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HI LIA

whiny Felix x dom reader

chop chop get to work okay luv you bai

CONTROL ME -- 🐤

--------------✦ PAIRING. Lee Felix x !f! reader

✦ GENRE. Comfort in a way, heavy smut.💔

✦ WORD COUNT. 15K

✦ WARNINGS. (NOT PROOF-RED) 18+ mdni — explicit content, overstimulation, oral sex (m! receiving), UNPROTECTED sex (NOOOO WRAP IT BEFORE U TAP ITT) use of petnames if you squint, dirty talk & praise, male squirting, begging, multiple orgasms, riding, injury..?? idk i prolly missed sum.. Lmk

✦ A/N. AYYY this is for my goat blinkbunni im so sorry i got super busy with life and exams and now my leg is fucking broken so ill stick to writing.. I scrapped the last idea and did ts instead. I hope you guys enjoy! Specifically ml i love her guys follow her now my queen. Shes the first ever person to give me a request i love my life. Also pls listen to control me by colde while reading its so sexylicious

The first sign something is wrong isn’t the pain. Felix is used to pain. Sore muscles, pulled tendons, the dull burn that lives in a body that never really rests. Pain is part of the job. What stops him, mid-choreography, is the way his leg simply doesn’t listen.

He stumbles mid-spin, the familiar ache in his lower back flaring sharper than usual. He forces a laugh, waving it off like he always does. “I’m fine,” he says, even though the fire shooting down his leg makes each movement feel impossible. He’s lived with this for years — the herniated disc is nothing new — but tonight, it’s worse. Much worse.

The rehearsal room blurs around him: mirrors reflecting the other members practicing, the music sliding over the floor in a rhythm he can’t quite keep up with. He clenches his jaw, tries to straighten, tries to keep going, but the muscles lock beneath him and for a moment, he can’t move. Finally, he collapses onto the side bench, wiping sweat and pain off his face, masking it behind a grin he knows no one can see through.

By the time he leaves the studio, limping toward the van, the pain hasn’t eased. He’s stubborn; he always has been. He’s done tours, performances, moments like this before, and he’s never let anyone fuss over him. But the fire in his back isn’t something he can joke away tonight, and he knows he can’t manage it alone.

That’s where you come in.

You’re part of the staff — officially healthcare, wellness, monitoring injuries — but with Felix, the line is blurred. You’re the one he trusts to notice when he’s pushing too hard, the one he rarely admits to needing. When you arrive at the luxury apartment where he’s been sent to rest and recover, you find him on the couch, trying to sit upright, trying too hard to look casual.

The space is quiet, sleek, high above the city lights of Shanghai. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretch behind him, spilling gold and white across the marble floors, painting the room in something unreal. Or maybe it's just the way that everything seems to brighten around Felix. He could make a cemetery look divine.

He glances at you as you step in, his usual charm in place, but there’s a tension in the curve of his shoulders, the way his hands twitch.

“Hey,” he says lightly, almost teasing, though the tremor in his fingers betrays him.

You set your bag down, crouching beside the couch, scanning the small mess of water bottles, blankets, and untouched food. You move with quiet authority, arranging what needs arranging, ignoring his words when he insists he’s fine.

“You need to rest,” you tell him firmly. “Eat something. Sleep.”

A soft laugh escapes him despite himself. “You don’t have to stay.”

"I know," you reply, not looking up as you unpack a small pharmacy of anti-inflammatories and muscle relaxants from your bag. "But I'm going to."

You can feel his gaze on you, heavy and considering. He’s used to people hovering, used to managers and coordinators treating him like fragile glass, but he’s also used to them leaving the second the schedule clears. You aren't leaving.

The first few days settle into a quiet, rhythmic kind of stalemate. You run the apartment like a field hospital, the luxury of the high-rise acting as a strange, gilded backdrop to the very mundane reality of recovery. Felix, true to form, tests the edges of your authority constantly.

He tries to skip his morning stretches in favor of scrolling through his phone, claiming his back feels "looser." He attempts to carry his own room service tray from the door, flashing you a winning smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. He even stays up late, the blue light of the television washing over his face, pretending he isn't exhausted just to see if you’ll force him to bed.

And you do. Every time.

The next morning begins at 6:00 AM with the soft chime of your alarm, silenced instantly before it can disturb the sleeping figure in the master bedroom. You move through the apartment with practiced efficiency, the silence of the high-rise broken only by the low hum of the refrigerator and the distant, muffled sounds of a city waking up far below.

In the kitchen, you measure out his medication with the precision of a chemist. The muscle relaxants make him groggy, the anti-inflammatories need to be taken with food, and the painkillers are a last resort that you’re trying to wean him off of. You set a tray with warm oatmeal, cut fruit, and tea, placing it on the coffee table in the living area before knocking gently on his door.

"Five minutes," he calls out. His voice is thick with sleep, raspy and low. It's already thick enough, but somehow the Australian in him seems to take over when he's tired. 'Five minutes' sounds more like 'foiivhe minaautes.' You could listen to him read a dictionary and not get bored.

"Take your time," you reply through the wood, your tone level. "But don't make me come in there."

He emerges ten minutes later, shuffling in gray sweatpants and a loose hoodie that swallows his frame. He looks devastatingly soft, his hair a messy tumble of blond waves, his face puffy with sleep. But he also looks like he’s in pain. He’s holding his lower back rigid, moving with the stiff caution of an old man.

He doesn’t sit immediately. Instead, he hovers near the floor-to-ceiling window, looking out at the sprawling, gray ribbon of the Huangpu River. It’s a defense mechanism, you realize. If he’s looking at the view, he doesn’t have to look at you, and you can’t see the wince he’s trying to swallow every time he shifts his weight.

