Chapter 16: Milky Reunion
The ring felt strange on her finger. Not heavy, but present. An anchor. Hyukjae stood under the weak spray of Donghae’s shower, the water doing little to wash away the feeling of him—the milk, the sweat, the deep, leaking aftermath of his release inside her. She looked down at her body, at the soap sliding over the pronounced curve of her stomach, the blue veins mapping her swollen breasts. A silver band glinted on her left hand, absurd and perfect against the steam and cheap body wash.
It had happened. He’d asked. She’d said yes.
A laugh bubbled up, silent and slightly hysterical. They were engaged. To be married. What did that even mean for them? No license would recognize the name he’d proposed to. No family would understand. It was a secret pact made on a carpet sticky with their own fluids, witnessed by a half-empty coffee bottle and a suspicious spoon.
She turned off the water and stepped out, wrapping herself in a towel that smelled like Donghae’s detergent.Clean cotton. She’d stay in her own clothes tonight, she decided. Maintain some shred of… what? Normalcy? The thought was laughable.
But when she padded into the bedroom, her own sleep shorts and tank top in hand, she saw the bed. He’d changed the sheets. The old, worn cotton was gone, replaced by a set she’d never seen—deep navy blue, crisp. He was sitting on the edge, shirtless, staring at the wall where his childhood posters were curling. He had a look on his face she couldn’t quite parse. Not regret. Something more like quiet terror.
“New sheets?” she asked, her voice echoing in the quiet room.
He started, turning to look at her. His eyes dropped to the ring, then back to her face. A slow smile softened his features.“Yeah. Seemed… appropriate. A fresh start.” He paused. “You’re getting dressed?”
“Was planning to.”
“Don’t.”
A single word. It wasn’t a command, not like in the kitchen. It was a request, layered with a vulnerability that hooked into her core. He held out a hand.
She let the towel drop. Let her own clothes fall to the floor. She walked to him naked, the cool air raising goosebumps on her damp skin. She took his hand and let him pull her down onto the new sheets. They smelled like cardboard and lavender, unused.
He laid back, pulling her on top of him so she was straddling his waist. His hands settled on her hips, warm and sure. He just looked at her, his gaze travelling over her face, her throat, the slopes and mounds of her altered body. His thumbs rubbed small circles on her hipbones.
“We’re insane,” she whispered, her voice cracking.
“I know.”
“This is legally, biologically, and socially fucked.”
“I know that, too.”
She leaned down, bracing her hands on either side of his head. Her damp hair fell around their faces, a private curtain. “So what do we do now, fiancé?”
The word, new and illicit, sparked a fire in his eyes. His hands slid up to cradle the undersides of her breasts, his thumbs brushing her nipples. They tightened immediately, a few beads of moisture welling at the tips. “Now,” he said, his voice rough. “We practice.”
“Practice what?”
“Being married.” He guided her up his body, his intention clear. “I seem to recall you making a request. On the floor.”
Her breath hitched. She remembered her own drunken, desperate words from what felt like years ago. Drink me dry then fuck another baby into me.
Heat, sudden and intense, flooded her. The hollow, sated feeling from their tender coupling evaporated, replaced by a sharp, renewed hunger. It was different this time. Tempered by the ring, by the promise, but no less voracious.
She shifted backwards, her knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his shoulders. She hovered over his face, her wet sex inches from his mouth, her swollen breasts hanging above his chin. Milk, warm and sweet-smelling, leaked freely now, dripping onto his chest in fat, slow drops.
“You want a taste of your future wife?” she murmured, her voice dropping into a low,挑衅的 purr she didn’t recognize as her own. She lowered herself until her slick folds brushed his lips.
He didn’t answer with words. His hands came up, gripping her ass, pulling her down firmly onto his mouth. His tongue was a hot, flat stroke against her entire slit, lapping up the wetness that had nothing to do with milk. She cried out, her head falling back. The sensation was electric, dizzying. He ate her with a focused intensity that was almost clinical in its thoroughness, like he was memorizing her flavor all over again.
