#sugar posts

You’re only just coming out of the nursery when you catch sight of the stains in the hallway mirror–right where your nipples sit, over the large Wayne Enterprises logo of your shirt–cussing because now you’ve gotta change clothes and you're unsure if your raw nipples can take the friction of another bra and t-shirt sliding over your chest. 

Jason hasn’t exactly hid the nipple cream, but he keeps it on his side of the bed so that he can do the honors of applying it for you, which would be weird, but…you’ve seen his entrails on multiple occasions, plus you birthed his baby and the entire time, he had his head between your legs to watch. That aside, however, he actually knows what the hell he’s doing, cupping and kneading your chest before bed each night, one last round of filling up your pump for his shift to feed the baby before licking up the rest himself. Then, he’s slathering you in lotion, fully assured that you’re empty and content enough to sleep until it’s your turn for the baby.

(You’ve found that you’ve come to love his calloused and rough hands even more than you did previously: the ridges and notches of skin scratching every itch, feeding every urge, and serving to answer to your every need, grounding you in ways you often don’t always notice, but instead, always feel.) 

But then the man himself is appearing in the threshold, acting smug and surprised to see you as though he wasn’t already on his way to pester you in the nursery, where he’d likely pull you from your fussing with folding and refolding the baby clothes so you could sit on his lap in the room’s armchair and eventually fall asleep with your face in his neck. 

And he’s walking up and pressing his belly to yours, your sore tits nudging against where he is most firm and they are swollen, causing you to inhale sharply, huff just a little out of surprise—

Before you realize Jason’s cornered you on purpose.

(You can’t escape those eyes, not even for a second, always catching the smallest of things; the dribble of spit about to land on your shoulder when you’re burping the baby, the air bubbles that haven’t quite yet settled in a freshly made baba, the single loose thread about to unravel their little crocheted hat.)

One side of his lips tilt up, and you glare—not annoyed so much as unimpressed by his scheme. You’d much rather his initial plan, or the one that ends ups up with you in your own bedroom, taking advantage of the next 45 minutes without a baby in either of your arms, than be out here, cranky from the chill of your milk cooling on your shirt, leaving wet marks your husband will both enjoy and tease you relentlessly for (both verbally and physically). 

“What?” you mutter, trying not to shirk away from his prying gaze, unpacking you the way he’s always been able to (even now that the two of you have softened in ways only parenthood can allow for), with caution and vigilance lingering in every small movement.  

“Nothin’,” he smiles, leaning in to press his nose to yours, hands wrapping around your hips to cup your ass and pull your hips to his. You can feel the outline of something in his pants–not yet fully tented, but still chubbing with heat, and you barely brush against it when you move to curl your fingers in his belt. 

“You’re lying.” 

(Jason seems to like this domestic life he has with you, a little more than he cares to admit–out loud, at least.) 

“Just wanted a kiss, maybe,” he feigns innocence, teeth visible through his sly grin. “‘not gonna make me ask for one, are you?”

You exhale sharply, and though you raise an eyebrow, you also lift your chin, welcoming the way his mouth settles heavy on yours, curving against your lips, pressing them open wetly until your eyes are closing and you’re leaning into his frame where his arms are waiting to pull you as close as possible.

Jason pulls back, but doesn’t quite recede from you; his eyes dark and pretty eyelashes heavy in the low, evening light of the hallway…so you wait (letting him give you more delicate pecks on the mouth, cheeks, eyelids, in between each of his breaths) and wait and wait, til his hands finally start to creep, up from your hips, where his thumbs tickle your belly, still soft and wrinkled from your labor, to your waist where they begin pushing up your shirt. He fingers the low edge of your nursing bra, tickling the soft underside of your boobs as he begins to move the band upward. 

“Todd…” you warn, fidgeting in his hold as his form, his hands, his eyes overtake you, slowly stretching the elastic up and over, until it has crumpled the fabric of your t-shirt against your collarbones and your tits are free.    

Still, his eyes only crinkle at the sides, as they have started to do more and more the longer you’ve been together.

“You’re leaking, mama,” he whispers, moving his hands from your bra to where you’re now exposed, heated flesh going chilly from exposure, warming where he cups 

“And?”

He smirks, “‘just wanna help, is all.”

One of his fingers glides down your nipple gently, and milk starts to bead when he presses (not hard enough to bruise, but enough to have you keening, your at least for a second, til his hand is swiping your skin and he’s sucking the fatty drippings into his mouth and sucking. Hard. 

“Yeah?” you breathe, staring into his eyes, watching just the same. “Then why don’t you go and get my pump?”

(He does, obediently, not before turning back to give you those eyes one more time, as if to say, later, soon as baby is fed–