"Breakfast is getting cold," you say, not looking up from the tablet where you’re logging his vitals.

"I’m not hungry," he murmurs, the words slurring slightly. "Just want to stand for a bit. Stretch it out."

"You can stretch after you eat," you say, finally looking up. You catch the way his jaw tightens, a spark of defiance flaring in his eyes before he masks it with a sigh. He hates being told what to do, but he hates the pain more, and he hates worrying you—which he knows he’s doing—most of all.

He turns slowly, practically dragging his left leg, and lowers himself onto the couch with a suppressed groan. You watch the movement like a hawk, cataloging the hesitation, the sharp intake of breath when his hips hit the cushions. He’s hurting more than he’s letting on.

You push the tray toward him. "Eat."

He picks at the fruit with his fork, pushing a slice of melon around the bowl rather than eating it. The silence stretches, thick and heavy, filled only by the clink of silverware against ceramic. You can feel the weight of his gaze on you, a physical pressure that makes it hard to focus on the schedule open on your tablet.

"You know," he starts, his voice light and conversational, but there’s a tightness to it, "the guys are probably halfway to soundcheck by now."

You don't look up. "I know."

"They’re probably doing the run-throughs without me," he continues, poking half-heartedly at a strawberry. "Chan hyung will be stressed. Changbin hyung will be loud. It’s going to be chaos."

"And they have a full medical team and a tour manager handling them," you say, finally glancing up. "You have me. Eat the oatmeal, Felix. It’s not just for calories; it’s for the meds."

He lets out a dramatic huff, a sound that’s purely Felix—a mix of whining theater and genuine exhaustion—but he finally takes a bite. The effect is immediate; the tension in his shoulders drops a fraction as the warmth hits his system. You steady him slowly, counting the chews, timing the swallows, until the bowl is empty enough to satisfy you.

Midday turns the apartment into a greenhouse. The sun beats down on the glass walls, trapping the heat inside, despite the air conditioning humming steadily from the vents. The light is relentless, turning the city below into a blurred wash of gold and gray, and casting long, sharp shadows across the living room floor.

You adjust the thermostat, lowering the temperature a few degrees, and turn to find Felix watching you. He’s managed to migrate from the couch to the armchair, a move that clearly took significant effort and stubbornness. He’s holding his phone, but the screen is dark.

"It's too bright," he murmurs, squinting against the glare. He looks tired in a way that has nothing to do with sleep—it’s a deep, marrow-level exhaustion that makes his skin look paper-thin.

"You need to lie flat," you say, walking over to the array of remote controls on the side table. "The pressure on the nerve is worse when you're slumped."

"Flat is boring," he counters, but he’s already shifting, wincing as he tries to find a position that doesn’t feel like his spine is being twisted in a vice. "I feel fine sitting. Just... a little stiff."

You ignore the lie and hit the button to lower the blackout blinds. The apartment dims instantly, the harsh glare replaced by a soft, twilight ambiance. The city is still out there, a muffled glow beyond the glass, but the room feels intimate now, sealed off from the rest of the world. The silence changes quality, becoming something denser.

"You haven't been listening to me these days, Lix. What's up? From friend to friend. Not doctor to idol."

He looks away, staring at a spot on the floor where the light from the hallway bleeds in, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. He shrugs, a small, jerky motion that he immediately regrets, his hand flying to his side to press against the ache.

"I said it's nothing," he mutters, though the bite is gone from his voice. Now he just sounds tired. Defeated. "I hate being left behind. I hate feeling useless. Everyone is out there working, and I'm just... sitting here. Taking up space."

"Recovering," you correct him gently, moving closer. You don't touch him yet—you know better than to startle him when he’s in a defensive spiral. "And even if you weren't, you're never useless. You're Felix. You’re the heart of the group. They miss you, sure. But they want you healthy more than they want you on stage permanently damaged. This issue doesn't just fade, it isn't a broken bone that can be fixed. You know this." Slowly, hesitantly, your hand drifts to his soft locks covering his face, tucking it behind his freckled ear. Gently. Caringly. An action far beyond something the both of you know.

He leans into the touch, just a fraction, his eyes fluttering shut for a brief second before he seems to remember himself and pulls back. It’s a subtle retreat, a defensive straightening of his spine that makes him wince again.

"You’re good at that," he murmurs, almost to himself. "Making me feel like a kid who skinned his knee instead of a guy who ruined the tour schedule."

"You didn't ruin anything," you say, letting your hand drop back to your side. The warmth of his skin lingers on your fingertips. "And if feeling like a kid gets you to actually do your PT exercises, then I'll be the wicked stepmother all day long. Speaking of which... massage time?"

"I guess," he sighs, the fight draining out of him as quickly as it had arrived. "But you better not make me fall asleep. I have to... I don't know. Reply to emails or something."

He stands up, his movements stiff and jerky, and navigates the short hallway to the master suite. You follow, turning on the lamps in the room to a low, warm glow. The bed is massive, a sea of white linens that look untouched despite him spending most of the day in it. You gesture to the center.

"Face down," you instruct, your voice slipping into that firm, clinical register that makes him obey without thinking. "Shirt off. I'm going to use the heating pad first to loosen the muscles."

He hesitates for a fraction of a second, his hand pausing on the hem of his hoodie. It’s a fleeting moment of vulnerability—the sudden realization that this isn't just a check-up; this is exposure. But the pain radiating down his leg overrides his pride. With a soft sigh, he pulls the hoodie over his head, the movement stiff and jerky, tossing it onto the armchair.

