Chapter 14: Dairy Queen
The paint samples were now five glossy squares taped to what would be the nursery wall. “Seashell,” “Whisper,” “Morning Haze,” “Blanket Fog,” and simply “Eighth Note.” They’d argued over them for two evenings. Donghae, hunched over a textbook, would glance up and point decisively. “That one.”
“That’s literally white,” she’d said.
“It’s Morning Haze. It’s… contemplative.”
She’d thrown a ball of grey yarn at him. They’d settled on “Blanket Fog.” A color that sounded like something you could fall into.
Her body, however, was working on a different palette entirely. A deep, persistent ache had settled into her lower back. A heaviness. Her breasts, already full, began to feel like overripe fruit, tight and strangely sore in a new way. A thin, watery bead of moisture appeared on her left nipple one morning, a clear, startling betrayal.
“It’s early,” she muttered to her reflection, pressing the pad of her thumb against it. It felt hot. Another unfamiliar frontier.
When Donghae left for his afternoon seminar, a sliver of new anxiety followed him out. The apartment’s quiet felt denser. She tried to knit. Her fingers fumbled. The rhythmic click of the needles, usually so soothing, felt abrasive. She was suddenly, profoundly aware of her own skin. It felt too small. Everything felt too small. The sweater she wore—one of his, again—felt like sandpaper. She shrugged it off, standing in her leggings and a simple nursing bra she’d bought online, a practical, lace-less thing.
The ache intensified. A dull, rhythmic throb low in her womb that was different from anything before. She placed a hand there. The small swell was firm. Real. Another cramp, sharper this time, made her suck in a breath.
What’s happening? The cold knot of her oldest fear—the experiment failing, her body rejecting itself—coiled tightly in her gut. She wasn’t bleeding. That was something. But the pressure, the deep, internal shifting… it was alien.
And then her breast pulsed. A distinct, pulling sensation deep in the tissue.She looked down. Two dark, wet circles were blooming on the light grey fabric of her bra. Not watery. Thicker.White.
A wave of heat washed over her, followed by a chill. The apps, the books—they’d mentioned this. Colostrum. The precursor to milk. It could start in the second trimester. Knowledge was one thing. Seeing the physical evidence seep through her clothing was another. It was a billboard. An announcement. Her body was preparing to sustain a life. This was no longer just a parasite; it was a tenant with a lease, and her physiology was renovating to suit its needs.
She didn’t know whether to cry or scream. The sensation of wetness against her skin, a sensation that had nothing to do with sweat or arousal, was profoundly disorienting. She was leaking. She felt a sudden, desperate need for Donghae. Not for comfort, but for witness. For him to see this, to ground this surreal change in the reality of his touch. To make it theirs, not just hers.
She paced. The cramp came again, deeper, and she braced a hand on the back of the couch. It passed, leaving a strange emptiness. Her breasts tingled, a weird, prickling fullness. The stains widened.
When the key turned in the lock an hour later, she was leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed over her chest, trying and failing to appear casual. The fluorescent light hummed overhead, cruel and bright.
He came in, a rush of cool outdoor air clinging to his jacket. His face was tired, the pleasant fatigue of mental exertion. “Hey,” he said, dropping his bag. “I grabbed more of those crackers you like.” He held up a plastic bag. “The weird seeded ones.”
He stopped. Saw her posture. The tension in her shoulders. Her crossed arms doing little to hide the damp patches on her bra.
“What’s wrong?” His voice switched, the casual warmth vanishing. He was across the kitchen in two strides. “Are you hurt? The baby—”
“It’s fine,” she said, her voice tight. “Everything’s… fine. Just. Feel weird.”
He was close now, searching her face. “Weird how?” His hand came up, hesitated, then settled gently on her waist. The warmth of his palm burned through the thin fabric of her leggings.
She couldn’t find the clinical words. She uncrossed her arms, letting him see. The two dark, perfect circles on the grey cotton, centered over her nipples. She watched his face. Saw the confusion, the flicker of recognition, the swift intake of breath.
“Hyukjae…” His gaze was fixed, magnetized by the sight.
“It started today,” she said, the words escaping like a pressurized hiss.“This. And cramps.Low ones. Not… not bad ones. But it feels like… things are moving.” She was babbling. “I don’t know what it’s supposed to feel like. No one fucking tells you that part. They just show diagrams.”
He didn’t speak. His hand on her waist slid up, his thumb stroking her rib cage just below the curve of her breast. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. The bag of crackers hit the floor with a soft rustle.
“Does it hurt?” he asked, his voice a rough whisper.
