FANFIC: Sexy
Title: Sexy
Author: mrstater
Fandom & Pairing: Harry Potter, Remus/Tonks
Rating & Warnings: PG-13 for sexuality and possibly TMI about the after-effects of childbirth on the female body
Format & Word Count: fic, 1058 words
Summary: As they adjust to being new parents, Remus and Tonks must get reacquainted with one another as a couple.
Author's Note: At four weeks post-partum, I am shamelessly writing fic inspired by my own recent experiences. Hey, at least I'm writing again, right? ;) As I adjust to my post-baby body, I've been thinking about drumher's lovely work of R/T fanart, One Last Kiss (see icon), and a comment she made once, somewhere, that she didn't think Tonks would morph away her post-partum features. (If you didn't actually say that, drumher, please don't sue me for libel.) I really admire that -- though if I could morph my old body back? Hell, yeah, I would!
All that to say, I agree with drumher, or whoever doesn't think Tonks would take the easy way out, and this piece is about Tonks, not me. Or rather, about how Remus deals with it. Or maybe it's about how Mr. Tater would deal with it…Argh, maybe there is too much of me in this…
Anyway! I hope y'all enjoy this fic. Feedback, as always, is very welcome, but it's been an age since I wrote fanfic of any kind, much less R/T fanfic, and I did this between feedings, diaper changes, and trying to comfort a fussy baby who won't nap, so please be kind. :)
Sexy
Living with your mother-in-law has its advantages. Though you prefer to pretend your mother-in-law is living under your roof, an extended visit following the birth of her grandchild. As normal men's wives' mothers do. You also prefer to pretend Andromeda hasn't volunteered for the night shift so you and Dora can get a proper night's sleep -- together, togetherness being somehow as rare a commodity as sleep these days, despite being in hiding together -- because she hasn't had a proper night's sleep since Ted died. So you roll onto your side and curl your arm under your pillow and force yourself not to think about this war and its cost to your family and your curse and its, and allow a smile to stretch across your lips as you watch Dora, stood naked on the bathroom scale.
"Another pound lost today!" she declares with all the gusto used for announcing she'd put another Dark Wizard in Azkaban.
But then her pumped fists become open palms that glide over her slightly rounded midriff in a gesture devoid of the confidence she possessed as an Auror.
"Your bump is noticeably smaller every day," you remark, gently. "You'll be back to your pre-pregnancy size in no time at all."
"I highly recommend the breastfeeding weight loss programme," Dora says, brightening, her dark eyes glinting with her characteristic elfin mischief. "Eat whatever you please and watch the inches melt away as your infant's waistline expands!"
You can't help but chuckle. "Practicing for a career as a Weight Witches spokeswitch?"
"Why not? Unf." Dora grunts in her struggle to tug a pair of pink and grey-striped cotton pyjama bottoms over her hips. "I need to find a new line of work since the whole Auror thing didn't work out."
Once upon a time that statement, however jokingly made, would have made you wince, but you're becoming quite at adept at the art of denial. Fixing your eyes on your wife's stomach, you tell yourself she'd have had to quit her job, anyway, even if she hadn't been sacked for marrying a Dark Creature. For marrying you. Taken maternity leave, at any rate.
"Remus?"
Looking up, you catch her watching you watch her; she chews her lower lip in concern. "Hm?"
"Wouldn't you rather I morph the baby weight off?"
It's not the first time she's asked the question, but it catches you as off-balance as it did the day after Teddy's birth when the midwitch who'd attended Dora throughout her pregnancy had told her she must wait six weeks before resuming an exercise regime, and Dora had asked you if you would mind very much if she got back in shape the old fashioned way.
"Morphing's cheating," you say now, as she'd explained her reasoning to you then. "And Hufflepuffs never cheat."
"Not even by morphing giant great tits to score a Hogsmeade date."
As she speaks she saunters up to the bedside, and you stretch out a hand to fondle her breasts. "As if you need to morph giant great tits anymore."
"Another benefit of breastfeeding."
"Mm. How long do you plan to nurse? Till Teddy goes off to Hogwarts?"
You don't miss the huskiness of desire in your voice as you touch her like this, but you put those thoughts aside, as well; exercise isn't the only activity Dora isn't permitted for six weeks. A fact you resent slightly as you note the telltale hitch, then shallowing and quickening, of Dora's breath, and the warming of her skin beneath your fingertips.