He climbs onto the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. He settles onto his stomach, burying his face in the crook of his arm, his back a landscape of smooth, golden skin interrupted by the tension knotting his shoulders. The room is quiet, the AC humming a low, monotonous drone, but you can hear the ragged edge to his breathing.

You'd be lying if you said he wasn't the most beautiful thing you've ever seen.

You retrieve the electric heating pad from the nightstand, plugging it in and setting it to a moderate warmth. Gently, you lay it across the small of his back, directly over the angry, inflamed lumbar region. He flinches at the sudden contact, a hiss escaping through his teeth, but then his muscles relax almost immediately as the heat begins to seep in.

For twenty minutes, you sit on the edge of the mattress, a silent sentinel in the dim room. The only sound is the rhythmic click of the timer on your watch and Felix’s gradually slowing breath. He doesn’t sleep, but he drifts into a twilight state, eyes heavy, body sinking into the mattress as the heat warms the angry knot of muscle. You watch the rise and fall of his shoulders, counting the seconds, ensuring he doesn’t overheat.

When the timer chimes softly, he doesn’t move. You reach over to switch the pad off, the silence of the room rushing back in.

"Roll over," you instruct quietly.

He groans, a low, vibrating sound that starts in his chest and muffles into the pillow, but he complies. It’s a slow, agonizing process of leverage and gravity, his teeth gritted as he maneuvers his body onto his back. When he finally settles, his chest is heaving, a fine sheen of sweat misting his collarbones. The heating pad has done its job—the initial spasms have quieted—but the stiffness has set in like concrete.

You move to the end of the bed, sitting near his feet. "Legs up. I need to check the sciatic nerve tension."

He lifts his right leg easily enough, wincing only when you extend the stretch to a forty-five-degree angle. But when you take his left ankle, his whole body tenses. You raise the leg just a few inches, watching his face carefully. His jaw clamps shut, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple, and his hand instinctively fists in the duvet.

"Stop," he hisses through gritted teeth, his hand flying out to grip your forearm. His fingers are trembling, the pressure desperate. "Too much." His gaze is almost.. begging? Needy, is what you'd call it. Big shining boba eyes.

"That’s enough," you say immediately, lowering his leg with excruciating slowness until his heel rests safely on the mattress. You don’t pull away from his grip; his fingers are still wrapped around your forearm, hot and damp, his heartbeat fluttering wildly against your skin where he holds you.

The air in the room feels thinner, charged with the static of his pain and the sudden, unshielded intensity of his reaction. He’s looking at you with those wide, wet eyes, his usual mask of sunny charisma completely obliterated, leaving just a scared kid in a body that won't cooperate.

"Breathe, Lix." you command softly, keeping your voice steady to ground him. "In through your nose. Hold it. Let it out."

The command seems to slice through the panic tightening his chest. He drags in a shuddering breath, his eyes never leaving yours, his fingers still locked around your forearm like you’re the only thing keeping him from drifting away. The air in the room is thick, charged with a heat that has nothing to do with the discarded pad on the mattress.

"You with me?" you ask, your voice dropping an octave, softer now.

He swallows hard, the movement of his throat visible in the low light. "Yeah," he breathes out. "Yeah. Just... just a flare up."

You gently extricate your arm from his grip, ignoring the way his fingers tighten for a split-second before letting go, as if reluctant to sever the connection. "I'm going to work on the glutes and hamstrings now," you say, your professional demeanor snapping back into place like a shield. "It’s going to be uncomfortable. If it gets to be too much, tell me to stop. Don't just take it."

He nods burying his face back into the crook of his elbow, exposing the long, golden line of his neck. "Okay," he mumbles, muffled against the pillow. "Just... do it."

You pour a generous amount of massage oil into your hands, rubbing them together to warm the liquid. The scent of eucalyptus and lavender fills the air, sharp and calming. When your palms first make contact with his skin, just below the curve of his lower back, he flinches violently, a full-body shudder that ripples through the mattress.

"Easy," you murmur, keeping your hands steady against the sharp contraction of his muscle. "Don't fight it."

"I'm not," he grits out, though his body is betraying him, taut as a bowstring. "It's just... cold."

"It's warm, Felix. You're just hypersensitive."

The admission hangs in the air, undeniable. You watch the way his skin prickles, the gooseflesh rising despite the warmth of your hands and the room. He’s running a fever of adrenaline, his system so overloaded with the signals from his lower back that every touch feels amplified, distorted.

"Relax," you command, your voice dropping to that low, steady register that seems to bypass his ears and go straight to his nervous system. "Let me in."

You don’t wait for him to agree. You press your thumbs into the flare of his hip, digging into the tight, angry knots of the piriformis muscle. He gasps, his back arching off the mattress instinctively to escape the pressure, a ragged, "Ah—!" tearing from his throat before he can bite it down.

"Stay still," you command, your voice low but leaving no room for argument. Your hands press firmly against his hips, anchoring him to the mattress. "Let me do the work. You’re only fighting yourself."

He exhales a shuddering breath, his fingers white-knuckling the duvet, but he forces his muscles to uncoil. He melts back into the bed, trembling slightly as you begin to manipulate the tissue. You work with a deliberate, rhythmic pressure—kneading the tightness of his glutes, tracing the hamstrings down to his knee, trying to coax the angry sciatic nerve into releasing its stranglehold on his leg.

It’s intimate work. It requires focus, touch, and a terrifying amount of trust. You can feel every twitch, every flinch, every suppressed whimper that vibrates through his skin and into your palms. You watch his face—buried in the crook of his arm to hide his expression, but you see the dampness gathering on his lashes. He’s not just in pain; he’s exhausted, stripped of the endless stamina he usually relies on. But the pain teeters on the edge of something different. This entire display.. it's almost...

