Title: Gardenia
Author: Reiko K.
Pairing: Harry Potter/Molly Weasley
Word Count: ~4,600
Rating: NC-17

Summary: There's only one thing that Molly Weasley has all for herself, and she won't give it up for anything.

Author's Note: Written for kink_n_squick's 2013 Christmas Fest. My recipient was DobbyDobs and they requested HP/MW and the following prompts: size queen, age disparity, infidelity, and fat admiration.

In the language of flowers "Gardenia" apparently means "you're lovely". I owe much thanks to my beta Maria for looking this over for me. I hope everyone enjoys this!

Disclaimer: This is non-profitable fanwork. No copyright infringement is intended.


No one had to tell Molly Weasley that she was a good mother, grandmother, and wife. Her own mother had raised her to be as such, and the rest came as a natural consequence of bearing seven children and having twelve grandchildren between them.

Molly loved being a housewife. She loved devoting her life to taking care of her family. She loved that her children trusted her enough to allow her an active parenting role in their lives. Nothing brought her as much joy as watching her children teach their own kids the very morals and lessons that she'd imparted on them in their youth.

Molly didn't mind that her children often sought her out when they were in need of a babysitter. She didn't mind hosting Sunday dinners, or taking charge of the kitchen on special occasions, or knitting dozens of Weasley sweaters for the holidays. It made her content. It also kept her busy, which was something she desperately needed after the war.

The loss of Fred, even years later, was as painful as it had ever been. Not a day went by where Molly didn't think of her son. How could she not when there were constant reminders of his absence at every turn? It got so bad, sometimes, that even the sight of George-her poor, darling, miserable George-made her want to fall to her knees in despair. There was nothing in the world that could fill the hole the death of her child had made. The best she could do was keep herself so occupied that she couldn't dwell. Having such a large, active family helped.

Sometimes it didn't. Sometimes Molly didn't want to forget. She wanted to talk about it, wanted to break down and cry on someone's shoulder, wanted to lose herself in photos and memories of her fallen son. It wasn't an indulgence she was allowed very often. Her husband grew distant whenever she so much as hinted that she wanted to talk, and her children lived as if they'd love nothing more than to forget. Her grandchildren were too young to understand—and had never met their brilliant uncle, besides. And as for George…well. Everyone knew not to mention Fred's name around him. They'd learned that the hard way.

There was only one person in the entire world who Molly could turn to when miserable nostalgia struck. Only one person who bothered to listen to and comfort her when her family's expectations and their purposeful silence became too heavy to bear. And the only thing he ever asked of her in return was that she listen to his own heartbreaks and comfort him, too. As far as compensation went, it wasn't very much.

Somewhere along the line Harry James Potter, a boy thirty-one years her junior, became her one true confidant and, as peculiar as it was all things considered, her very best friend.

How their relationship changed from one of friends to that of lovers is a story for another time. It is important only to know that somehow, after years of shared agonies and mutual comforts, such change did happen. And Molly Weasley, despite everything, had never once regretted it.

She was selfish about very few things in her life. She was allowed this one, small thing.

It was April 1st 2013, and as always, Harry Potter did not forget. He met her at the door with a bouquet of flowers—gardenias, her favorites—and a small smile.

"Thanks for coming," she said, and Harry rolled his eyes at her as he always did, amused by her persistent politeness. He nevertheless leaned forward and kissed her cheek.

She let him in and he immediately stalked towards the kitchen. He didn't need to ask if anyone was home—they both knew there wouldn't be. Arthur would busy himself at the Ministry until someone took pity and sent him home (around midnight, usually), and the rest of her children would go about their day as they normally would, steering clear of The Burrow as if it were a hotspot for ghosts they'd prefer to put to rest.

George was still in Argentina, doing whatever it was he did those days. Molly had stopped asking a long time ago.

"Are you hungry, dear?" Molly asked, following him in. She hadn't put anything to cook, hadn't really been in any mood to, but she'd make the effort if he was hungry. By the looks of him he could use a hearty meal or two.

"No, just parched," he said, poking his head into a cupboard. He pulled out a pitcher of ice water and Molly passed him a glass. He filled it halfway, drained it, and then returned everything to its proper place.

They took their seats at the table, side by side.

"You alright?" Harry asked after a while, looking at her intently from behind those bulky glasses of his.

