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Title: Jocasta Dreams
Author: Evandar
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: NC-17
Genre: Angst/PWP
Pairings: Molly Weasley/Harry Potter
Warnings: Underage sex, Jocasta Complex, lactation kink, adultery
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and am making no profit from this story.
Summary: A lipstick stain and the feel of hot breath and chapped lips at the edge of her blouse trigger a strange reaction in Molly. Harry’s just a boy, but for one summer, she wishes he was hers.
Author's Notes: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
hp_crossgenfest and inspired by the sheer amount of Freud that's been going into my thesis. It's honestly less terrifying than it sounds.
It starts with a hug.
No. It doesn’t. Not really. It starts when she finds a smear of lipstick on Arthur’s collar while doing the laundry – it’s not hers: she hasn’t worn lipstick in years, and it’s a shade of pink that she never would have worn even she did. It’s a light, bright, girly shade that belongs to someone young and fun rather than a mother of seven. It’s a…secretarial sort of shade, she thinks, as she spritzes it away with stain remover.
It’s not the first time. She’s sensible enough to know that it won’t be the last. It doesn’t stop it from hurting; doesn’t stop it from carving a hole in her heart. She knows he’ll never leave because of the children and because of the comfortable home that they built together, but that’s not the same as not wanting to leave because of her.
What comes after that – after the tears and the tea and the resolution to keep quiet and pretend she hasn’t noticed - that’s what starts with a hug.
With Harry’s breath hot on her skin as he presses his face into her bosom, and the faintest, most innocent brush of chapped lips over the edge of her blouse. He’s just fourteen – just a few months younger than her youngest son – but for one, dizzying moment, the feel of him against her sends shivers down her spine.
“Thanks for letting me stay, Mrs Weasley,” he says when he pulls away.
She touches his hair and his face in ways that will look like motherly concern, but that aren’t, really. Not now. She touches his hair because she wants to know what it feels like; his face because she can’t help but wonder if she’d cut herself on those cheekbones. He’s pale and a little gaunt. He need feeding. Needs love.
And she wonders, just for a moment, if he would take her love if she offered it.
…
He’s a strange boy, when it comes down to it. On paper, he’s younger than Ron. He’s an average student and an excellent flyer, and he just happens to be the boy saviour of the world. He is, in fact, the main character in those silly little stories she used to make up for Ginny’s bedtime.
In person, he’s different. Odd. Shy. He skirts around human touch as if it’s something alien – and it could well be, if what she’s seen and heard of those Muggles he lives with is anything to go by – and he haunts her house. He’s content to be on the side-lines; happy to watch her children as they laugh and banter in full colour and at top volume.
Harry is almost silent, and truthfully, he’s as grey as she’s been feeling lately.
(Arthur is still coming home late. She smells faint traces of smoke and unfamiliar perfume on his clothes and his hair. He doesn’t touch her when he slips into bed by her side.)
She’s not sure what she should do. If she should do anything. How, should the opportunity come to pass, would a frumpy housewife like herself seduce a teenage boy? It’s something she begins to ponder as she prepares meals and washes dishes, watching the boys de-gnome the garden from the kitchen window. Harry’s an ace shot with a gnome. There’s a wiry strength in him that’s quite a surprise, considering how skinny and awkward he is with his coltish limbs. She wonders if he’d use that strength on her.
He’s got lovely hands. Quite callused, but long-fingered and nimble. They’d dig bruises into her hips where they’d grip her tight and hold her steady – right here, by the sink. Where any of her children could see if they happened to look. He’s just tall enough to be able to bend her over and fuck her and, well, she’s always quite liked being taken from behind.
She presses her legs together. She’s wet, for the first time in what feels like forever, and she’s aching to have him inside of her. But she’s guilty for just thinking of it.
Outside, Harry glances back at her. His teeth flash white in the summer sun as he smiles.
Her body throbs.
…
He’s resting against her. He’s shy, but those wonderful hands are as nimble as she’d hoped they would be. They skate over her hips and her belly and between her thighs – she guides his movements gently, teaching him. He’s never been with anyone before; hasn’t wanted to touch anyone before. She’s his first. His first kiss, his first fuck.