"Tell me if it's too deep," you say, your voice low, keeping the rhythm steady as you work down the hamstring of his affected leg.

"No," he breathes out, the word muffled against the mattress but laced with a strange desperation. "It’s... it’s good. Don't stop."

A flush grows on your cheeks. As much as your trying not to let your thoughts... think.. you can't help it. You push a little harder, your thumbs sinking into the corded muscle, feeling the resistance slowly give way. The biology of it is simple enough—muscle fibers realigning, blood flow returning—but the physics of the moment feels entirely more complex. The heat radiating from his skin seems to seep into yours, the scent of the eucalyptus mixing with the smell of him—clean sweat and something distinctively warm and sweet.

You finish the massage with a final, long press along the sciatic nerve, feeling the last of the angry tension uncoil beneath your fingertips. Felix lets out a sound that’s caught somewhere between a groan and a sigh, his whole body going limp against the mattress as the pain finally recedes to a dull, manageable thrum.

"Okay," you say, your voice sounding a little rougher than you intended. You wipe your hands on a towel, needing to break the tactile connection before it becomes something you can’t take back. "That’s enough for now. I want you to lie flat for another twenty minutes. Let the settling happen."

He doesn’t move immediately. He stays face down, breathing into the duvet, his face hidden. But you can see the curve of his shoulder, the way his fingers unclench from the fabric.

"Y/N."

The way he says your name stops you. It’s not a question, and it’s not the bright, sing-song tone he uses to get attention. It’s a raw, scraped-raw sound that hits you in the center of your chest.

You pause at the door, your hand on the frame, looking back at the figure on the bed. "I'm right here, Felix. I'm just going to clean up."

The sun dips below the skyline, surrendering the sky to the bruised purples and deep indigos of a Shanghai night. The city doesn't sleep; it only changes its rhythm, the neon signs flickering to life in a rhythmic pulse that matches the thrum of your own tired heart.

You leave Felix to the meditative silence of the bedroom, stepping back into the living room to reset the space. You clear away the lunch trays, wiping down the marble counters with methodical strokes. The routine is a balm. It grounds you, reminds you that you are the anchor here, the steady hand. You aren't supposed to be the one getting distracted by the curve of a spine or the sound of your name in someone's mouth.

But the memory of his skin under your palms lingers, a ghost sensation that refuses to fade.

Dinner is a quiet affair. Felix, still groggy from the massage and the medication, sits on the edge of the sofa rather than burying himself in the cushions. He eats slowly, picking at the grilled salmon and greens you’ve prepared, his movements lacking their usual fluidity. The pain has receded to a dull roar, manageable but present, a constant low-grade thrum that keeps him from fully relaxing.

He doesn’t look at you much. He stares at the television, some drama playing with the sound muted, his fingers tapping a nervous rhythm against his knee. Every time you lean in to refill his water glass or adjust the pillow behind his back, he tenses, just slightly—like a cat caught in a sudden draft. Somethings up with him. He seems sickly. Not in a pale way, but in a way where his skin is flushed, and his hoodie is draping over his upper thighs.

He seems cold, you reason, watching the way his shoulders give a subtle shiver despite the climate control humming steadily at a comfortable twenty-two degrees. It’s a common side effect of the medication—the muscle relaxants mess with thermoregulation, leaving him alternating between feverish sweats and chills that rattle his frame.

"Go put on another layer," you say gently, nodding toward the bedroom where the thicker sweats are. "Or I can get you a blanket from the closet."

"I'm okay," he mumbles, but he pulls the hoodie tighter around himself, his knuckles grazing the sharp line of his jaw. He doesn't look okay. He looks flushed, a high, fever-bright dusting of pink sitting high on his cheekbones that has nothing to do with the heating pad. His eyes are too bright, darting around the room before skittering away from yours whenever you try to catch his gaze. "Just... the AC is hitting me weird."

"Yeah?" You hum. And weirdly the moment your voice rasps? He shudders.

The sound is barely a whisper of friction—fabric sliding against fabric—but it makes the air in the room suddenly feel very thin. Felix doesn't look at you. He keeps his gaze fixed on some point on the floor, his jaw working furiously, the muscle jumping beneath the skin.

He shifts again, a restless, aborted movement of his hips. The hoodie puddles in his lap, doing a poor job of concealing the undeniable reaction of his body. The flush on his cheeks isn't from a chill anymore; it’s a dark, humiliating stain of crimson that spreads down his neck, disappearing into the collar of his t-shirt.

"Side effect," he breathes out, the words rushing together in a desperate, frantic jumble. "The muscle relaxants. One of the... one of the rare ones. Hypersensitivity. System overreacts. It happens. Just give me a minute."

"Look at me," you say. It’s not a request.

His breath hitches, a sharp, audible hitch that catches in his throat. He doesn't want to—every line of his body is screaming for him to retreat, to hide, to run—but that ingrained need for direction, for someone else to take the wheel when he’s spiraling, overrides his shame. Slowly, agonizingly, he lifts his head.

His eyes are shattered. The sunshine is gone, evaporated by a heat that has nothing to do with fever and everything to do with the sheer, overwhelming weight of whatever has been building between you for days. His pupils are blown wide, swallowing the warm brown, leaving just a thin ring of color around an abyss of need. He looks wrecked, terrified, and so incredibly vulnerable it makes your chest ache.

"You don't have to hide from me," you say, the words softer than you intend, lacking the sharp clinical edge you usually rely on. "I'm your nurse, Felix. I know what bodies do. I know what medication does. You don't have to be embarrassed."

He lets out a sound that’s caught somewhere between a sob and a bitter laugh, his head dropping back against the cushions, exposing the long, vulnerable line of his throat. "It's not the meds," he whispers, and the confession seems to cost him something vital. "It's not a side effect. It’s you."