Molly leaned over and put her hand over his. Harry interlaced their fingers together and she smiled. "I'm alright," she said, honestly. Today was one of the better anniversaries. She'd cried a little in the morning after waking up to an empty bed and a depressingly silent house, but her mood has lifted with the sun and by the time noon had come around she'd been almost normal. A little sad still, perhaps, but that was her normal. Or what normal had become since she'd lost her son.

Harry stared at her. He eventually nodded, satisfied by whatever it was he'd seen on her face, and said "I'm glad."

So was she.

They sat in companionable silence for a long moment, Molly rubbing circles over the back of his hand with her thumb. His skin was too dry, too rough, evidence that he'd been flying again and hadn't properly moisturized afterward. Molly had warned him about that. She'd even given him a salve. She opened her mouth, ready to berate him for failing to take care of himself properly, when his lips met hers.

Her eyes fluttered closed instinctively. The hand holding hers tightened, and his other one reached up to cup her cheek. Molly leaned forward and deepened the kiss.

Harry tasted bittersweet, a perfect blend of coffee and peppermint. There was an underlying tang underneath, but Molly had never been able to pinpoint exactly what it was. It was simply him, she always figured. Simply Harry.

The hand against her cheek fell away. She felt the side of her breast being touched a few seconds later and knew where it went. Harry squeezed her, quick and rough, and she moaned a little in his mouth.

"Bed?" He asked against her lips, voice fire-whiskey rough.

A rush of heat spread between Molly's legs, and she nodded.

They stood up and walked to the bedroom, hands stubbornly intertwined. By the time they stepped inside Molly's heart was pounding, and it had very little to do with the flight of stairs they'd climbed. Harry wasted no time in shrugging off his outer robe. He tossed it aside, then quickly began to divest himself of the shirt and trousers beneath. Molly had barely touched the hem of her own robes when Harry stalled her hands, pushing them away to replace them with her own.

He loved this part, Molly knew. Loved undressing her. He'd told her, once, that it was like unwrapping a present.

Molly didn't much care how the clothes got off, so long as they did.

Harry unbuttoned the top buttons slowly, and then helped her pull it off over her head. She didn't want to imagine what her hair looked like after. Probably not too bad considering Harry hadn't even glanced at it. But then Harry was an odd man, so who was to say?

The robe came off, and then her undergarments. She'd felt self-conscious, once, about the sight of her. About her sagging breasts and protruding stomach and less than perfect skin. But over the years Harry had relentlessly dissuaded her of these anxieties. At first she hadn't believed that a young thing like him could feel attraction to all the signs of the many kids she'd had. It was different, with Arthur, who'd grown old with her. He'd seen her at her best, when she'd been young and slim and spot free, and had witnessed the way her body had changed since. Seven children and years of hearty meals had simply not been good to her figure. Still, Molly had always thought of her body as a trophy. Each stretch mark, each wrinkle, each roll of skin, was proof of the babies she'd birthed and the meals she'd provided and the fact that she'd survived when so many of her family and friends had not. So she'd worn her skin with pride, mindful of its resilience.

It helped that she only ever had Arthur to impress, and Arthur had never been one to dwell on physical appearance. He saw her body in the same way she did: for what it was capable of, and for what it had gifted them with.

So standing in front of another man, one decidedly younger, had been nerve-wrecking. Molly had never been more aware of the faults of her body as she had been those first few times. But Harry hadn't looked disgusted, as she had feared. He hadn't mocked her or turned tail and run.

He'd revered her. Worshipped her. He seemed fascinated by the shape of her body, by the way it moved. And he hadn't been quiet in his admiration either, voicing all the ways she attracted him and pointing out the many things that turned him on.

It had been so long since anyone had made her feel so beautiful. Her husband was a dear, but he'd always been dense. He simply didn't realize that as strong and confident as she was, sometimes she needed to be reassured, too. When they had sex, rarity that that was, he never complimented her. Molly didn't doubt that Arthur loved her or that he found her physically pleasing. He was a kind man with a huge, albeit shy, heart. He simply lacked passion.

Passion was something Harry had in leaps and bounds.

As Molly stood there, breasts hanging low over a round stomach that was decorated with too many scars and stretch marks to count (though Harry had tried, once, with his tongue), she felt like a goddess. Harry was looking at her like she was a treasure chest that he was desperate to get into. She could almost feel his gaze roaming over her, it was so intense. Her body trembled as he observed her, willing him to stop staring and finally touch.

