Archive of Our Own ^beta

Molly Weasley loves her husband. Truly, she does. It isn’t a matter up for debate, the verity of her devotion as true as the Burrow is crooked.

But there are certainly days where she needs reminding.

And as she watches Arthur tug and pull his latest pet project into place, sweat beading at his brow and cheeks red from exertion, Molly knows it’s one of those days. 

“Arthur, I love you–” she starts, grimacing as metal grinds against stone, “but what is that?”

Arthur pauses to swipe at his face with a handkerchief before replying. “This, my love, is what the Muggles call a ‘washing machine’.” He beams, slapping the top proudly.

“A washing machine,” Molly echoes. Despite her husband’s nonchalance with this washing machine , she keeps her distance. Muggle things just can’t be trusted. Their Ford Anglia—an example that also proves her husband couldn’t be trusted—is presumably still a feral thing in the Forbidden Forest, going about whatever near-sentient cars did and harassing the centaurs. 

A sense of deja vu narrows her eyes. “Where do you put the dishes?”

“Excellent question! I’m not sure.”

“Where do you put the water in?”

“I’m… still working that out.”

Molly suppresses a sigh. “I think I know what your answer will be, but I’ll ask anyway. How does it wash dishes?”

“Ah-ha! I do know that.” Arthur’s smile, which had flagged under the onslaught of her questions, rebounds in full force. “With electricity!”

“Electricity. The same electricity that doesn’t do well around magic?” Molly does sigh then.

“Yes, but I have an idea on how to get electricity into it,” Arthur says. He turns and begins pressing the small buttons that line the top of the washing machine. “These will work then, of course, but it’ll be much easier to figure out where the dishes and water will go once the electricity gets in.” He moves around back and ducks from view, popping up with a—

Molly groans. “No, not another plug!”

“I understand that you’ve no love for them, Molly, but electrical plugs are the key to most Muggle things.” Arthur waggles the plug at her before inspecting it. “Although, I daresay this one appears a bit off. There’s a pin missing.”

“What a shame,” Molly says with zero regret. “I suppose you’ll have to return it to whatever back alley you found it in.”

“On the contrary,” Arthur says, looking up at her. His eyes light up in a way that Molly doesn’t like at all. “I believe I have one just like this in my collection. This is an opportunity to learn how to fix a broken plug—exciting stuff!”

”Arthur Wea—“ Molly’s words devolve into a huff. Her husband is already half out the door, body positively buzzing with anticipation. There’s no reasoning with him when he gets into one of his obsessions. 

But she does love him. Right. Best to pick her battles.

Molly studies the washing machine with a critical eye and eases closer. A finger traces over the words emblazoned at the top-left corner. 

“My washing up charms work just fine,” she mutters. “The only thing you’ll be helping Arthur with is collecting dust, Hoover Ecologic Autowasher 1300.”

Knowing her husband like Molly does, Arthur is off to his shed. He’ll be there for a while. What had once been optimistically called a workshop, the shed is now a dumping ground for all his Muggle artefacts, replete with layers of dust, random nuts and bolts that don’t fit together, and a horrifying lack of organisation.

Bending down, she peers into what can only be a circular window into the machine. Perhaps to watch the progress of her dishes getting washed? Still no sign of how they’d be held, let alone cleaned. 

Straightening, she examines the buttons next. Speed wash, half load, and econ wash may as well have been Parseltongue to her. Washing dishes was washing dishes–why was Muggle technology excessively complicated? Her eyes pause at the next button.

Wool? A quick glance at the remaining panels and signage confirm her suspicion. Molly laughs out loud. “This washing machine isn’t for dishes. It’s for clothes!”

Who’s the Muggle artefact expert now? Delighted at the thought of figuring this bit of knowledge out before Arthur, and admittedly, more intrigued, Molly explores further. She has the front door with the window open within seconds. 

Feeling an ache in her lower back from stooping so low, Molly kneels down and cautiously sticks her head inside. Like the outside of the washing machine, its inner workings are also made of metal. A quick tap tap of her nails produces a tinny sound.

Still no clear way of adding water, though. Maybe it’s tossed through the window along with the clothes? Grinning, Molly wiggles her arms inside and feels around. How satisfying would it be for Arthur to return and find that she’s figured it out all on her own. At this rate, maybe she’ll be the one to fix the plug, ha!

The lack of lighting inside the machine is no help, not that she’d recognise anything in there. Not much room to actually wash clothes either; certainly not for a family of nine. Perhaps Arthur could magick the inside to expand…

Molly scoffs. Is she actually warming up to the idea of using this machine? Arthur would be unbearable if he ever found out.

