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The bell above the door chimes, and Kim Dokja’s entire body goes rigid.
“Ah, young Master Kim!” The elderly voice carries easily through the small shop. “I’ve come for my arthritis remedy!”
Kim Dokja opens his mouth to respond, but what comes out is a choked, strangled sound that he desperately tries to reshape into words. “M-Mister Choi. Welcome.”
His voice shakes. Yoo Joonghyuk’s hand is splayed possessively across his lower belly, pressing down just enough that Kim Dokja can feel every devastating inch of him. The bamboo divider conceals them from view, but it’s a flimsy thing, decorative lacquered wood that wouldn’t muffle a damn thing if Kim Dokja loses control of his voice.
“You sound unwell!” Mister Choi’s footsteps shuffle closer to the counter. “Have you been working yourself too hard again? I always tell you, a healer who doesn’t care for himself can’t care for others!”
“I’m—” Kim Dokja’s breath hitches as Yoo Joonghyuk pulls back slowly before sinking back in. The drag of it makes his eyes roll back. He bites down hard on his lower lip, tasting copper. “I’m fine. Just a little tired.”
Behind him, Yoo Joonghyuk’s breath ghosts against the shell of his ear, barely a whisper. “You’re doing well.”
It had seemed so simple an hour ago. He’d been preparing his monthly antler growth tonic, since his velvet had started shedding early this year. He’d grabbed one wrong ingredient from his meticulously organized shelves, and now here he is: bent over the back counter with his robes hiked up around his waist, legs trembling, trying to have a coherent conversation about joint pain medication while a gumiho works him open with single-minded determination.
The aphrodisiac had hit his system like wildfire. He’d barely made it behind the counter before his legs gave out, the desperate, aching emptiness becoming unbearable. He’d been sobbing into his hands when Yoo Joonghyuk found him, sprawled on the floor in a puddle of his own slick, antlers half-shed and completely humiliated.
Yoo Joonghyuk hadn’t hesitated. He’d simply scooped him up, set him on the back counter, and begun divesting him of his layers.
“The medicine is ready on the front counter,” Kim Dokja manages, voice strained. “It’s in the blue vial.”
“Ah, wonderful! But I do have a few questions about the dosage...”
Yoo Joonghyuk’s hand tightens on his hip, steadying him as he adjusts the angle. Kim Dokja’s hands fly up to cover his mouth, muffling the desperate sound that tears from his throat. Yoo Joonghyuk’s so deep, the blunt pressure against his cervix making his legs kick uselessly.
“The dosage is the same as always,” Kim Dokja gasps out. “Two drops in warm water, twice daily.”
“Should I take it with meals, or...?”
Yoo Joonghyuk’s lips brush against the nape of his neck. “Breathe,” he murmurs, so quiet only Kim Dokja can hear. “You’re tightening up.”
Kim Dokja sobs into his palm. How is he supposed to not tighten up when every slow thrust punches the air from his lungs, when his belly is being bulged from Yoo Joonghyuk’s size, when his body keeps trying to pull him deeper despite the impossible fullness?
“With or without meals is fine,” he forces out. His free hand scrabbles against the counter, looking for purchase, and instead finds one of Yoo Joonghyuk’s tails. He yanks it purely out of spite.
The gumiho goes utterly still. Then he laughs, a low, dark rumble against Kim Dokja’s spine. “Careful.”
It’s a warning Kim Dokja doesn’t heed. He tugs again, harder, and is rewarded with a sharp thrust that makes him see stars. His vision whites out for a moment, pleasure sparking up his spine like lightning.
”—Master Kim? Are you sure you’re alright?”
“I’m fine!” Kim Dokja nearly shouts. Tears are streaming down his face now, his body betraying him with every clench and flutter. “Just—just weather sickness.”
“Ah, yes, it has been rather volatile lately. You know, my grandson was just saying...”
Mister Choi launches into a story about his grandson’s wife’s sister’s problem with seasonal headaches, and Kim Dokja has never been more grateful for the man’s tendency to ramble. It gives him time to try to collect himself, to remember how to breathe, to—
Yoo Joonghyuk’s hand slides from his belly down between his legs, and Kim Dokja’s entire plan of self-collection evaporates, jolting so hard the counter rattles.
“Shh,” Yoo Joonghyuk soothes against his ear. “I’ve got you.”
The reassurance only makes him want to cry harder.
“You’re so good,” Yoo Joonghyuk murmurs, lips brushing the rim of his ear. “Taking me so well. You were made for this.”
Kim Dokja shudders, biting down on his knuckles to keep from making a sound. The praise melts through him like honey, sweet and thick and utterly devastating. His tail—short and fluffy and sensitive—twitches helplessly, and when Yoo Joonghyuk’s hand finds it, stroking it with deft fingers, Kim Dokja nearly blacks out.
”—don’t you think, Master Kim?”
“Y-yes,” Kim Dokja stammers, having no idea what he’s agreeing to. “Absolutely.”
“I’m so glad you agree! I’ll tell my grandson you said so. Now, about the color of the medicine—it’s more blue than last time. Is that normal?”
Yoo Joonghyuk chooses that moment to pick up the pace, just slightly, and Kim Dokja’s mind goes blissfully blank. Slick runs down his thighs, his inner walls fluttering uselessly around the thick intrusion.
“New—ingredient,” he manages. “Same formula. Just—ah—different source.”
“Fascinating! You know, I’ve always admired your dedication to your craft...”