The silence that follows isn't empty; it’s heavy, weighted with the sudden, irrevocable shift in the atmosphere. The air conditioning hums, the city glows beyond the glass, but none of it matters. The only thing that exists is the space between the couch and where you stand, and the terrified honesty hanging in the air.

He says it again, barely a whisper, like tearing the words off his tongue. “It’s you. It’s always been you, but here... God, it’s worse.”

You take a slow breath, grounding yourself, trying to find the professional line that has blurred so dangerously over the last forty-eight hours. He’s a patient. He’s in pain. He’s vulnerable. But looking at him—really looking at him—you see that the label patient is a shield you’re both hiding behind, and it’s disintegrating fast.

"You're in a high-stress situation," you say, though your voice lacks its usual clinical conviction. "You’re hurt, isolated, and your body is flooded with adrenaline and endorphins from the pain management. It’s a transference response, Felix. It’s common for patients to develop intense feelings for their—"

"I know what transference is!" he snaps, the sharpness surprising you both. He pushes himself up, ignoring the wince that flashes across his face, turning his body toward you. The hoodie lifts back up completely, leaving nothing to the imagination but the reality of his situation—the painful reality of how his body has betrayed him, but also the undeniable, undeniable need.

"Stop treating me like a case file!" he pleads, his voice cracking, wet and thick with unshed tears. He leans forward, bracing his hands on his knees, looking up at you with those wide, desperate eyes. "I know my body. I know what I feel. This isn't... this isn't gratitude for the heating pads. It’s not you making me feel better. It’s you. It’s the way you look at me, the way you speak to me, like I’m... like I’m something worth taking care of." Slowly, with each word, he sinks to his knees, very gently grasping your knees.

He doesn't bow his head. He keeps his gaze locked on yours, his chin tipped up in a gesture that’s halfway between defiance and a desperate offering. The angle pulls the skin tight across his collarbones, emphasizing the rapid, shallow flutter of his pulse.

"I'm going crazy," he whispers, the confession wet and thick. "You walk around here like you own the place. Like you own me. You tell me when to eat, when to sleep, how to breathe through the pain. And I just... I just let you. I want you to."

His fingers flex against your knees, not gripping, just resting there as if tethered to the only solid ground in a earthquake. "I tried to be good. I tried to be the patient you need me to be. But then you touch me, and you look at me with those eyes, and I can't pretend anymore. I don't want to pretend. I need... I need you to tell me what to do. Please. Just make it stop spinning."

You look down at him, really look at him, past the title of idol and the diagnosis of patient, and see the man unraveling at your feet. The air in the room feels thin, charged with a terrifying, electric current. This is the line you’ve been trained not to cross, the boundary drawn in black ink in every employee handbook you’ve ever read. But looking at Felix—seeing the way his hands tremble against your knees, the desperate, shattered honesty in his eyes—you realize that ink washed away days ago, somewhere between the midnight medication checks and the quiet, unguarded moments in the dim light of the apartment.

"You’re trembling," you say softly. It’s not a question.

"I can't stop," he admits, his voice cracking. "Everything feels too much. Too loud. Too bright. Except when you're close. Then it's just... you. Fuck, it aches. Make the ache go away. Not the herniated disk. Something different."

You reach out, your fingers threading through his hair. The strands are soft against your palm, damp at the roots with sweat. It’s a grounding touch, firm and possessive, meant to anchor him as much as it is to comfort yourself. You let your nails scratch gently against his scalp, and his eyes flutter shut. A broken, ragged exhale leaving his lips.

"Breathe," you command, your voice low but absolute.

He inhales sharply, his chest heaving, his hands gripping your knees tighter as if he’s afraid you’ll pull away. "I can't," he whimpers, the sound high and thin, stripping away the last vestiges of the idol he presents to the world. "It hurts. Y/N, please."

"I know," you say softly, your hand sliding from his hair to cup the side of his face. Your thumb brushes over the high arch of his cheekbone, wiping away a stray tear that has escaped. The skin is burning hot, a stark contrast to the cool authority in your voice. "But you’re going to listen to me. You’re going to do exactly as I say. Can you do that, Lix?"

The shift is instantaneous. The frantic energy in his body doesn't disappear, but it changes shape, molding itself to the command you’ve given him. He exhales a shuddering breath, his eyes fluttering shut as he leans into your palm, chasing the contact like a starved animal.

"Yes," he breathes, the word fracturing on a sob. "God, yes. Anything. Just... please, don't stop."

He leans into your hand, his face pressing hard against your palm, seeking friction, seeking reassurance, seeking an anchor in the storm of his own senses. It’s a devastating display of trust—a complete abdication of self-control. The boy who commands stadiums with a mere gesture is currently on his knees, waiting for your instruction.

"Good," you murmur, letting your thumb trace the line of his jaw, feeling the frantic, bird-like fluttering of his pulse beneath your fingertips. Your thumb drifts to the edge of his lower lip, spreading it open slightly. They are puffy, soft, and pink. Beautiful. He's still injured, you wanna keep that in mind, so instead of getting him to stand up, you kneel down. Not completely on your knees like him, but just enough to reach his face. You slowly lean in and let your lips press against his, a forbidden heat.

He doesn't pull away. He leans in, chasing the contact with a reckless abandon that makes your heart hammer against your ribs. His lips are softer than you imagined, moving with a frantic, clumsy urgency that betrays his inexperience in this specific dynamic. He’s trying to consume you, to anchor himself to you, but the angle is awkward, and he’s trembling so hard he’s vibrating.

You break the kiss, pulling back just enough to look him in the eye. Your hand slides from his cheek to the back of his neck, gripping the hair at his nape firmly—tight enough to hold him, not enough to hurt.