Enough. She’s spent too much time fiddling with this machine as it is. Dinner’s fast approaching, the children will be arriving—

The back of Molly’s shoulders hit the edge of the washing machine and stick. 

What..? Feeling heat creep up her neck, she tries again. One arm tucked against her chest; then the other arm; then both arms. No combination works, and she’s in a full-blown panic now.

She screams for help then, banging her hands against the round walls, but the sounds only echo back at her, deafening in the small space. She twists in a final attempt for freedom but the walls are unmoving, indifferent to her predicament.

Molly wrangles her breathing under control, swallowing against the nauseating sensation of being in a dark and enclosed space. She just needs to stay calm and wait it out. Arthur will be back soon, and they’ll have a good laugh over this once she’s free.

***

Her knees ache. So does her lower back. These are the only indicators that time is passing, but Molly has no clue whether it’s been minutes or hours. It all feels the same.

She’s about to have another go at wiggling her way out when she hears the door open and footsteps somewhere behind her. “Oh, thank Merlin, you’re back, Arthur! Help me get out of this bloody thing!”

There’s no reply. Arthur’s footsteps move away from her for a moment; a soft creak of the door before they return quickly. Molly’s about to speak again when she feels his hands. They palm her ass briefly before sliding their way up and over to grip her hips. 

A sudden squeeze startles a gasp out of her before an unmistakably hardening cock presses into the cleft of her ass. A low sigh follows a slow slide against her. Back and forth, once then twice–and the protest bubbling up her throat dies. It’s stuck, caught in her suddenly dry mouth.

It takes Molly two attempts before she can speak. “Arthur, what are you—”

“Dad’s busy right now, Mum.”

Molly jerks her head up, cracking it against the roof of the washing machine. The pain is temporary, fading fast as her heart jerks and restarts at triple speed. Did she just hear Mum ? Who the hell was behind her?

“But don’t worry,” the voice speaks again. “You’re in good hands.” Their tone is low and soft enough that she can’t tell who it is. That’s concerning. 

But more worrying is the fact that there’s a fully hard cock nudging up against her. It’s big, warm. Noticeably longer than her husband’s.

Molly clenches her thighs instinctively and hears a moan behind her. A moan slips out in response before she can stop it and—

Oh no. She’s found something more worrisome: she’s getting wet. 

“Sorry, Mum. I can’t help myself,” the voice continues. “When I came in here and saw you on your knees… you’re a fucking wet dream come true.”

The hands start rucking up her skirt. Rhythmic but leisurely, whichever of her sons he is–and Molly is assuming this based solely on the fact that she cannot process her Ginevra magicking a male appendage on herself–is taking his time. Cool air hits the back of Molly’s thighs and begins to climb. 

“Son,” she says, pushing past the absurdity of ever having to say this at all, “please, stop. Just help me get out of this thing. I’ll close my eyes and let you leave. I’ll never breathe a word of this to anyone!”

“No can do, Mum.”

“Why not? This is insanity! You can’t—”

“Oh, but I can.”

“You shouldn’t then!”

There’s a smile in his voice when he replies. “True, but you can be anyone from where I’m standing.” A knee nudges her legs apart. “Or kneeling, as it were.”

The hands give one last heave, and her skirt flips to pool at Molly’s waist. She’s exposed to him now, her underwear the paltriest of barriers. Fingers run under the edge of her plain cotton underwear, tracing over the curve of one asscheek and down between her legs. 

Molly feels the throbbing heat in her ears move down her neck. She anticipates a touch and gets the slightest of brushes before the fingers pull away. All movement halts.

“Well, I’ll be damned.” There’s wonder in his voice. “You’re wet , Mum.”

“I-I’m not,” she stammers. It’s one thing to be the only one aware of her body’s reaction. But now that he knows as well, has the evidence of it on his fingers—it makes Molly squirm uncomfortably. 

Desire and humiliation war within her. Humiliation at her situation; the literal position she’s in; the knowledge that one of her sons is seeing her like this, touching her, and knowing that it’s her. All of it has her stomach in knots. 

And yet it’s all the same reasons that make her body thrum, taut with anticipation. 

“You want this as much as I do.” It isn’t a question.

Molly deliberates for what feels like the longest minute of her life. This doesn’t have to go beyond the four walls of the room. Arthur won’t find out. She can imagine whoever she wants has his hands on her—in that respect, it’s not so different from sex with her husband of several decades. People have all sorts of ways to spice things up in long-term marriages. She’s sure she’s read that somewhere. It doesn’t matter that the only names cycling through her head at the moment are her sons’. That’s just to be expected, given the situation she’s in. 

Whichever son is behind her isn’t dissuaded by her silence. “It can be our little secret,” he says, fingers rubbing circles over her hips. 