“It aches,” she confessed. “They feel… full. Heavy. It’s a different kind of sore.”
The permission in her words seemed to break a dam in him. His other hand came up, palm hovering over the damp fabric, not quite touching. He looked at her, a silent question.
“Touch me,” she demanded, the command edged with a desperation she couldn’t hide.
He closed the last millimeter. His hand cupped her left breast, his whole palm covering it, his thumb resting directly over the damp spot. A low groan escaped him. “Jesus. So hot.”
The warmth of his hand on the aching flesh was an immediate, electric relief. She sagged against him, her forehead dropping to his shoulder. He squeezed gently, his fingers learning the new weight, the tight, round fullness. The pressure sent a startling jolt of sensation straight to her core. Not entirely unpleasant. A sharp, needy heat pooled between her legs.
He nudged her back until her hips met the edge of the kitchen counter. The fridge door, covered in their medical mementos, was beside them. He kept one hand on her breast, kneading now with a firm, curious pressure. With the other, he traced the damp spot with his index finger, painting a wet circle on the fabric.
“Taste it,” she heard herself say, the voice rough, foreign. It wasn’t a request. It was a need for validation, for proof this was shared. “Taste me.”
A shudder ran through him. His eyes locked with hers, burning with a potent mix of tenderness and raw hunger. He hooked a finger under the bra’s stretchy cup, pulling it down. Her breast spilled free, the nipple tight and dark, a droplet of opaque, yellowish-white fluid beaded at its tip.
He didn’t hesitate. He lowered his head and closed his mouth over her.
The feeling was indescribable. The wet, hot suction of his mouth. The gentle lap of his tongue against the sensitive peak. The slight, steady pull. It wasn’t sexual. It was primal. A direct line to the deepest, most animal part of her brain. She gasped, her hands flying to his hair, fingers tangling in the strands, holding him there. A low, continuous moan vibrated from his throat into her flesh.
He suckled, gently, then with more intent. A sweet, subtle warmth spread from her breast, a pressure releasing. He drank, his throat working as he swallowed. The cramp in her womb echoed, a deep, sympathetic pulse.
“Fuck,” he breathed when he finally pulled away, his lips glistening. “It’s sweet. Hyukjae, it’s… it’s like sweet cream.” He sounded awestruck. Drunk. He immediately went to her other breast, pulling the cup down, taking that nipple into his mouth with the same reverent hunger. His hands went to her hips, gripping the flesh there, her new, thicker curves filling his palms as he drank from her.
The dual sensations—the pulling at her nipples, the firm grip on her hips—drove her mad. She was wet.Soaking. The needy throb between her legs was now a pounding demand. She rocked her hips against the counter’s edge, seeking friction.
He released her second breast with a wet pop, his chin damp. His eyes were wild. He looked at her swollen, glistening nipples, then down her body. He shoved her leggings and underwear down in one brutal yank, letting them pool at her ankles. The cool air hit her wetness. He didn’t even bother to undress himself fully, just ripped his jeans open, shoved them down his thighs, freeing his cock, which was thick and rigid, the tip already weeping.
He turned her roughly, bending her forward over the cold, smooth surface of the kitchen counter. Her palms flattened against the laminate. The half-eaten plate of bingsu from yesterday was shoved aside with a clatter, ice shavings scattering like tiny diamonds. The scrap of paper with his scrawled "Always" was right by her cheek.
He ran the head of his cock through her slick folds, gathering her wetness, teasing her entrance. Then he drove into her from behind in one brutal, perfect stroke.
“God, yes!” she screamed, the stretch, the deep fullness a screaming counterpoint to the sweet release in her breasts.
He fucked her over the counter with a relentless, pounding rhythm. One hand braced on the counter beside her head, the other snaked around her waist, his fingers delving through the damp curls to find her clit. He pressed hard, circling the swollen nub in time with his thrusts.
“This cunt,” he grunted, his breath hot on her neck. “This perfect, fucking ripe cunt is mine. You’re dripping for me.My milk. Your cunt. All of it.” Each word was punctuated by a hard, deep drive. “You feel that? You feel how deep I am? I’m in your womb. I’m touching our baby.”
The obscenity of it, the visceral truth of it, shattered her. Her orgasm tore through her like a seismic event, a series of violent, squeezing spasms that gripped his cock and milked it. She screamed into the cool laminate, her body bowing under his.
He followed with a guttural roar, pounding into her three more times before he stilled, buried to the hilt, his release jetting hot and deep inside her in powerful, claiming pulses. They stayed like that, locked together, panting, her breasts pressed against the cold counter, his weight heavy and warm on her back.