The hand between his legs moves with purpose now, and Kim Dokja’s control slips. His breathing is coming in short, sharp gasps that he can’t quite muffle. His legs are shaking so badly that Yoo Joonghyuk has to hook an arm under his thigh to keep him upright.
“Look at you,” Yoo Joonghyuk breathes, voice rough with want. “So perfect. So pretty when you cry.”
Puddles are forming on the counter below, wet from Kim Dokja’s tears. It’s too much—the fullness, the pleasure, the humiliation of being taken apart while making small talk about medication dosages. His antlers ache where they’re shedding, his body aches where it’s being stretched and filled, and somewhere beneath it all is the horrible, creeping certainty that the aphrodisiac’s effect is starting to wane, which means this is just him now, desperate and needy and falling apart on Yoo Joonghyuk’s cock.
“Almost done,” Yoo Joonghyuk promises, and Kim Dokja doesn’t know if he’s talking to him or about him. “Going to fill you up so well. Going to make sure it takes.”
The words register dimly through the haze of pleasure. The whole point of this, according to Yoo Joonghyuk’s absolutely deranged logic, was pregnancy. Yoo Joonghyuk had taken one look at him, debauched and desperate on the floor, and apparently decided now was the perfect time to fulfill his fantasy.
“You’ll look beautiful,” Yoo Joonghyuk murmurs, hand splaying over his belly again, pressing down. “I’ll have to expand your workspace, since you won’t be able to stand for as long. A chair by the window, maybe, where you can rest...”
Kim Dokja wants to point out that he’s not even pregnant yet, but Mister Choi is asking another question about whether the medicine will interact with his blood pressure tonic, and Kim Dokja can barely remember his own name, let alone pharmaceutical interactions.
“Should be fine,” he gasps, “but monitor—ah—monitor for dizziness.”
“Good advice, good advice! You know, you really are the best healer in the region. My wife was just saying to her book club...”
The rhythm is relentless now, steady and deep. Kim Dokja’s release inches closer, his body drawing tight like a bowstring.
“I can feel myself inside you,” Yoo Joonghyuk says, wonder bleeding into his voice. “So deep. Taking all of me.”
Kim Dokja sobs. He’s going to come. He’s going to come while discussing herbal remedies with a seventy-year-old man, and he’s never going to recover from this.
“Such a good mate,” Yoo Joonghyuk purrs. “My perfect little healer. Going to keep you so well. Going to give you everything.”
The praise is the final straw. Kim Dokja’s orgasm hits him like a tidal wave, pleasure whiting out his vision, his body clenching down so hard that Yoo Joonghyuk groans against his neck. He barely manages to muffle his cry against his palm, shaking apart in silence while Mister Choi prattles on about book club recommendations.
Yoo Joonghyuk follows shortly after, the gumiho’s hand tightening on his hip hard enough to bruise, his breath coming in harsh pants against Kim Dokja’s neck.
”—well, I should let you rest!” Mister Choi’s voice breaks through the haze. “Thank you as always, Master Kim. Take care of yourself!”
“Thank you for your patronage,” Kim Dokja manages weakly.
The bell chimes, and the door closes. Silence falls over the shop.
Kim Dokja’s legs immediately give out.
Yoo Joonghyuk catches him easily, turning him and lifting him properly onto the counter. Kim Dokja stares up at him with dazed, unfocused eyes, his brain still somewhere far away, his body wrung out and trembling.
“Are you alright?” Yoo Joonghyuk asks, and he sounds genuinely concerned, which is rich considering he just spent fifteen minutes destroying Kim Dokja’s sanity and professional reputation.
Kim Dokja tries to answer, but his tongue feels thick and clumsy in his mouth. Everything is sore. He’s pretty sure he can’t walk, possibly ever again.
Yoo Joonghyuk’s expression softens. He reaches up to brush away the tears still clinging to Kim Dokja’s lashes. “You did so well. I’m proud of you.”
The praise makes something warm and pathetic curl in Kim Dokja’s chest. He wants to bite Yoo Joonghyuk, maybe kiss him. He’s too tired to decide which.
“That definitely took,” Yoo Joonghyuk continues, completely derailing any soft feelings Kim Dokja might have been developing. His hand rests on Kim Dokja’s belly again. “I should speak with the household staff about adjusting your quarters. We’ll need to move your workshop closer to the main house. I don’t like the idea of you having to walk this far in your condition.”
“I’m not—” Kim Dokja tries, but his voice comes out as a rasp. “Not pregnant yet, you absolute—”
“Yet,” Yoo Joonghyuk agrees, looking far too pleased with himself. “We should remedy that. How long does the aphrodisiac last?”
Kim Dokja stares at him in horror. “It’s gone. That was—that was just—”
He can’t finish the sentence, unable to admit that the desperate, needy mess he’d been at the end had nothing to do with the tonic and everything to do with Yoo Joonghyuk’s hands and voice and the way he’d taken Kim Dokja apart piece by piece.
Yoo Joonghyuk smiles. “Good to know.”
Kim Dokja tries to kick him. His leg doesn’t cooperate, too shaky and weak. Yoo Joonghyuk catches his ankle easily, pressing a kiss to the inside of his knee.
“Rest,” he says. “I’ll close the shop for the day. You’re in no condition to see more clients.”
“This is your fault,” Kim Dokja mumbles, but he’s already listing sideways, exhaustion crashing over him like a wave.
“I know.” Yoo Joonghyuk sounds unbearably smug. “I’ll take full responsibility.”
Kim Dokja’s last coherent thought before unconsciousness takes him is that he might poison Yoo Joonghyuk’s tea tomorrow.
...He’ll decide after he can feel his legs again.