She ground against his face, her movements becoming less graceful, more frantic. One of his hands stayed on her ass, kneading the flesh, while the other slid around her thigh, his fingers finding her dripping entrance. He pushed two inside, crooking them, and she gasped, riding his hand and his mouth simultaneously.
“Fuck, just like that,” she moaned, her hands fisting in the new sheets. “Your tongue… right there… don’t stop, Donghae, don’t you fucking stop…”
He redoubled his efforts, his tongue circling her clit with rapid, precise flicks while his fingers pumped in and out of her, the wet, squelching sounds obscenely loud in the quiet room. The dual stimulation was too much, too good. She felt the tension coiling, a spring wound tight in her lower belly.
“I’m gonna come all over your face,” she warned, her voice ragged. “You gonna swallow your fiancée’s cum? Huh? You gonna lick me clean?”
A low groan vibrated through his mouth and into her core. It was the only encouragement she needed. The orgasm ripped through her, violent and shocking. She shook, muscles clamping down on his fingers, a raw scream tearing from her throat as waves of pleasure radiated out from her center. He held her through it, his mouth soft now, sucking gently as she pulsed against his tongue.
When the last tremor subsided, she was trembling, weak. He gently lifted her off his face. She collapsed onto her back beside him, panting. She saw his chin glistening, his lips swollen and wet. He looked utterly debauched. And his erection strained angrily against his boxers.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes never leaving hers. Then he moved, shucking his boxers, his cock springing free, thick and flushed. He didn’t settle between her legs. Instead, he knelt beside her, his hand wrapping around his length, stroking slowly.
“Turn over,” he said, his voice gravel.
“What?”
“On your hands and knees. Now.”
The shift in tone, from worshipful to commanding, sent a fresh jolt through her. She rolled onto her stomach, then pushed herself up. The position made her belly hang heavily, a ripe weight. She felt exposed, vulnerable, and utterly turned on.
He moved behind her. His hands ran over the swell of her ass, spreading her cheeks. The cool air hit her sensitive, wet folds. She heard him spit, a crude, wet sound, and then felt the warm slickness of it against her entrance. He guided the head of his cock to her, nudging, not entering.
“You asked for it,” he reminded her, his voice a hot whisper against her back. “After I drank you. You said ‘then fuck another baby into me.’”
She shuddered. “I was out of my mind.”
“Are you now?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
He shoved into her in one brutal, deep thrust. She screamed, the fullness a shocking, delicious stretch. He didn’t pause for her to adjust. He set a punishing, rhythmic pace, each drive of his hips slamming her forward, her breasts swaying, her toes curling into the mattress. The new bedframe took up the rhythm, a loud, rhythmic creak-creak-creak that matched the wet slap of their coupling.
One hand gripped her hip, hard enough to bruise. The other tangled in her hair, pulling her head back, arching her spine. “This cunt is mine,” he growled, his voice raw with possession. “This womb is mine. You are mine. Say it.”
“Yours!” she cried out, the words torn from her. “Fuck, it’s all yours!”
“And I’m planting my seed so deep in you,” he panted, his thrusts becoming erratic, losing their rhythm for sheer, driving force. “So it takes. So you swell even more. So everyone looks at my wife and knows she’s full of me.”
The filthy, possessive words, coupled with the brutal, deep penetration, shattered her again. Another orgasm, sharper than the first, seized her, milking his cock as he fucked her through it. He shouted, a raw, broken sound, and slammed into her one final, devastating time, holding himself deep as he pulsed. She felt the hot, urgent rush of his release flooding her, a visceral claim.
They collapsed together onto the navy sheets, a tangled, sweating, breathing mess. He remained inside her, softening, their bodies still joined. His arms wrapped around her, his hand splayed over her stomach, as if he could feel his own seed taking root.