Slowly, he softened, slipped out. He turned her gently, lifting her onto the counter, disregarding the scattered bingsu melting into sticky puddles. He knelt before her, his hands smoothing up her trembling thighs. He kissed the small, firm swell of her belly, his lips soft and lingering. Then he looked up, his face open, vulnerable, smudged with her milk and his own sweat.
“You’re a miracle,” he said, his voice raw. “A terrifying, beautiful miracle.”
She looked down at him, at the man who had loved her through every impossible iteration of herself. The sharp fear of the afternoon was gone, burned away in the frantic, validating fire of their joining. Her body was changing. It was strange. It was terrifying. But it wasn’t a lonely transformation.
She touched his cheek, her thumb wiping at a droplet of moisture on his lip. “Your miracle,” she whispered back.
On the fridge, behind the dinosaur magnet, the newest ultrasound photo showed a profile. A nose. The prawn had become a baby.
Outside, the first real snow of the season began to fall, silent and soft, blanketing the world in a temporary, forgiving purity. Inside, they stayed wrapped in their own warmth, perched on the kitchen counter, a salty-sweet mess of melting ice and new beginnings.
Inside, they stayed wrapped in their own warmth, perched on the kitchen counter, a salty-sweet mess of melting ice and new beginnings. Donghae eventually lifted her down, his hands gentle on her bare hips. He cleaned the sticky bingsu syrup from her skin with a warm cloth, his touch methodical and tender.
The high of that validation faded over the next week, replaced by a slow-burning, relentless irritation. Everything chafed. The softest blanket felt like burlap. The sound of Donghae chewing his breakfast cereal grated like gears stripping. Her own reflection in the bathroom mirror became a foreign, bloated stranger. The small, firm swell he worshipped felt like a grotesque distortion.
“Morning sickness is a lie,” she muttered, scowling at her toothbrush. “It’s all-day, every-fucking-thing sickness.”
One afternoon, a profound, aching loneliness swallowed her whole. The apartment walls seemed to press inward. She stared at the “Blanket Fog” paint sample. It just looked grey. She needed to move, to do something, to feel like someone other than a vessel. An idea, fragile and desperate, formed. She would reclaim something. A shred of the person who could command a room with a smirk, not just a kitchen with a leaking breast.
She put on her largest jacket, a puffy monstrosity that swallowed her new shape. At the department store, she avoided the maternity section with a fierce, internal snarl. She went instead to lingerie, to a rack of scarlet and black. Her fingers brushed a red lace babydoll, flimsy and daring. It was an artifact from a different life, a costume for a person who didn’t exist anymore.
She bought it. The slick packaging felt like a secret in her hands.
That evening, she waited. She heard his key in the lock, the familiar shuffle of his bag dropping. She’d already tried it on. The sight in the full-length mirror had been a physical blow. The lace cups strained over breasts that were now heavier, veins faintly visible beneath the skin. The silky shorts cut into the soft, new curve of her lower belly. She looked… absurd. A stuffed sausage trussed in cheap scarlet. But she was committed now.
“Hey,” he called, voice tired from a long day of lectures. “I’m home.”
She stepped out of the bedroom, not with her old swagger, but with a hesitant, stiff-legged walk. The apartment was dim, lit only by the city glow through the windows. She saw him freeze, his jacket half-off. His eyes widened. He didn’t speak.
Her confidence, a flickering candle, guttered and died under his silent gaze. The cool air of the apartment raised goosebumps on her skin. She crossed her arms over her chest, a defensive gesture that pulled the delicate lace taut. A seam near the side of the cup, stressed by the new fullness of her breast, gave way with a sickening, tiny rip.
She looked down. A small, unraveling thread. A malfunction.
It was the final straw. The absurdity of it all—the experiment, the pregnancy, this pathetic attempt at seduction in a ripped costume—crashed down. A sob wrenched itself from her throat. Hot, humiliating tears blurred her vision.
“Forget it,” she choked out, turning to flee back to the bedroom. “Just fucking forget it.”
“Hyukjae, wait—” He was across the room in an instant, his hand catching her wrist. His touch was gentle but firm.
“Let go!” she spat, trying to yank away. “I look like a fucking whale in this. A ridiculous, bloated whale. You’ll… you’ll go to college tomorrow and see all those pretty, slim, normal girls and you’ll realize what you’re stuck with here. You’ll look at other—”
“Stop.” His voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through her panic like a blade. He turned her to face him, his other hand coming up to cradle her jaw, his thumb wiping a tear away. “Just stop. Listen to me.”
She tried to shake her head, but he held her gaze, his own eyes fierce and unwavering in the dim light.