"Easy," you murmur, tightening your grip just enough to still the frantic trembling in his shoulders. "We aren't rushing this. I told you to follow my lead, remember?"

"Sorry," he gasps, his forehead dropping to rest against your shoulder. He’s breathing like he’s just run a marathon, shallow, ragged inhalations that ghost hot against your collarbone.

"You’re going to hurt yourself," you say, your voice low and steady against his temple. You don't let go of his hair; instead, you use the grip to tilt his head back, forcing him to look at you. "I’ve spent a week trying to get your muscles to unlock. I’m not going to let you undo it because you can’t control yourself."

The authority in your tone lands exactly where it’s meant to. He lets out a shuddering breath, his eyes fluttering, the frantic rhythm of his heart beating visibly against the hollow of his throat. He doesn't fight the hold on his hair. If anything, he leans into it, his body sagging forward as if the mere act of surrendering is enough to take the weight off his spine. You feel it too, because he's very subtly grinding against your thigh. You're just acting like you can't feel it.

"I'm sorry," he whispers again, though this time it sounds less like an apology and more like a prayer.

"Stop apologizing," you murmur, your thumb sweeping over the damp skin of his temple. Before he can open his mouth to speak again, you lower yourself to kiss at his nape, gently.

His reaction is visceral. A sharp, ragged gasp tears from his throat as your lips graze the sensitive skin of his nape, his body jerking in your grip as if he’s been struck by lightning rather than kissed. The hand fisted in the fabric of your pants tightens until his knuckles turn white, his head falling forward under the weight of your mouth, exposing more of his neck to your attention.

"God," he chokes out, the sound thin and desperate. "Y/N, please..."

"Please what?" you murmur against his skin, pressing another open-mouthed kiss just below his hairline, tasting the salt and the warmth of him. You feel the rapid thrum of his pulse against your lips, a frantic drumbeat that matches the trembling in his shoulders. "Use your words, Felix."

"Please touch me," he breathes, the words tumbling out in a rush, stripped of any dignity. "Not like a nurse. Just... touch me."

Your hand slides from his nape down the curve of his spine, tracing the ridge of bone through the thin fabric of his t-shirt. You feel the way his muscles jump and tremble under your fingertips, the tension singing like a wire pulled too tight. You’re careful to avoid the specific angry point of the herniation, but your authority over the rest of his body is absolute.

"I am touching you," you murmur against the warm skin of his neck, your teeth grazing the sensitive tendon there gently. He shudders, a full-body wave that rocks him forward on his knees.

"No," he gasps, the word breaking on a high, desperate note. "Not... not like that. I mean—God—please, Y/N."

His hands abandon their death grip on your pants, trembling fingers flying to the waistband of his sweatpants. He’s clumsy, frantic, his movements lacking any of his usual grace as he tries to shove the fabric down. It’s a struggle; the angle is awkward, and his coordination is shot to hell, but the desperation driving him is potent.

"I need," he chokes out, his face burning a fresh, violent crimson as he finally manages to push the material low enough to free himself. He almost sobs with relief, his head falling forward against your shoulder again, hot breath dampening the fabric of your shirt. "I need you to touch me here. I'm going to die if you don't."

"I think," you say, your voice steady and low, cutting through the frantic hum of the room, "that you can survive a few more minutes without rushing."

He lets out a sound that is half-sob, half-whine, burying his face harder against your shoulder. He’s vibrating, a taut wire of need vibrating against your body, but he freezes the second your tone shifts. It’s incredible, really—the way his body defers to your authority even when every nerve ending is screaming for release.

"I can't," he gasps, his hips giving an aborted, shallow thrust into the air, seeking friction that isn't there. "It hurts. Y/N, please."

"Yeah? 'Kay, get up for me then. I don't want you in this position for long. Especially no arching."

He moves to obey instantly, but his body betrays him. He pushes up from the floor, his thighs trembling violently, the shift in center of gravity sending a sharp spike of adrenaline through his system to combat the pain in his lower back. He sways, a sudden, dizzy lurch that has him reaching out blindly, his fingers scraping against the silk of your shirt.

"Easy," you murmur, stepping in closer to brace him. Your hands find his waist—not to steady him, but to possess him, thumbs pressing into the soft skin above his hip bones. "I’ve got you. Don't rush."

"Bed," he grits out, his eyes screwed shut against a wave of vertigo that has nothing to do with his inner ear. "Please. The bed."

He moves like a man walking a tightrope, each step a negotiation between gravity and the frantic screaming of his nerve endings. You don’t let him go it alone. You stay flush against his side, your hand a steady, grounding weight at the small of his back—careful to avoid the injured disc, but firm enough that he can feel the command behind the touch. You guide him through the living room, around the coffee table, past the floor-to-ceiling windows where the Shanghai skyline watches in silent judgment.

When his knees hit the edge of the mattress, he sags forward, the fight leaving his legs all at once. You catch him, your hands shifting to his shoulders, steadying him.

"Easy," you murmur again, the word a reflex now. "Sit. Slowly. Then lay flat for me, completely."

He obeys, his body moving with the heavy, unresisting weight of surrender. He sinks onto the edge of the mattress, the compression of the springs under his weight seeming to take the last of his strength with it. You keep a hand on his shoulder, grounding him, guiding him through the transition until his back meets the mattress and he lets out a growl as the tension finally leaves his spine.

"Flat," you remind him, your voice firm but lacking any harshness. "Don’t arch. Let the bed hold you."

