Chapter 25: Nursing Daddy
The green light blinked for seventy-two hours in the deserted lab before the campus custodians, alerted by the smell, found Professor Kim Heechul. He was curled inside the cracked pod, alive but unresponsive, his skin cool and waxy, his eyes open and fixed on some invisible point. The official report would later cite a catastrophic equipment failure and an unspecified neurotoxic gas leak.
Hyukjae and Donghae heard the news from a distance, through the distorted grapevine of campus gossip. They didn’t speak of it. They had retreated to the only place that felt remotely safe: Donghae’s cramped, book-cluttered studio apartment. The world outside ceased to exist.
For three months, time moved in strange lurches. Hyukjae’s body, now seemingly stabilized in its male form, carried the pregnancy with a relentless, accelerated biology. The changes were brutal and fast. His flat stomach rounded, tightened, became a firm, prominent dome. His hips ached, widening. His senses sharpened to animal intensity. And through it all, a deep, cellular silence from the pod, from the experiment. It was a ceasefire, not a peace.
The first contraction hit like a fist to the spine while he was trying to eat instant ramen. The bowl shattered on the floor. Donghae, who had barely left his side, moved on pure instinct, hauling him to the car, driving through red lights with a terrifying calm.
The maternity ward was a universe of muted sounds and blue-tinged light. Hyukjae, sweating and swearing, male in every visible way yet writhing on a birthing bed, was a quiet catastrophe the staff chose not to question. Their professionalism was a wall. They saw the anatomical impossibility and looked past it, focusing on vitals, on dilation, on the baby’s heart rate thrumming strong on the monitor. It was easier that way.
The birth was a violent, primal struggle. Hyukjae bit down on a rolled-up towel, his knuckles white on the bed rails, every muscle corded. He didn’t scream; he roared, a raw, guttural sound that was all Lee Hyukjae. Donghae held his hand, offered words that were lost in the storm, and felt the bones in his fingers grind together.
When it was over, and a tiny, squalling, perfectly human infant—a boy—was placed on Hyukjae’s heaving chest, the silence returned. The medical staff finished their duties with efficient speed and left, the door clicking shut behind them with finality.
They were alone.
Hyukjae lay propped against the pillows, exhausted, his body a landscape of shock. He was himself again, male, but hollowed out, trembling with aftershock. The baby, red-faced and furious, nuzzled against his skin. Donghae hovered, useless, his heart a tangled knot of awe and terror.
Then the baby rooted, its mouth opening and closing instinctively. And Hyukjae’s body, obeying a deeper programming than gender, responded. The flat plane of his pectoral muscle softened, swelled. The skin darkened, and a nipple puckered, transformed. Before either of them could process it, the baby latched on.
A sharp, electric jolt shot through Hyukjae. His back arched off the bed.“Ah! Fuck!”
It wasn’t pain. It was a synapse firing, a circuit closing deep in the ruined core of him. The sensation was a hot, pulling tide that didn’t stop at his chest. It raced down his spine, pooled in his gut, and surged straight to his cock, which thickened and hardened against his thigh in seconds, blatant and undeniable.
“No,” he gasped, looking down at the suckling infant, then at his own erection. “Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me.”
Donghae saw it all. The miraculous, quiet moment of birth, now warped into something else. The experiment wasn’t dead. It was layered, integrated. A feedback loop of nurture and need, twisted into arousal. He remembered the pod’s energy, feeding on their coupling. This was the same language, written in flesh and milk.
Hyukjae’s face was a masterpiece of conflicted agony. “Donghae… I can’t… it’s too much.” The stimulation from the nursing was relentless, a direct line to his groin. He was being ravaged by his own biology.
Donghae moved without thinking. The clinical silence of the room was a lie. This was the truth they lived now. He knelt on the bed beside Hyukjae, his hand hovering over the tense curve of Hyukjae’s hip. His voice, when it came, was low, rough with an understanding that bypassed thought.
“It’s the signal,” he murmured, his lips close to Hyukjae’s ear. “The same one. It needs to be complete.” He traced a finger down the dip of Hyukjae’s spine. “You’re feeding him. Every part of you is engaged.” His hand slid lower, over the swell of Hyukjae’s ass, still streaked with sweat. “Except one.”