As if he'd heard her thoughts, Harry did.

He touched her face, first, then ran his hands down her neck, her arms, her sides. His fingers swept the soft edges of her breasts, brushed the corners of her nipples, now taut. He backed her up until her thighs hit the edge of the mattress, and then helped her down. Molly moved back, giving him room to climb. She leaned her head down onto a pillow, knowing that that was how he liked her best. He crawled over her, clad only in his muggle boxers, his knees caging her in. He pressed one palm against the curve of her stomach, and Molly shivered.

"Harry," Molly whispered desperately. She usually didn't mind soft and slow and achingly sweet, but not today. She was in no mood for it today.

Harry understood her, like he always did. A wicked grin stretched across his face and he leaned down and captured her lips for a bruising kiss. While his lips and teeth and tongue assaulted her, his hands occupied themselves on her breasts. Molly gasped when his fingers squeezed over the soft, plump flesh, clutching and tugging hard enough to hurt. His hands could hardly cover them fully, so his desperation to hold as much of her as he could made his ministrations sloppy, rough.

Molly loved it. She loved the feel of her nipples brushing against his coarse hand, loved the feel of her skin being stretched and squeezed. And when Harry took one rosy bud in between his fingers and pulled so hard that they must have stretched at least an inch, she though she saw stars. He started playing with both of them, then. Started pulling and flicking and pinching and twisting. Molly honestly did not know if it hurt more than it felt good. It was intoxicating. All the while their tongues slid together fretfully, messily, to the point that when they finally parted for air, lines of spit followed their movement, dribbled down.

Harry ducked his head and Molly clenched the sheets. She cried out the moment his mouth fell over one nipple and trapped it inside. Her body felt like it was on fire as Harry suckled on her. He drew it in with his tongue, fondled it with his lips, teased it with his teeth. His other hand slid down her body and Molly grew instantly wet. She spread her legs as his fingers moved over the arcs of her stomach, into the dip of her navel, and then further down to her thatch of red curls. She stiffened as his hands gave the bush a sharp pat, only to jerk when a finger slid down her sticky slit.

"Merlin, you're so wet," Harry moaned around her breast. He let it go with an obscene pop and then slid down until he was kneeling between her spread legs.

Molly could feel that she was, could feel her wetness seeping out of her and cooling the warm skin. She was sure that if she were to touch herself right now her hand would come away sopping wet. The mound between her legs ached to be touched. It throbbed so badly that she thought she'd die from it.

"Harry," she demanded, hips undulating.

Harry was, luckily, not in a teasing mood today. He parted her plump thighs further, spread her swollen lips, and then swiped her clit with force. Molly cried out.

"So fucking gorgeous," Harry whispered as he rubbed her. His fingers were moving rapidly, circling and flicking her inflamed nub, teasing the smooth skin of her inner walls, tugging at her coarse hairs. It felt unbelievably good, but then when didn't it? Everything that Harry introduced to her—which was a lot, considering how traditional she and her husband were—felt incredible. It went a long way in getting her to agree with everything he wanted to try.

"Harry!" she moaned as his rough fingers pinched and pulled and prodded. Her snatch felt like it was on fire. Waves of pleasure formed wherever his his hands touched, flowing up her body like a rippling lake. Harry rubbed and rubbed and rubbed until she was shaking so badly he struggled to keep her lips spread. And Merlin¸ but was she wet. It felt as if her fluids were pouring out of her and soaking the sheets.

"I want your mouth," she panted when his fingers slipped and her lips had fallen closed once again. "Harry, please, your mouth."

Harry groaned. He rubbed himself through his pants for a short moment and then repositioned himself onto his stomach. Molly spread herself impossibly further, thighs aching from the strain.

Harry nosed his way in first. Molly could feel the brush of his nose on her clit, feel his breath as he breathed her in deeply, savoring her smell. She grabbed fistfuls of the sheets as he finally drew back and replaced his nudging nose with the flat his tongue.

Molly threw her head back and wailed.

Harry licked her out like he was a starving man. He sucked bruises into the flesh around her clit, lapped at the cum leaking out of her hole, pressed open mouthed kisses against her hair. He nipped his way down the edges of her lips, teased the sensitive skin until it tingled.