“First thing,” he said, his voice low and intensely serious. “I didn’t look at other women when you were a male. Not really. Never saw the point. My eyes were always… just on you. Always.”
A hiccupping breath caught in her chest. She stared at him.
“Secondly,” he continued, his thumb stroking her cheekbone. “You are the only female I will ever get hard for. The only one. This body?” His gaze traveled down, not with lust, but with a profound, reverent focus. He hooked a finger on the torn lace of the babydoll, right over the pulse at the base of her throat. “This incredible, miracle-making body is you. It’s the map of where we are. Of what we made.”
He leaned forward, his lips brushing hers, a soft press. “And it is so fucking beautiful it hurts me to look at it sometimes.”
Then his mouth was on hers, not soft, but hungry, consuming her tears and her doubts. His hands slid down her arms, over the cheap red lace, to her hips. He grasped the flimsy material of the shorts and pulled, the fabric tearing easily at the sides, a sharp, final sound. He broke the kiss, looking at the ruined garment now hanging from her hips.
“See?” he murmured, a dark, possessive edge in his voice. “It was never strong enough to hold you anyway.”
He pushed the torn scraps down her thighs, letting them fall. He backed her towards the bed, his own clothes discarded in a hurried trail. When her legs hit the mattress, he didn’t lay her down gently. He turned her, his hand firm on her shoulder, and guided her to kneel on the edge of the bed, her back to him.
“Don’t hide from me,” he commanded, his voice thick.
His hands smoothed over the red lace still covering her back, then gripped it and pulled, the clasps snapping, the rest of the babydoll joining the ruined shorts on the floor. She was naked now, kneeling, exposed. He knelt behind her, his body a solid, warm presence. His hands closed over her hips, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh of her ass.
He didn’t enter her immediately. He leaned forward, his chest against her back, and bit her shoulder, a sharp, claiming sting. His hand snaked around her waist, his fingers sliding through her wetness, making her jump. He parted her folds, found her clit, and rubbed tight, fast circles that made her cry out, her back arching.
“This is mine,” he growled in her ear, his fingers relentless. “This greedy, pretty cunt is mine. You hear me? Every part of this body that you hate is the part I worship.”
He removed his hand, the sudden absence a torture. She heard him spit, the wet sound loud in the quiet room. Then she felt the broad, slick head of his cock press against her entrance. He pushed inside with one slow, inexorable thrust, filling her completely. A ragged moan tore from her lips.
He didn’t move. He stayed there, buried deep, his hands braced on her hips, his breath hot on her neck. “You feel that?” His voice was a raw scrape. “I am so deep inside you. There is no room for anything else. Not your doubts. Not your fear. Just me.”
Then he began to move. It was a hard, pounding rhythm that shook her entire body. Each thrust was a punctuation to his words. “My. Beautiful. Fucking. Miracle.” He drove into her, his balls slapping against her skin. One hand slid around to her front, palming the heavy swell of her belly, holding it, feeling the tightness of her skin as he rocked into her.
The other hand slid up her torso, over her ribs, to cup her full breast. He squeezed, and a fresh droplet of milk seeped from her nipple, smearing against his palm. He brought his wet hand back to her clit, slippery with her milk and her own arousal. The sensation was filthy, profound, overwhelming.
“Come for me,” he demanded, his pace becoming frantic, brutal. “Come all over my cock. Let go.”
The coil inside her snapped. Pleasure detonated, a white-hot shockwave that radiated from her clit through her womb. Her walls clenched around him in violent, rhythmic spasms. She screamed into the rumpled comforter, her body convulsing.
He groaned, a deep, guttural sound of pure possession. He fucked her through her climax, his thrusts turning jagged, losing rhythm. With a final, desperate slam, he buried himself to the hilt, his body locking against hers as he pulsed inside her, a hot, endless flood that seemed to go on and on.
They collapsed forward together onto the bed, a tangled, sweaty, spent heap. He was still inside her, softening. His arms were wrapped around her, one hand splayed protectively over her stomach.
They lay in the silence for a long time, breathing ragged. The city lights painted shifting patterns on the ceiling.
“You know,” he said quietly, his lips moving against the damp skin of her shoulder. “I loved you when you could beat me at arm wrestling. I loved you when you smelled like cheap beer and boy.”
His hand flexed gently on her belly. “I love you now, like this. It’s the same love. It just… got bigger. To hold all of this.”
She closed her eyes. The ghost of the red lace lay somewhere on the floor, a discarded skin. Here, in the dark, held together by sweat and seed and something unnameable, she finally, quietly, began to believe him.