Our little secret. Yes, yes it could be. Molly lets out a shaky breath and rests her head on her arms. Her back arches slowly. The words are hovering on her tongue; there’s a tension that comes from knowing she could still put a stop to this. She could be firm, if that’s what she truly wanted. 

“Just this once,” she whispers.

It’s all the permission he needs. The laziness in his movements vanish, replaced with sharp intention. The knees between her own pull back, and with a quick hook of his thumb, Molly’s underwear is pulled down to pool at her knees. A few kicks and they’re off, immediately forgotten. She has only a moment to think this is it before an open mouth comes down and seals over her pussy. 

A moan drags out of Molly as a flat tongue gives a long, languorous lick before dipping inside her. Sensation fragments into tiny, exquisite details. The gentle stretch of her heat around his warm, wet tongue. The scrape of stubble against her hot skin. The rough grip of his other hand, keeping her open. 

Molly clenches down as another wave of wetness slips out of her. In answer, he peppers sucking kisses to her pussy lips between soft bites to her ass cheeks .

“You’re loving this.” He sounds euphoric, drunk on her taste. “I’m fucking drowning here.” 

She struggles to respond, tries to pull herself together to say something coherent, and hopes the backward thrust of her hips is enough of an answer. It’s not. A light slap to her pussy startles her. “Tell me, Mum. Say it. Say you love this.”

He repeats the slap, a little harder. And again and again until Molly’s panting.

“Yes! Yes! ” Molly’s answer drags out through clenched teeth. She’s sucking air, thrusting mindlessly.

His tongue clicks. Another slap, chased by a long finger dragging over her clit that makes her eyes roll back. “Be a bit more clear than that, luv.”

Neglected until now, Molly’s clit throbs at his touch; a match lit. She wants so badly to touch herself, rub furiously and send herself flying. She’ll do anything to feel those fingers against her again. 

Well, in for a penny, as they say.

“Yes, I love it!” she says, thrusting back again. “Love how my boy eats mummy’s pussy.”

He hisses. Then those fingers are back, two now, circling and slipping over her clit until her thighs are trembling. He goes on until Molly thinks she can’t take any more. He pauses then, the smallest of mercies, before he adds a finger and sinks them inside her.

The sudden stretch and follow on thrusts have her groaning, eyes closing. Inhibitions slipping. “God, that feels amazing. Spread me open.” 

“Patience, Mum. Just wait until it’s my cock you’re wrapped around.”

Molly releases a ragged breath. He’s given her the bare minimum of a visual, but it’s more than enough for her imagination. She pictures large hands leaving angry impressions on her hips; a wide, sinfully smooth, rigid cock thrusting into her, gathering her cream as it pushes deeper into her; her pussy lips stretched tight around it. 

“Whatever it is you’re thinking of, I want to know. You’re squeezing the fuck out of my fingers.”

Molly doesn’t hesitate. Her body throbs with desire; she needs this now. “I’m thinking of your cock inside me,” she gets out. The rest pours out of her, a dam breaking open. “How you’d have to slowly work me open, because I’ve never had a cock as big as yours before. I’m wetter than I’ve ever been in my life. I’m— we’re— dripping down my thighs.”

“Fuck, I can’t wait anymore,” he growls. 

“Yes! Now. Please! ”

The fingers pistoning in her go into overdrive for a short, glorious moment before slipping out. Molly hears the clink of a belt buckle being undone followed by the muted click of a zipper. Clothing is being pushed aside, frantic hands brushing against her periodically.

When he finally lays the length of his cock against her ass, Molly’s mind stutters. Her words prior were hyperbole, a fantasy. But he really is big. It can’t possibly fit. 

The wet slap of his cock against Molly’s pussy refocuses her. “You’re awfully quiet, Mum. You’re not having second thoughts, are you?” He nudges between her folds, the head slick and smooth against her.

Molly shakes her head before realizing he can’t see it. “No,” she says aloud. “I’m just—your size…”

“Ah, don’t worry about that. I’ll be gentle.”

And he is. A quick up-down to slick the head and fit himself against her, and he starts pushing in. Molly’s breath leaves her, pulled from her as she makes space for his cock. 

Her son’s cock. Molly moans as she remembers.

“Like that, do you?”

Her moans peter out into a sigh, hips adjusting to accommodate the steady intrusion. She hasn’t felt this way in a long time; possibly never. Possessed , she thinks, as he shifts his grip to her waist.

“Need you to relax, Mum. I’m only halfway in.” The playfulness is gone from his voice, replaced by a strain that she’s not heard until now. Like he’s struggling for control. 

And that thought triggers a new gush of wetness inside her. Her body likes that. Molly likes it. A lot. 