Molly wished she could reach down there and push his face further against her and make him pay attention to the twitching nub that required it the most. As it was, she could barely see him over her stomach and breasts, let alone actually touch him. She closed her legs tightly in warning, only to roll her eyes when Harry groaned with pleasure. She'd almost forgotten how much he loved being enveloped by her. He didn't care in the least if she smothered him to death with her thighs. The barmy man's ghost would probably thank her for it.

The first swipe of his tongue against her clit startled her. She buckled her hips unthinkingly, smashing her vagina against his face. Harry took her clit between his lips and she closed her eyes and held on for dear life.

There were no words that could possibly describe how amazing it felt to have this man's mouth on her. She'd been appalled the first time he'd nervously brought it up. Such things simply weren'tdone, she could almost hear her mother's voice say. They certainly weren't proper. But Harry had looked eager and excited and turned on and she hadn't been able to say no.

She'd known she made the right decision after that first hesitant swipe of his tongue. There was nothing in the world quite like it.

Molly was flying on the peak of pleasure, knowing that at any moment she'd topple over and hurtle down. Harry was lapping at and sucking on her quickly, and as wonderful as his rhythm was, she knew she wouldn't be able to come until he switched things up.

When, after a moment, he finally slid two hard fingers inside her, she whimpered and thought yes, just like that, please, yesyesyes.

Harry hooked his fingers and fucked her in time with his swipes. Molly's body surged and shook as the spongy part inside her, the part that made fireworks go off behind her eyes, was stroked.

Harry bit down on her clit unforgivingly and pushed his fingers up and into her as far as they would go and Molly finally, finally came, screaming his name and banging her fists against the mattress as a pleasure that bordered on pain overcame her. She choked on a sob as she squirted, her hips lifting off the mattress as it all became unbearable. She chewed on her bottom lip until the vibrations coursing through her subsided and she could breathe again.

When she opened her eyes after what felt like eons later, Harry was looking up at her, his face glistening with her release. Molly flushed.

"C'mere," she murmured, breathless. Harry shot her an all-too knowing smirk and shimmied forward, his body pressing into hers as he went. He buried his face in her stomach and then between her breasts, smearing her release against her skin.

"You're incorrigible," she rebuked lightly.

The look she got in return was so satisfied that it made her heart swell.

Harry's erection poked against her stomach but he didn't rush their kiss. He kissed her slowly, languorously, letting her enjoy the lazy movements of their tongues and grow accustomed to the taste of her. Harry licked her bottom lip, followed the wet trail with his thumb, then leaned back.

"I want to fuck you," he told her, lips pressed against her ear.

She shivered eagerly.

"I'm not stopping you," she said.

He brushed a few tendrils of grey hair behind her ear and smiled at her, candy floss sweet.

"What do you want, Harry dear?" Molly asked knowingly, quirking her brow.

Harry laughed. "You. On your hands and knees."

It was amazing that her body was able to produce so much fluid at her age.

Molly moaned inwardly. The position was hard on her joints, which was why they didn't do it often, but it always felt incredible. Harry reached places when they were angled in such a way that he normally couldn't.

It was definitely worth the sore knees she'd have tomorrow.

Harry helped her up. She wobbled a little, still feeling a bit weak from her orgasm, but eventually got into position. Harry immediately moved behind her, but otherwise did nothing. Molly knew what he was waiting for.

She nodded her head and he touched her bum momentarily before reaching for his wand. He muttered a spell and a large mirror immediately replaced the wall she was facing.

Molly's breath caught at the sight of them. Harry loved doing this because he loved watching her. He'd admitted, more than once, that he was fascinated by the way her breasts swayed and bounced, and her stomach flapped, and her rolls stretched as they fucked. He loved watching her face scrunch up in pleasure, loved watching her reach in between her legs to get herself off.

Molly, for her part, simply loved watching him. Or more specifically, loved watching him watchher. He gazed at her with such reverence, with such desire, that it took her breath away. Even now, when they were hardly doing a thing, that admiring glint in his eye shone brightly. His attraction for her was a tangible thing. It was also unbelievably arousing.

Sometimes, when she was home alone, she'd strip herself naked and lay in her bed and imagine the way he'd look at her, his gaze a palpable caress. She'd get sopping wet before the tip of her wand could even touch her clit, and would come unnaturally fast.

Now was no different. She watched, riveted, as a line of wetness seeped out of her vagina, dribbling down her legs. She didn't have to look to know that Harry was watching, too. The way his hands suddenly grabbed her, squeezing her round bum, her wide hips, made it obvious. Harry moved closer to her, spread her lips, positioned himself, and then pushed in.