Suddenly she shies from your touch and shimmies into her bra and pyjama top. "Careful. These giant great might decide to show off some of their other cool new tricks."
Her face mirrors the mortification of a few days previous, when she'd been struggling to get Teddy to latch to her breast and she'd somehow managed to squirt you in the eye. You'd laughed, but for once Dora had been without a sense of humour.
"It's okay, Remus," she says, again subdued, not looking at you as she slides into bed next you with an ease she hasn't possessed in months. "I know my belly's not sexy right now. I don't expect you to think it is. Or pretend you think it is."
At that, you let out a breath you hadn't realized you'd been holding for the past three weeks. During Dora's pregnancy, you hadn't been able to keep your hands off her huge swollen belly. Since the birth, you can hardly bring yourself to touch it. It reminds you of a pale, wilted balloon after a party: deflated of the wonder and anticipated joy that previously filled it, which are now fulfilled in the roly-poly bblue-haired boy you can't believe was contained within that skin now hanging loose from Dora's frame. This is why -- one of the many reasons why -- you love this woman: she knows you're just a man, an almost normal man, who fantasizes about blazing a trail of kisses over the stomach she used to have, and lets you off the hook.
Just as you don't begrudge her being secretly proud of her post-pregnancy body, the widened hips and expanded waistline she shows off by squeezing into snug favourite old t-shirts that ride up to reveal the panel of the maternity jeans she still wears. Though, in fairness, she wears them amid many complaints about how being in hiding precludes her from going shopping for new jeans that fit her post-partum body. As does your poverty, but you assuage your pride by reminding yourself that she could morph and wear her old trousers if she really cared that much.
With that thought, you roll to position yourself astride her, so you can run your hands and lips all over her squashy, stretch mark-streaked tummy, giving special attention to her lopsided inverted belly button.
It's not sexy. And yet it kind of is. It might technically look a bit like an old empty sack, but you are full of the gift it formerly contained -- the most precious gift anyone could give you, which no amount of gold could buy -- only love.
And you love her for it. Just the way she is.
"But thank Merlin you've got giant great tits," you say, and this time, she laughs with you.
Author: mrstater
Fandom & Pairing: Harry Potter, Remus/Tonks
Rating & Warnings: PG-13 for sexuality and possibly TMI about the after-effects of childbirth on the female body
Format & Word Count: fic, 1058 words
Summary: As they adjust to being new parents, Remus and Tonks must get reacquainted with one another as a couple.
Author's Note: At four weeks post-partum, I am shamelessly writing fic inspired by my own recent experiences. Hey, at least I'm writing again, right? ;) As I adjust to my post-baby body, I've been thinking about drumher's lovely work of R/T fanart, One Last Kiss (see icon), and a comment she made once, somewhere, that she didn't think Tonks would morph away her post-partum features. (If you didn't actually say that, drumher, please don't sue me for libel.) I really admire that -- though if I could morph my old body back? Hell, yeah, I would!
All that to say, I agree with drumher, or whoever doesn't think Tonks would take the easy way out, and this piece is about Tonks, not me. Or rather, about how Remus deals with it. Or maybe it's about how Mr. Tater would deal with it…Argh, maybe there is too much of me in this…
Anyway! I hope y'all enjoy this fic. Feedback, as always, is very welcome, but it's been an age since I wrote fanfic of any kind, much less R/T fanfic, and I did this between feedings, diaper changes, and trying to comfort a fussy baby who won't nap, so please be kind. :)
Sexy
Living with your mother-in-law has its advantages. Though you prefer to pretend your mother-in-law is living under your roof, an extended visit following the birth of her grandchild. As normal men's wives' mothers do. You also prefer to pretend Andromeda hasn't volunteered for the night shift so you and Dora can get a proper night's sleep -- together, togetherness being somehow as rare a commodity as sleep these days, despite being in hiding together -- because she hasn't had a proper night's sleep since Ted died. So you roll onto your side and curl your arm under your pillow and force yourself not to think about this war and its cost to your family and your curse and its, and allow a smile to stretch across your lips as you watch Dora, stood naked on the bathroom scale.
"Another pound lost today!" she declares with all the gusto used for announcing she'd put another Dark Wizard in Azkaban.