Hyukjae turned his head, his eyes desperate. “What are you doing?”
“Completing the circuit,” Donghae whispered. He reached for the bottle of lubricant left on the bedside table for post-birth care. He slicked his fingers, then himself, his own arousal a tight, painful ache. He was already hard. The sight of Hyukjae, vulnerable and fiercely maternal, yet powerfully male and erect, unspooled him.
He positioned himself behind Hyukjae, who was still on his side, the baby cradled and nursing. He guided his cock to Hyukjae’s entrance, which was slick not with lubricant but with the lingering evidence of birth. It was an intimate, forbidden tableau.
“Looks like daddy needs to plug your other hole while you feed our baby,” Donghae breathed, the words filthy and tender all at once.
He pushed in, slowly, giving the ravaged body time to adjust. Hyukjae cried out, a choked sound, his hips jerking. The movement jostled the baby, who suckled harder, triggering another wave of sensation. Hyukjae’s cock twitched, leaking onto the white sheets.
“Fuck,” Hyukjae sobbed, his head falling back. “It’s… it’s connecting. Don’t stop.”
Donghae began to move, shallow thrusts that gradually deepened. He wrapped one arm around Hyukjae’s chest, his hand splaying over the firm, nursing muscle, feeling the pull of the infant’s mouth through the flesh. His other hand drifted down, closing around Hyukjae’s leaking cock, stroking in time with his thrusts.
Hyukjae was trapped in a cascade of overlapping sensations: the sweet, sharp pull of nourishment, the deep, full stretch of being fucked, the tight friction of Donghae’s hand on his dick. He was a crossroads of pure function, every nerve alive. He babbled, words fracturing.
“Yeah… just like that… it’s smoothing out… the static is gone…”
Donghae fucked him with a focused, rhythmic intensity, chasing the harmony in the chaos. He watched the baby nurse, watched Hyukjae’s face contort in pleasure, felt the incredible heat and clutch of his body. He was weaving them together—father, father, son. A closed loop. A perfect, perverse dataset.
His pace increased, becoming harder, more urgent. The bed creaked. Hyukjae’s cries grew louder, mingling with the soft, wet sounds of the nursing infant. Donghae felt his climax building, a tectonic pressure.
“Come with me,” he gritted out, his hand working faster on Hyukjae’s cock. “Fill this hole while that one feeds. Do it.”
The command triggered it. Hyukjae shouted, his body seizing as orgasm ripped through him. Jets of cum splattered across Donghae’s hand and the rumpled sheets. The clenching of his internal muscles around Donghae’s cock was vicious, milking.
Donghae drove in one last time, burying himself to the hilt as his own release tore free, hot and deep. He shuddered, collapsing over Hyukjae’s back, spent.
For a long minute, the only sounds were their ragged breaths and the contented, rhythmic suckling of the baby. The frantic, hungry energy that had gripped Hyukjae subsided, replaced by a profound, weary calm. The conflicting signals had harmonized.
Gently, Donghae pulled out. He fetched a warm cloth and cleaned them both with a tenderness that contrasted violently with what they’d just done. Hyukjae shifted carefully, helping the baby to his other breast, the process now smooth, natural, untainted by sickening arousal.
The baby fed, and then, finally, released the nipple, falling into a deep, milky sleep. Hyukjae settled him in the crook of his arm, staring down at the perfect, tiny face.
Donghae sat on the edge of the bed, watching them. The love that swelled in his chest was terrifying in its magnitude, inseparable from the horror and the raw need.
Hyukjae looked up, his eyes clear for the first time in months. “We named him after a professor who might be a vegetable in a coma, and we just fucked while he had breakfast.” A weak, hysterical laugh bubbled out of him. “Our life is so fucked, Donghae.”
Donghae reached out, brushing a sweaty strand of hair from Hyukjae’s forehead. “I know.”
“He’s perfect,” Hyukjae whispered, his voice breaking.
“He is.”
They sat in the sterile quiet, the green glow of the monitor painting their skin. The immediate crisis had passed, subdued once more by a perverse biological ritual. But as Donghae looked from his sleeping son to the exhausted, beautiful man who bore him, he knew.
The experiment wasn’t in a lab anymore. It was sleeping in Hyukjae’s arms. And it was growing.