Long minutes passed. The creaking of the bed faded into silence. The only sound was their slowing breath.
In the dark, her voice was a thin thread. “We have to see Heechul tomorrow.”
His body tensed slightly behind her. “I know.”
“We have to tell him… something.”
Donghae’s lips pressed against her shoulder. A kiss.A brand. “We tell him the experiment is over,” he whispered. “We tell him we’re keeping the results.”
She turned her head, seeking his mouth in the darkness. She found it. The kiss was salty, deep, and tasted like the future—complex, terrifying, and irrevocably theirs.
Outside, the first grey light of dawn began to bleed around the edges of the posters on the wall, illuminating the peeling edges of heroes Donghae had outgrown. Inside, in the new nest of their making, they slept.
Inside, in the new nest of their making, they slept. The sleep was deep, dreamless, a pool of black ink after the blinding light of their vows. Hyukjae woke to the sharp, specific smell of brewing coffee and the low, resonant ache in her muscles. She was alone in the bed, but the indent on the pillow next to hers held the shape of his head. The unfamiliar silver band caught the morning light filtering through the blinds, sending a weak, refracted streak across the navy sheet.
She found him in the kitchen, shirtless, staring into a steaming mug. His back was to her, the muscles of his shoulders tense. The apartment held its usual clutter, but everything felt different, charged. The ring on her finger made the air taste metallic, like a storm was breaching the walls.
“Can’t sleep?” she asked, her voice raspy from the night.
He turned. His eyes were shadowed, but his smile was soft. “Thinking.” He looked at her, standing there naked in his doorway, her belly round, her hair a mess. “Mostly about how I get to look at that every morning now.”
“Even when I’m huge?” She walked to him, the linoleum cool under her bare feet.
“Especially then.” He set his mug down and opened his arms. She stepped into them, pressing her cheek against his chest. His heart beat a steady, reassuring rhythm under her ear. This was new, this uncomplicated holding. No frantic hunger, just presence.
He kissed the top of her head. “You’re trembling.”
“It’s cold,” she lied. It was the terrifying, beautiful weight of the future. His hand slid down her spine, warm and broad, settling on the small of her back. He pulled her closer, until their bodies aligned from chest to thigh. She could feel him, soft against her stomach. A different kind of heat began to uncoil within her, slow and syrupy.
She tipped her head back to look at him. “Last night… you did all the work.”
“Did I?” His thumb stroked the skin just above the swell of her ass.
“Yeah.” She pushed her hips forward, feeling him begin to stir. “My turn.”
A slow smile spread across his face, the one that used to appear before they’d attempt some stupid, complicated dance routine. It was a smile of complete trust. He leaned back against the kitchen counter, his hands coming to rest on its edge, surrendering. She sank to her knees on the hard floor.
The position made her wince slightly, a pressure in her lower back. She ignored it. This was important. She looked up at him, at the trail of dark hair leading down from his navel. He was half-hard already, thickening under her gaze. She wrapped her fingers around the base, feeling the soft skin, the heavy veins. She leaned in, her breath ghosting over the tip.
“Hyuk,” he whispered, a warning and a plea.
She didn’t use her mouth yet. First, she pressed her lips to the inside of his thigh, a soft kiss. Then another on the other side. She nuzzled the coarse hair at the base of his cock, inhaling his scent—sleep and salt and him. She took her time, kissing along his length, licking a slow stripe up the underside. He groaned, his knuckles whitening on the counter’s edge.
When she finally took him into her mouth, she did it with a lingering slowness that made his whole body jolt. She took just the head, swirling her tongue around the sensitive ridge, tasting the faint, musky pre-cum that had gathered there. She worked him like this, with unhurried, wet sucks, her hand moving in a loose, complementary rhythm further down his shaft.
“God… your mouth,” he choked out, his head falling back against the cupboard.