But then her pumped fists become open palms that glide over her slightly rounded midriff in a gesture devoid of the confidence she possessed as an Auror.
"Your bump is noticeably smaller every day," you remark, gently. "You'll be back to your pre-pregnancy size in no time at all."
"I highly recommend the breastfeeding weight loss programme," Dora says, brightening, her dark eyes glinting with her characteristic elfin mischief. "Eat whatever you please and watch the inches melt away as your infant's waistline expands!"
You can't help but chuckle. "Practicing for a career as a Weight Witches spokeswitch?"
"Why not? Unf." Dora grunts in her struggle to tug a pair of pink and grey-striped cotton pyjama bottoms over her hips. "I need to find a new line of work since the whole Auror thing didn't work out."
Once upon a time that statement, however jokingly made, would have made you wince, but you're becoming quite at adept at the art of denial. Fixing your eyes on your wife's stomach, you tell yourself she'd have had to quit her job, anyway, even if she hadn't been sacked for marrying a Dark Creature. For marrying you. Taken maternity leave, at any rate.
"Remus?"
Looking up, you catch her watching you watch her; she chews her lower lip in concern. "Hm?"
"Wouldn't you rather I morph the baby weight off?"
It's not the first time she's asked the question, but it catches you as off-balance as it did the day after Teddy's birth when the midwitch who'd attended Dora throughout her pregnancy had told her she must wait six weeks before resuming an exercise regime, and Dora had asked you if you would mind very much if she got back in shape the old fashioned way.
"Morphing's cheating," you say now, as she'd explained her reasoning to you then. "And Hufflepuffs never cheat."
"Not even by morphing giant great tits to score a Hogsmeade date."
As she speaks she saunters up to the bedside, and you stretch out a hand to fondle her breasts. "As if you need to morph giant great tits anymore."
"Another benefit of breastfeeding."
"Mm. How long do you plan to nurse? Till Teddy goes off to Hogwarts?"
You don't miss the huskiness of desire in your voice as you touch her like this, but you put those thoughts aside, as well; exercise isn't the only activity Dora isn't permitted for six weeks. A fact you resent slightly as you note the telltale hitch, then shallowing and quickening, of Dora's breath, and the warming of her skin beneath your fingertips.
Suddenly she shies from your touch and shimmies into her bra and pyjama top. "Careful. These giant great might decide to show off some of their other cool new tricks."
Her face mirrors the mortification of a few days previous, when she'd been struggling to get Teddy to latch to her breast and she'd somehow managed to squirt you in the eye. You'd laughed, but for once Dora had been without a sense of humour.
"It's okay, Remus," she says, again subdued, not looking at you as she slides into bed next you with an ease she hasn't possessed in months. "I know my belly's not sexy right now. I don't expect you to think it is. Or pretend you think it is."
At that, you let out a breath you hadn't realized you'd been holding for the past three weeks. During Dora's pregnancy, you hadn't been able to keep your hands off her huge swollen belly. Since the birth, you can hardly bring yourself to touch it. It reminds you of a pale, wilted balloon after a party: deflated of the wonder and anticipated joy that previously filled it, which are now fulfilled in the roly-poly bblue-haired boy you can't believe was contained within that skin now hanging loose from Dora's frame. This is why -- one of the many reasons why -- you love this woman: she knows you're just a man, an almost normal man, who fantasizes about blazing a trail of kisses over the stomach she used to have, and lets you off the hook.
Just as you don't begrudge her being secretly proud of her post-pregnancy body, the widened hips and expanded waistline she shows off by squeezing into snug favourite old t-shirts that ride up to reveal the panel of the maternity jeans she still wears. Though, in fairness, she wears them amid many complaints about how being in hiding precludes her from going shopping for new jeans that fit her post-partum body. As does your poverty, but you assuage your pride by reminding yourself that she could morph and wear her old trousers if she really cared that much.
With that thought, you roll to position yourself astride her, so you can run your hands and lips all over her squashy, stretch mark-streaked tummy, giving special attention to her lopsided inverted belly button.
It's not sexy. And yet it kind of is. It might technically look a bit like an old empty sack, but you are full of the gift it formerly contained -- the most precious gift anyone could give you, which no amount of gold could buy -- only love.
And you love her for it. Just the way she is.
"But thank Merlin you've got giant great tits," you say, and this time, she laughs with you.