Molly moaned. It hurt a little because he was so huge, but her body quickly became accustomed to it. She gripped the sheets more tightly, spread her legs a little bit more, and then braced herself.

She was being pounded into. There was no other way to say it. Harry was usually a little more careful, always cautious of his size, but not today, apparently. He slid his length into her and fucked her like he needed it to survive. Not that Molly was complaining. Harry's cock was long. She was a big woman, and it took a man with a considerable length to be able to reach the deepest parts of her. Moreover, he was thick, and surprisingly so. Seven children had widened Molly to the point that she barely even felt Arthur's cock, and the man was no slouch in that department. But Harry…Molly shivered. Harry was just incredible. She'd given up hope after having Ginny of ever feeling blissfully stretched again. She'd gone as far as to buy skin tightening salves, but they'd caused numbing, which rather defeated the purpose.

To Molly, the best part of penetrative sex was the burn of the stretch. A short, fat cock was much better than a long, thin one. As such, she'd lost a lot of interest in sex after she became too wide to feel it any longer. Arthur, contrary to what most people thought, didn't have much of a sexual appetite, and so hadn't mourned the loss much.

But Molly had.

The fact that Harry was unnaturally large was a blessing. Perhaps she wouldn't have thought so when she'd been young and small down there, but Molly could see now it for the gift that it was.

Harry thrust into her and she marveled at the way her walls constricted tightly around him. The taut skin burned a little as he moved, and the feeling only increased every time he slid out fully and then pushed into her again.

Molly had to close her eyes against the feeling of it, but that only made it worse. It seemed to heighten everything, from the slide of him, to the slap of his balls against her, to the grip he had on her hips and ass and the occasional gliding hand down her spine. Even her nipples felt as if they were pulsing more harshly, throbbing deliciously as her breasts swayed and smacked against her stomach.

It went on for ages. Eventually her own orgasm began to build and she started to tremble.

She was sixty-four years old. Having two orgasms within the span of an hour was inconceivable. But there it was. Molly could feel it tightening inside, starting as a ball in her stomach and then shooting up her spine.

"I'm close," she whimpered, reaching down to touch her clit. Harry's hands slapped hers away.

He slipped three tightly connected fingers inside her slit and rubbed her fast and hard. She cried out, still painfully sensitive from having come not too long ago. Molly didn't know if she wanted him to stop or not, she honestly didn't. It all felt too much. It was building up inside her so strongly and so quickly that she didn't know what else to do but whimper and clutch at the sheets.

Sparks were erupting from between her legs, encouraged by by the cock inside her and the fingers against her. Harry slid all the way out again, waited until Molly had begun to hold her breath, and then slammed back inside of her.

She came with a scream.

Harry followed soon after, his hips jerking wildly as he emptied himself into her. The feeling of being full to the brim only prolonged her orgasm, drew it out. He leaned against her heavily and Molly grunted with the effort it took to keep the both of them up. It was as if they were playing a game—her clenching, him thrusting—to see who could keep the other going for longer.

She thought she might have won because Harry sighed and leaned back. Molly slowly came down, and Harry followed her. He threw one leg over her hip and nestled himself against her back, his softening cock slipping out and resting in between her thighs. Molly lifted her arm and he slid one limb around her chest to cup her breast. Molly brought her arm back down and snuggled further into him.

Her snatch was tingling, so sensitive that even Harry's cock against it was too much, but she bore it in silence. It felt good, too, to be so close to him. Molly enjoyed these moments so.

When the sweat on her skin began to chill to the point that she started to shiver, Harry Summoned the fallen blanket and pulled it up over them. His hand returned to her breast once he was done. Molly let him.

"Mind if I take a nap?" Harry yawned, breath ghosting the shell of her ear.

Molly shivered. Shook her head.

He cast a tempus charm, set an alarm to wake him in an hour, and then burrowed his face in her warm neck. He didn't take long to drift off, his body slackening and his breath evening out within the minute. Molly gripped the loose hand on her breast tightly and closed her eyes. She wasn't tired, surprisingly, but it felt nice to lay in his arms, all the same, his heartbeat thudding into her back and his flaccid cock tucked warmly between her legs.

It felt nice, indeed.

Molly fell asleep without realizing it, a contented smile on her face.