She took him deeper, relaxing her throat, letting him fill it. She set a lazy, decadent pace. Up and down, her lips stretched tight, her tongue pressing flat against his frenulum on every upstroke. She looked up, meeting his dazed, downward gaze. Milk leaked from her breasts, a slow, warm trickle onto the cold floor between her knees. The obscenity of it, the sheer, vulnerable mess of it, made her pulse quicken.
She loved this. The power of it, the quiet focus. The way his breath hitched when she applied a specific pressure. The soft, helpless sounds he made when she hollowed her cheeks. She worshipped him with her mouth, with a tenderness that felt like a reciprocation of every shattered, gentle thing he’d ever done for her.
“I’m close,” he warned, his voice strained. “You should…”
She didn’t pull away. Instead, she took him deeper, her nose brushing his skin. She hummed, the vibration traveling through him. His hips jerked, a small, involuntary thrust. His hand came down to cradle her head, not forcing, just holding.
“Hyukjae,” he gasped, her name a broken prayer.
His release flooded her mouth, hot and bitter-salt. She swallowed, slowly, deliberately, taking every pulse until he was spent and softening against her tongue. She drew back with a soft, final kiss, looking up at him. His chest heaved. He looked utterly wrecked, entirely hers.
She stood, her knees protesting. He pulled her into a tight embrace, his face buried in her neck. “That was…” he started, but couldn’t finish.
“I know.” She kissed his shoulder. “My turn isn’t over.”
She led him back to the bedroom, to their new sheets. She pushed him onto his back and climbed over him, straddling his hips. He was soft, spent. She didn’t rush. She leaned down and kissed him, letting him taste himself on her tongue. She kissed his chest, his stomach, the thatch of hair below his navel. Her hands roamed, rediscovering the planes of his body she’d known in another life.
By the time she worked her way back up, he was hard again, prodding insistently against her thigh. She reached between them, guiding him to her entrance. She sank down onto him with a slow, inexorable gravity, taking every inch until he was buried to the hilt inside her.
She moaned, a long, low sound of pure satisfaction. He filled her so completely. She set the pace, a deep, rocking motion that had less to do with friction and more to do with connection. Her hands braced on his chest, she rolled her hips in a slow, grinding circle.
“Look at you,” he breathed, his hands coming up to cup her heavy breasts. His thumbs brushed her nipples, sending sparks through her core. Milk, warmer now, pearled at the tips. He brought his fingers to his mouth, tasting it, his eyes locked on hers.
She rode him like that, a slow, undulating wave. The angle was perfect, hitting a deep, sweet spot that made her head swim. She could feel everything—the stretch, the glide, the hot pulse of him inside her. She took her pleasure from him, drawing it out, building it with each languid rise and fall.
“You feel so good,” she murmured, watching his face. “So deep in me.”
“I can feel everything,” he gasped, his hands tightening on her hips. “You’re so warm. So tight.”
She leaned forward, changing the angle, and began to move faster. The pace built, a crescendo from the slow, sweet beginning. Her breath came in sharp gasps. His hands moved to her ass, gripping, encouraging her. The sound of their skin slapping together filled the room, a rhythmic counterpoint to their ragged breathing.
“Come with me,” he demanded, his own climax nearing. “I want to feel you come on my cock.”
His words, filthy and perfect, tipped her over. Her orgasm surged through her, a deep, rolling quake that clenched around him, milking him, pulling him deeper. He cried out, arching beneath her, his release flooding her as her own pulses rippled through her.
She collapsed forward, spent, her sweaty skin sticking to his. They lay there, joined, panting, as the sun climbed higher, casting stark rectangles of light across their tangled legs and the rumpled, navy-blue sheets that were now truly theirs. Outside, the world waited—Professor Heechul, the experiment, the impossible future. But here, in this stolen moment of slow, returned favor, there was only this breath, this heartbeat, this anchor of a ring on her finger, and the quiet certainty that whatever came next, they would face it from this bed, from this mess, together.