long fingers. The kind that are great for-

“How was work?” He asks, startling her out of her reverie.

“Long. Very long.” She says, jerking her head up to look out the window.  Long doesn’t even begin to describe her day. That must be what this is. She’s tired. Exhausted, really. She doesn’t actually want to know what those hands are capable of. “I just want to have a drink and go to bed knowing I don’t have to get up for the next twelve hours.” Maybe spend a little extra time in bed. Some Me Time should help set her straight.

“I could go for a drink, if you wouldn’t mind the company.” He says as he pulls into her driveway.

“Nice try. I’m not giving you alcohol.”

Stiles blinks at her like she’s said something strange. But then he smiles, slow and sure. “I’m twenty-one, remember? I’m legal.”

There is a world of No in that sentence that Melissa is not prepared to deal with. She digs in her bag for her house keys to buy herself a few seconds. He’s still looking at her when she glances back up, though. How has she never noticed how wide his mouth is? How pink? 

Oh God. Melissa is losing her mind. 

“Okay. Just one, though.” Who said that? It certainly sounded like her voice, but there’s no way she just invited Stiles into her house. Not that he didn’t used to spend as much time her house as his own. Not that he doesn’t already have a goddamned key.

No. This is okay. This is normal. Nothing weird about inviting her son’s friend inside for a drink to catch up. No ulterior motive here at all.

Melissa grabs two beers out of the fridge when they get inside, directing Stiles into the living room. She hands one of them to him and drops onto the sofa, toeing her sneakers off. He sits down too and there’s just a cushion length between them.

He takes a long pull and Melissa absolutely does not watch the line of his throat as he swallows. She doesn’t look at his lips wrapped around the neck of the bottle. Because she is an adult. She has self-control.

Melissa downs close to half of her beer in one drag.

Self. Control.

His fingers drum against the bottle when he sets it down, a quick tap, tap, tap, that catches in the condensation. Makes it drip.

Melissa can sympathize.

She takes another gulp.

“Can I get you another one, Mrs. McCall?” He asks, standing up.  

She shakes her bottle mostly empty bottle before putting it down.  “Melissa. Call me Melissa, Stiles. I think we’ve established that you’re not a kid anymore.”

“No, I’m not.” He says, meeting her eyes. Mellissa feels her face flush. He holds her gaze for a beat.


His mouth is slightly open, breath coming a touch too hard to be normal. Melissa’s eyes drop to his mouth without meaning to. His tongue darts out to wet his lips and she bites back a noise.

“Fuck it,” Stiles says like a decision, and before she can find a second to be embarrassed, Stiles drops to his knees, shoving back the coffee table as he goes.

“Stiles! What the hell are you-“

“You know exactly what I’m doing.” And really, Melissa can’t argue with that, can she? He shoulders between her legs and tugs her scrubs off without another word, long fingers catching her underwear as well. Stiles kisses right below her belly button before he gets them all the way off, licks at the line of her pubic hair. She jerks without meaning to, pressing against his face.

He’s staring up at her, smug and sure, and Mellissa is certain she’s never seen this look on his face before. She opens her mouth to say something; she’s not even sure what. Before she can say anything Stiles slides his hands up the inside of her thighs, presses them wide and looks.

“Fuck,” he mutters, quiet and low, close enough that Melissa can feel his breath on her. His thumb slides up from the crease of her thigh and presses against her clit. She’s wet already but the calluses on his thumb are still rough. Melissa must make some kind of noise, but she can’t hear it over the roaring in her ears. He looks back up at her and says, “I’m good at this. I’m so good with my mouth. Can I?” Like he doesn’t already have a hand on her cunt.

She doesn’t say yes. She absolutely can’t say anything because she’s looking down at Stiles Stilinski between her thighs and she just cannot be expected to make words. He’s staring at her, waiting, thumb still a steady pressure against her clit. Melissa bites her lip, contemplates praying for forgiveness, and nods. Stiles doesn’t give her the time to second guess herself. He throws her knee over his shoulder and her shin bangs against the table, going hot and sore almost immediately. Stiles either doesn’t notice or he doesn’t care, because he doesn’t stop for a second. His hands move to her waist as he drags her towards the edge of the sofa, tilts her hips up and sucks her clit between his lips.  When she bucks up he throws an arm over her waist, pinning her.

His tongue snakes out, licking between her folds, moving down to push inside her. Melissa can barely hear it over the sound of her own panting breath, but Stiles is making noise. This quiet little humming groan like she tastes so good, he just can’t help himself. 

He circles a finger around her entrance before sliding it in. Melissa lets out a sound, something high, sharp, and Stiles opens his eyes again. He stares at her, unblinking, and when he slides a second finger in Melissa throws a hand behind her, grabbing onto the back of the sofa for dear life.

“Oh fuck. God.” Melissa chokes out.

Stiles pulls back a little, wet air puffing against her. “Yeah, c’mon” he says, breathing harshly.  Stiles fingers are long, wicked, curving up just enough to make her crazy.  He fucks her with them, watching her face. “Do you know how long I’ve wanted to do this? I’ve been jerking off thinking about eating you out for years.”

And no, no, no, Melissa can’t know that. She can’t

“You taste even better than I thought you would.” He leans back in, licking his tongue between his fingers, and then working back up to her clit, alternating between sucking and lapping at it.  It’s almost too much. Her thighs start to shake, the familiar tightening starting to build low in her body.  Any semblance of control she might have had is long gone as she rolls her hips up into his face. Stiles moans, pressing closer.

Melissa’s orgasm hits her like someone wrapped a hot wire around her guts and jerked. Her heel digs into Stiles’ back and she arches up off the couch with the force of it. Stiles works her through it, his hand slowing just enough to make it bearable. When she finally sinks back down into the couch, boneless, Stiles pulls back. His mouth is swollen, the pretty bow gone red, wet. His cheeks are splotchy with color.

He looks as wrecked as she feels.

Stiles tucks his forehead up against her thigh, breathing hard. He still has one hand gripping her hip, his other sliding out from between her thighs. She can feel it when his shoulder starts working. Even without seeing anything she can tell he’s jerking off with the hand he had inside her.  Melissa drags her nails against his scalp without really thinking about it and Stiles’ shoulders start to shake. His breath comes quicker and he makes this small, choked noise, shoulders tightening, before he settles.

It takes a few seconds to hit her.

Her leg is still hooked over his shoulder. Her scrub pants are in a pile on the coffee table. A beer bottle has rolled to the middle of the room, leaving a trail in its wake.

Stiles is kneeling between her thighs.

He looks up at her like he knows what she’s thinking and doesn't care.