Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/2490389.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage, Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Melissa_McCall/Scott_McCall
  Additional Tags:
      Lactation_Kink, Parent/Child_Incest, Not!Fic, Tumblr_Prompt, Dubious
      Consent
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-10-21 Chapters: 1/3 Words: 1470
****** development ******
by hardlyhurtmenow
Summary
     But I have been kicking around a few thoughts for a while, regarding
     the sacrifices to the Nemeton, and the possibility that the Nemeton
     might regrow itself.
     And what kind of effect that might have on the women involved in that
     ritual.
Sadly, I cannot write omega milk bars (although I submit for your
consideration: Omega Derek Hale who caters almost exclusively to the to-go
crowd, working himself on an artificial knot while a mechanical pump drives him
half-crazy). But I have been kicking around a few thoughts for a while,
regarding the sacrifices to the Nemeton, and the possibility that the Nemeton
might regrow itself.
And what kind of effect that might have on the women involved in that ritual.
I don’t really think that it’d start with Melissa — no, if any of them changed
“first,” it’d be Allison, being the one who actually went into the ice bath —
but I suspect that, in as much as anybody was allowed to notice a change, it
would be Melissa and Scott first. Scott would probably smell it first, the way
his mother’s scent turned sweeter, creamier. He’d know better than to ask; you
basically never ask about the biological smells, and you definitely don’t ask
about the biological smells of grown women.
But he’d totally notice, sharp new true alpha senses and all.
The Nemeton doesn’t need its sacrifices thinking about what it’s doing. It’d be
as unobtrusive as possible with the after-effects of its spell.
Which really just amounts to it seeming unremarkable to Melissa, when she
headed up into the attic and started digging through the boxes. She’d sent most
of her pregnancy and maternity stuff here when Scott had still been a toddler,
always sure that someday she’d donate what she could and toss what she
couldn’t. But, well, for some reason her conscious mind kept kind of slipping
away from, she needed her old nursing bras. Sterile scrubs could cover a number
of sins, and were meant to be around a number of fluids, but leaking milk did
not get any less embarrassing the older you got.
She probably didn’t even think about it when she tossed a pack of disposable
nursing pads into her shopping cart. Nothing to worry about there.
And it probably seemed pretty normal, the way Scott started clinging closer.
Burying his nose in her shoulder, or running it lightly over the cuve of her
collarbone, when he could reach it. He’d just nearly died — if Stiles could be
trusted over Scott and Deaton, he had died — and she’d been kidnapped. A little
extra closeness was a totally natural reaction.
Less natural was the way he brought his hands up, some nights, running them
over the thickening curve of her breasts. Less natural was the way she let it
happen, but every time she tried to pin down exactly what was going on, why she
should push Scott away and maybe have a “so you’re a werewolf now, but this is
still inappropriate” talk, it would all slip away. Darting silvery and too fast
to catch in the ebb and flow of the inevitable and ineffable bullshit that
living in Beacon Hills meant dealing with.
And that gradual decline, that gentle saunter downward into… well, something,
that probably explained why it just seemed so easy, that one rare Saturday
afternoon she found herself spending with Scott at the house. Admittedly, she
was exhausted from working three successive doubles, and Greenaway had sent her
home early that Saturday morning with the instructions not to come back until
late Sunday or early Monday. But still: easy.
Scott went out to the grocery store for a few pints of Ben and Jerry’s. Melissa
ordered a pizza. They queued up a Disney marathon on Netflix, then sat back on
the couch.
At some point Scott’s toenails — or, face it, his claws — had poked holes in
his socks, and one of his smaller toes was sticking out. Naturally, he’d
stretched out so the offending foot was on the coffee table, right in her line
of vision and distracting her from the singing Jamaican crab. It was easy to
nudge his foot with hers until he stretched out on the couch, his feet dangling
off the far end.
Easy, to let Scott turn so his head was near her shoulder. To let his hands
wander up her stomach, warm, soft fingers — should a boy’s fingers be that
soft? Or maybe the werewolf healing had taken his calluses — still larger than
she’d expected.
Scott began tugging at the waistband of her shirt, and she didn’t say anything.
Just pushed away the Phish Phood and let him. She’d taken to keeping the house
warm, as warm as a drafty old pseudo-Victorian place was likely to be, but as
he pushed her shirt all the way up, her nipples responded anyway. They’d been
less sensitive, these last sixteen years, but they still got cold just fine.
They pulsed, almost throbbing, and it was such a familiar feeling. The world
almost splintered into clarity, but then Scott pressed his nose against her
collarbone again, snuffling in a deep breath — that was familiar, too — and she
lost the thread.
Ahead of them, on the TV screen, the octopus witch was singing something deep
and sinister, but Melissa reached out and buried one hand in hair that had once
been an unruly mop of curls and now was cropped close to his head. She guided
his mouth over one of her tingling, almost aching nipples, and sighed as he
went unresisting.
He swirled his tongue around at first, sucking gently. Like this was about
something else. But he seemed to figure out quickly that he needed to keep his
whole mouth around the areola, and soon his plush lips were drawing something
warm out of her. Her whole body seemed to pulse to the beat of her heart and
her nipple almost ached with it, but her breast felt better.
Scott’s eyes drifted closed and he worked one hand over her right breast, even
as he moved his free hand down between them, trailing down her stomach and into
her pajama pants.
Any hint of the world coming clear, of anything falling into place and making
sense, vanished as her son’s big, soft, startlingly hot fingers snuck their way
past her underwear. He paused in his suckling, tearing a groan from her, as he
pressed his thumb against her clit. He slipped a finger inside her, more easily
than she would have expected, and then a second, and any thought or complaint
vanished as he curled his fingers and worked her from the inside out.
And then his mouth was back on her, drawing milk. Easing tension she hadn’t
known she was feeling. She was torn between the familiar seeming comfort of his
mouth and the white-hot motions of his hands, unable to decide which she wanted
more, left so boneless and breathless by both that she let her right leg dangle
off the sofa.
The gentle circles around and against her clit ground into her, harder and
faster, and there was no helping the way her hips rocked into him or the way
she pulled Scott closer.
He switched from left breast to right, and his fingers curled just perfectly,
and Melissa’s entire body left her control for a handful of seconds. Blessedly
empty on one side, and emptying on the other, her skin warmed from her sternum
to her knees and toes, thanks to Scott’s body heat —
It built, stacking feeling after feeling on top of her, pleasure on top of
relief on top of subtle, quivering tension in her hips and thighs and much,
much deeper —
And then it burst, and she was almost sobbing something into Scott’s neck, even
as Scott soothed her, even as Scott kept suckling, kept teasing out something
warm and wet in nearly painful glide of his mouth over her.
At last, when he was full, he dropped sleepily against her, pressed one juice-
slick palm to one breast and one drier palm to the other, soothing her aching
nipples with warmth and softness.
She reached a hand down, skimming it along his stomach until she had his boxers
parted. His cock was already hard, but he’d completely ignored it. Such a
considerate boy she’d raised.
It was easy, natural to lick her palm. To rub her fingers around the head,
gently at first, then wrap her hand around him and jack him the way Raf had
liked, with a firm grip and a twist on the upstroke. Easy, to jack him until he
was spilling hot and white and sticky in her hand. Not worth thinking about, as
she drew her hand up to her mouth and tasted, curious.
Not worth remembering, when she woke the next morning with her hand plastered
to her face. Somewhere, three miles deep in the forest her son was learning,
the wind blew through the branches of a tree that had been chopped down and
burned long before she’d been a child.
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