He nods, a jerky, frantic motion, and presses his shoulders into the duvet, staring up at the ceiling with eyes that are wide, wet, and blown black with need. The city lights from the window paint him in streaks of neon gold and electric blue, casting his flushed skin in a surreal, almost otherworldly glow. He looks like a sacrifice laid out on an altar—beautiful, broken, and entirely yours.

The flush on his skin has deepened to a dark, feverish crimson, highlighting the sheen of sweat that clings to his collarbones. His sweatpants are still shoved down awkwardly around his thighs, leaving his cock exposed—flushed dark red, curving hard against his stomach, leaking a steady stream of pre-come onto his pale skin.

He looks wrecked. He looks desperate.

You climb onto the bed, moving carefully to avoid jostling the mattress too much, and settle beside his hip. You don’t touch him yet. You just look, letting your gaze drag over the frantic rise and fall of his chest, down the trembling lines of his abs, to where he’s so hard it looks painful.

"Please," he chokes out, his voice cracking. "Don't just look at it. I feel like I'm going to explode."

"Patience," you murmur, though your own control is hanging by a thread. You reach out, finally wrapping your hand around the thick, heated length of him.

He cries out, his hips bucking off the mattress instinctively, seeking more friction. Your grip is firm, anchoring him, holding him steady as his back bows slightly.

"Hey." You speak, tone sharper now. "Love, I told you. I don't want you arching. Please try to relax. I'm serious."

"Sorry," he gasps, his entire body shaking with the effort of forcing his hips back down against the mattress. "I’m sorry, it just—it feels so much, I can’t—"

"Shh," you soothe, your grip tightening just enough to let him know you’re in control, that you can handle the force of what he’s feeling even if he can’t. "Just let me take care of it."

You start to move your hand, slow and deliberate. You don't rush. You drag your fist up the length of him, twisting your wrist slightly over the head to smear the slick pre-come around the sensitive skin. He’s hot and heavy in your palm, the pulse of his heartbeat hammering against your fingers.

"Won't do." You tsk, licking the palm of your hand before getting on your knees afront the frame, spreading his legs without a word and spitting the mix of saliva and pre-cum back onto his cock.

"Look at that," you murmur, the crude sound of your spit hitting his flushed skin shockingly loud in the quiet room. "So much easier now." You smirk before sinking down onto his cock without warning, letting your tongue swirl around the angry head. Before Felix can arch up again, you slide your hand up and press it firmly against his stomach -- a reminder.

The pressure of your hand against his lower abdomen is a command he can't ignore. It anchors his hips to the mattress, forcing him to take the sensation without being able to chase it. A broken, ragged sob tears from his throat as your mouth sinks down, hot and wet, engulfing him in a tight, slick heat that makes his eyes roll back in his head.

"Oh god, oh fuck," he chants, his hands flying out to grip the sheets, knuckles turning white as he fights the instinct to buck up into your mouth. "Y/N, your mouth... it's so good, it's too much..."

You don't let up. You set a rhythm that is devastatingly slow, your tongue swirling around the sensitive head before you take him deep again, relaxing your throat to take him as far as you can. You can feel the heavy, thick weight of him on your tongue, taste the salt and the musk of him, and it makes your own body clench with a sympathetic ache. But you don't rush. This isn't about getting off; it's about ownership. It's about showing him exactly who he belongs to right now.

You pull off slowly, letting your lips drag along the sensitive underside of his shaft before releasing him with a wet, audible pop. A string of saliva connects your mouth to the flushed, angry head of his cock before breaking, landing on the dark little pricks of hair trailing down his navel. Freshly shaved, but the bumps still show.

Felix lets out a sound that’s half-groan, half-whimper, his head thrashing against the pillows. "No," he gasps, his hips twitching uselessly under the weight of your restraining hand. "Don't stop, please, why did you stop?"

"Because I want to hear you," you say, your voice husky but commanding. You shift your weight, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand while your eyes rake over him. He’s a mess—sweat-slicked, chest heaving, his cock lying hard and heavy against his stomach, twitching with every rapid beat of his heart. "You've been quiet all week, Felix. Hiding behind that polite little smile. Not anymore. I want to know exactly what this feels like."

"I want you to tell me," you repeat, your voice dropping to a dangerous, silky register. You shift your hand from his stomach, sliding it down to his thigh, urging him to spread his legs wider for you. He obeys instantly, knees falling apart, leaving himself completely open and exposed. "I want you to tell me how badly you need this."

"I need it," he gasps, the words ripped from his chest. "I need it so much it hurts. It feels like I'm burning alive. Please, do something, anything, just don't stop."

"Good boy," you murmur, and the praise washes over him like a physical touch. He lets out a shuddering breath, his eyes fluttering shut as a fresh wave of tears leaks from the corners.

"Look at me," you command, reaching up to tap his cheek with your free hand, the gesture sharp enough to cut through the haze of pleasure. "Eyes open, Felix. I want you to watch."

He forces his eyelids open, his gaze heavy and unfocused, locking onto yours. His eyes are swimming with tears, the brown almost entirely swallowed by the black of his pupils. The trust in them is absolutely devastating.

"I'm going to make you come," you state, your voice leaving no room for argument. "And you’re going to take it exactly how I give it to you. You aren't going to move those hips. You aren't going to try to rush me. You’re going to lie there and let me take you, understand?"

"Yes," he breathes, the word cracking on a sob. "I understand. I will. I promise."

"Good."

You don't give him another warning. You lower your head again, but this time you don't go for the slow, teasing build-up. You take him deep in one smooth, deliberate motion, your tongue flattening against the underside of his shaft as you sink down until he hits the back of your throat.

"F-fuck!" The curse tears out of him, raw and loud, echoing off the high ceilings of the apartment.