He thrusts himself against her leg as he slips his fingers into her. He nuzzles against her breast. He licks and kisses, and when he finds her nipple he latches on to suckle – her poor, motherless lover. She runs her fingers through his hair and holds him close even as she rolls her hips against his hand.
His callouses feel so good.
He lets her nipple slide from his mouth with a pop. “Can – can I –“ he says through swollen lips, and he thrusts his hips for emphasis. “Please, Mrs Weasley?” He kisses her. “Please, Mum?”
Her fingers move faster as she pictures him sliding into her, right to the root. There would be wonder on his face, she thinks. Wonder and pleasure – so much pleasure. He’d stare down at where their bodies would join, embarrassed and ecstatic, and at her urging he’d fuck her so hard she’d scream. He’d bury his face in her breasts, latch on again and suckle like a baby while impaling her with his cock. And when he came too soon – he is just a boy – she’d guide him down and down until he was suckling between her thighs instead.
She comes with his name on her lips, picturing Arthur coming home early – for once – to find her with the Boy Who Lived buried between her thighs, with her lips and her breasts bruised from his demanding mouth and his white, white teeth.
But when she opens her eyes, she’s alone in Ron’s room on the bed set up for Harry. No one, thankfully, is standing in the doorway. Bright laughter filtering in through the open window tells her where her children are, and she pulls herself together. She straightens her underwear – soaked through and uncomfortable – and her skirts, and she licks her juices from her fingers.
Most of them.
After a moment’s hesitation, she wipes her hand on Harry’s pillow. Her heart pounds in her chest and she immediately starts to regret it, but she wants more than anything to leave a trace of herself behind.
It’s…it’s all a fantasy. A fantasy that she might be desirable enough to have her cake and eat it too – just the way Arthur does.
She takes a deep breath and stands on trembling legs.
A silly crush, and on a boy young enough to be her own child.
No more.
She won’t allow it.
And that… that is how it ends.
Author: Evandar
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: NC-17
Genre: Angst/PWP
Pairings: Molly Weasley/Harry Potter
Warnings: Underage sex, Jocasta Complex, lactation kink, adultery
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and am making no profit from this story.
Summary: A lipstick stain and the feel of hot breath and chapped lips at the edge of her blouse trigger a strange reaction in Molly. Harry’s just a boy, but for one summer, she wishes he was hers.
Author's Notes: Written for
hp_crossgenfest and inspired by the sheer amount of Freud that's been going into my thesis. It's honestly less terrifying than it sounds.It starts with a hug.
No. It doesn’t. Not really. It starts when she finds a smear of lipstick on Arthur’s collar while doing the laundry – it’s not hers: she hasn’t worn lipstick in years, and it’s a shade of pink that she never would have worn even she did. It’s a light, bright, girly shade that belongs to someone young and fun rather than a mother of seven. It’s a…secretarial sort of shade, she thinks, as she spritzes it away with stain remover.
It’s not the first time. She’s sensible enough to know that it won’t be the last. It doesn’t stop it from hurting; doesn’t stop it from carving a hole in her heart. She knows he’ll never leave because of the children and because of the comfortable home that they built together, but that’s not the same as not wanting to leave because of her.
What comes after that – after the tears and the tea and the resolution to keep quiet and pretend she hasn’t noticed - that’s what starts with a hug.
With Harry’s breath hot on her skin as he presses his face into her bosom, and the faintest, most innocent brush of chapped lips over the edge of her blouse. He’s just fourteen – just a few months younger than her youngest son – but for one, dizzying moment, the feel of him against her sends shivers down her spine.
“Thanks for letting me stay, Mrs Weasley,” he says when he pulls away.
She touches his hair and his face in ways that will look like motherly concern, but that aren’t, really. Not now. She touches his hair because she wants to know what it feels like; his face because she can’t help but wonder if she’d cut herself on those cheekbones. He’s pale and a little gaunt. He need feeding. Needs love.