He pulls back slightly before pushing forwards again and doesn’t stop until he’s settled tight against her. Pleasure skitters down her spine, nearly overwhelming Molly at the aching fullness. She rolls her hips experimentally and is rewarded by a string of curses that has her raising an eyebrow.

“Like that, do you?” she asks, mirroring his words from before. 

“Yes, Mum.” he says reverently, and somehow, the heat racing under her skin flares even hotter. 

Molly’s lost now, fully in. “Excellent,” she says, licking her lips. Here it comes. “Now be a good boy and fuck me.”

His first full thrust makes her mouth drop open, fingers fumbling for purchase inside the drum. So much for being gentle. Molly finds the back of the machine and braces herself as he finds his rhythm. With nothing to look at, there’s only physical sensation to focus on. Heat blooms low in her belly. Sweat runs down the back of her neck. The push and pull of his cock inside her is relentless, an endless wave of ecstasy pulling her into a riptide of pleasure, and she’s not sure she ever wants out. 

Molly bites her bottom lip to keep from calling out. What a mess it would be if anyone were to see them now: rutting like animals in heat; chests heaving with effort; her legs splayed out, asking for more. 

She’s whispering before she realizes it.

“What’s that?” More weight settles on her back as he leans closer. 

“Imagine your father hearing us,” Molly gasps. Her hips are rolling back against him, desperate for him to get even deeper. “Imagine him coming in… seeing us. Seeing how you fuck me so well.”

He’s panting now, thrusts picking up speed. “Yes… He hears you moaning. Then,” he swallows loudly, “he hears how wet your pussy is.”

Molly thinks she can’t possibly get any hotter. “Want it. I want it. ”

“Do it then. Let Dad know–let the entire house know you’re being fucked.”

His fingers slip between her thighs again and find her clit. The first touch makes her flinch, the pleasure almost torturous in its intensity. He circles with two fingers, finding one side of her nub that makes her whole body shudder and sits on it, rubbing his fingertips back and forth, strumming her until Molly’s vibrating. Her concentration begins to spiral, and it’s her only clue before her orgasm hits.

Molly cries out, uncaring who hears, body thrashing against his hands as wave after wave of pleasure rolls through her. She feels her release from her scalp down to her curled toes. When it leaves she’s limp, nerves sparking; exhausted. 

He follows soon after, rhythm breaking down as he chases completion, faster and faster. A sharp inhale precedes his quick pull out, hands abruptly digging into her hips. Seconds later, he’s groaning, and Molly feels the warm splash of cum as it covers her ass. It drips down her hips, slips over her pussy, and she can only imagine what it looks like. 

As if he could hear her thoughts, he speaks, voice satisfyingly raw. “You look fucking amazing covered in my cum, Mum. The prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen.” She feels fingers drag through the cooling spend, letting out a small cry of surprise as a wet thumb rubs a circle over her asshole. “It’s a shame we don’t have more time. We’ll have to save this for next time.”

Next time. Molly knows it for the promise that it is. She’s quiet as she feels him step away before returning, shifting with gratitude as a warm cloth gently wipes her skin clean. He’s thorough but efficient, perhaps sensing that their time together is quickly coming to an end. He gets in one last squeeze of her ass before he flips down her skirt and–

“Hold on! Don’t think you can get away with keeping my knickers!”

“Noticed that, yeah?” he laughs. “Consider it your gift to me. To remember this moment by.”

Molly is left stuttering as he leaves, his cheeky bye, Mum nearly lost in the swell of noise when the door clicks shut behind him. 

Molly turns her head slowly in the direction of the door. Odd. It’s the first time she’s noticed the absence of any sounds, but then again, she’s in her own personal metal cave and she’s been distracted and not exactly quiet and—

Damn! She’s still stuck in the bloody washing machine. Belatedly, Molly tries again to free herself and mercifully struggles for only several minutes more before the door opens again.

“What the blazes–Molly!” It’s Arthur. Her Muggle artefact-loving husband back from the depths of his shed.

She’s out and back on her feet in quick order with Arthur’s help. Molly makes a show of straightening her clothes, loudly declaring her disdain for that metal death trap , hoping her husband attributes her flushed cheeks to her upset.

“I’m so sorry, my love. I hadn’t meant to be gone that long.” Arthur looks contrite. He hesitates for a moment before producing a new electrical plug from his pocket. “I found a matching one, but I can return the washing machine where I found it. You’re right. I do have too many projects ongoing. Maybe next time. ”

Next time. 

Molly hears those words in another voice, a dark whisper in her ear. She shuffles her feet, intensely aware of her bruised knees, her skirt brushing against her still buzzing skin.

“Let’s keep it,” she finds herself saying. ”Who knows? You might get it working again.”