And she wonders, just for a moment, if he would take her love if she offered it.
…
He’s a strange boy, when it comes down to it. On paper, he’s younger than Ron. He’s an average student and an excellent flyer, and he just happens to be the boy saviour of the world. He is, in fact, the main character in those silly little stories she used to make up for Ginny’s bedtime.
In person, he’s different. Odd. Shy. He skirts around human touch as if it’s something alien – and it could well be, if what she’s seen and heard of those Muggles he lives with is anything to go by – and he haunts her house. He’s content to be on the side-lines; happy to watch her children as they laugh and banter in full colour and at top volume.
Harry is almost silent, and truthfully, he’s as grey as she’s been feeling lately.
(Arthur is still coming home late. She smells faint traces of smoke and unfamiliar perfume on his clothes and his hair. He doesn’t touch her when he slips into bed by her side.)
She’s not sure what she should do. If she should do anything. How, should the opportunity come to pass, would a frumpy housewife like herself seduce a teenage boy? It’s something she begins to ponder as she prepares meals and washes dishes, watching the boys de-gnome the garden from the kitchen window. Harry’s an ace shot with a gnome. There’s a wiry strength in him that’s quite a surprise, considering how skinny and awkward he is with his coltish limbs. She wonders if he’d use that strength on her.
He’s got lovely hands. Quite callused, but long-fingered and nimble. They’d dig bruises into her hips where they’d grip her tight and hold her steady – right here, by the sink. Where any of her children could see if they happened to look. He’s just tall enough to be able to bend her over and fuck her and, well, she’s always quite liked being taken from behind.
She presses her legs together. She’s wet, for the first time in what feels like forever, and she’s aching to have him inside of her. But she’s guilty for just thinking of it.
Outside, Harry glances back at her. His teeth flash white in the summer sun as he smiles.
Her body throbs.
…
He’s resting against her. He’s shy, but those wonderful hands are as nimble as she’d hoped they would be. They skate over her hips and her belly and between her thighs – she guides his movements gently, teaching him. He’s never been with anyone before; hasn’t wanted to touch anyone before. She’s his first. His first kiss, his first fuck.
He thrusts himself against her leg as he slips his fingers into her. He nuzzles against her breast. He licks and kisses, and when he finds her nipple he latches on to suckle – her poor, motherless lover. She runs her fingers through his hair and holds him close even as she rolls her hips against his hand.
His callouses feel so good.
He lets her nipple slide from his mouth with a pop. “Can – can I –“ he says through swollen lips, and he thrusts his hips for emphasis. “Please, Mrs Weasley?” He kisses her. “Please, Mum?”
Her fingers move faster as she pictures him sliding into her, right to the root. There would be wonder on his face, she thinks. Wonder and pleasure – so much pleasure. He’d stare down at where their bodies would join, embarrassed and ecstatic, and at her urging he’d fuck her so hard she’d scream. He’d bury his face in her breasts, latch on again and suckle like a baby while impaling her with his cock. And when he came too soon – he is just a boy – she’d guide him down and down until he was suckling between her thighs instead.
She comes with his name on her lips, picturing Arthur coming home early – for once – to find her with the Boy Who Lived buried between her thighs, with her lips and her breasts bruised from his demanding mouth and his white, white teeth.
But when she opens her eyes, she’s alone in Ron’s room on the bed set up for Harry. No one, thankfully, is standing in the doorway. Bright laughter filtering in through the open window tells her where her children are, and she pulls herself together. She straightens her underwear – soaked through and uncomfortable – and her skirts, and she licks her juices from her fingers.
Most of them.
After a moment’s hesitation, she wipes her hand on Harry’s pillow. Her heart pounds in her chest and she immediately starts to regret it, but she wants more than anything to leave a trace of herself behind.
It’s…it’s all a fantasy. A fantasy that she might be desirable enough to have her cake and eat it too – just the way Arthur does.
She takes a deep breath and stands on trembling legs.
A silly crush, and on a boy young enough to be her own child.
No more.
She won’t allow it.
And that… that is how it ends.