His hands fly to your hair, his fingers tangling in the strands, but he remembers the command. He doesn't pull; he just holds on, his grip tight and trembling, anchoring himself as you begin to move in earnest.

You hollow your cheeks, increasing the suction, and the noise that tears from his throat is somewhere between a sob and a moan. It’s a broken, desperate sound that makes your own cunt throb, but you don’t let up. You establish a rhythm that is wet and filthy—your fist gripping the base of him, twisting in time with the bob of your head, the sound of your mouth working him loud and shameless in the quiet room.

"God, oh god, Y/N," he chokes out, his head thrashing against the pillows. "Your mouth... it's so fucking wet, I can't—please."

He’s leaking steadily now, the taste of him salty and bitter on your tongue. You can feel him getting closer, the heavy, thick length of him twitching in your grip, the vein on the underside pulsing rapidly against your lips. You pull off for just a second to catch your breath, spitting onto his cock again, mixing your saliva with his pre-come to make the glide slicker, messier.

"Look at the mess you're making, Lix," you murmur, your voice thick and husky, barely rising above the wet, obscene sounds of your hand working him. You slick the fluid down his length, your grip tightening until his hips twitch threateningly against the mattress. "So desperate for it you're dripping all over yourself."

"Can't help it," he whines, his head thrown back, the column of his throat exposed and glistening with sweat. "Feels too good. You make me feel so much, I can't hold it back."

"Then don't," you command, your tone dropping into that dark, dominant register that makes his breath hitch. "Stop holding back. I want to see you lose it. Infact? Let me give you something better." You slowly start to rise from your knees, reaching for your belt. He can already see where this is going.

The metallic clink of your buckle seems deafening in the quiet room, cutting through the ragged sound of Felix's breathing. His eyes snap open, locking onto you with an intensity that’s almost frightening. He watches, transfixed, as you unfasten your trousers and push them down, followed by your underwear, stepping out of them efficiently.

There’s no teasing now. The dynamic has shifted from a slow burn to a roaring blaze.

"Spread your legs wider," you order, climbing back onto the bed. "Make room for me."

He scrambles to obey, his movements clumsy and uncoordinated, his breath catching in his throat as he fights to keep his spine flat against the mattress. He parts his thighs until his knees are nearly touching the sheets, opening himself up to you completely. The vulnerability of the position makes him shiver, his cock twitching where it lies flushed and heavy against his stomach.

"Good," you murmur, crawling over him. You position yourself between his legs, being careful not to put too much of your weight on his lower body, but enough that he can feel the press of your hips against the insides of his thighs. "You’re doing so well for me."

The praise makes a fresh tear track down his temple, disappearing into his hairline. He’s so overwhelmed he can hardly speak, his mouth open slightly as he pants for air.

"Wait, need to support your back first." You strip of your sweater and roll it up into a flat cylinder, laying it on his natural arch. Felix is drooling. He's never seen something so attractive before.

"This goes right under your hips," you instruct, your tone brokering no argument, despite the desire thickening the air. "Lift up for me. Just a little."

He obeys instantly, his abdominal muscles clenching as he lifts his pelvis off the mattress. You slide the rolled sweater beneath him, positioning it carefully to support the curve of his spine and relieve the pressure on his lumbar disc. The elevation also has the added effect of tilting his hips up, leaving him even more exposed, his flushed cock lying heavy against his stomach, his balls drawing up tight in anticipation.

"Does that feel better?" you ask, your hands smoothing over his hips to settle him into the new position.

"Mhm" Felix breathes out, the relief in his voice audible even through the haze of his arousal. The tension in his lower back seems to unspool slightly, his muscles melting into the support you created. But his eyes are still wild, fixed on you with a hunger that borders on desperation. "Baby."

You lean over him, bracing your hands on either side of his head. The position brings your bodies close, your breasts hovering just above his chest, but the contact remains maddeningly indirect. You dip your head, kissing the corner of his mouth, tasting the salt of his tears and the heat of his breath.

"Impatient," you murmur against his lips, a smile curling the corners of your mouth. "But you’ve been good. So I suppose you’ve earned it."

You shift your weight, one arm bracing beside his head while the other reaches between your bodies. Your fingers slide through the wetness between your own thighs, gathering the slick arousal that has been building slowly, insidiously, ever since you woke to him kneeling at your feet.

Felix watches with wide, dark eyes, his breath hitching as he realizes what you’re doing. "You're...," he whispers, the words trailing off into a groan as you bring your hand down to wrap around his cock again, coating him in your wetness.

"Hush," you murmur, using the fluid to slick him up, mixing his taste with yours. Your hand glides easily now, the friction reduced to a devastatingly smooth slide that makes his hips jerk against the support of the rolled sweater. "Just breathe. I'm going to take care of you."

"Keep breathing," you murmur against his lips, the command a soft exhale that ghosts over his mouth. You don't give him time to anticipate, to tense up. You shift your hips, lining him up with your entrance, and begin to sink down.

The stretch is immediate, a thick, burning pressure that steals the air from your lungs. He’s big—bigger than you expected, the head of his cock flaring wide as you press down, forcing your body to accommodate him. You go slow, agonizingly slow, letting your weight do the work, feeling every inch of him as he breaches you, sliding deep into the wet, clutching heat of your cunt.

"Oh, fuck!" Felix cries out, his head snapping back against the pillows, his throat exposed in a long, pale line of tension. His hands fly to your waist, his grip bruisingly tight, fingers digging into your skin as if he needs to hold on to keep from shattering apart.

The sound he makes is guttural, a broken noise that vibrates against your chest. You don't stop until you’ve taken him to the hilt, your thighs flush against his hips. The fullness is intense, a heavy, stretching pressure that borders on too much, but the wet heat of him inside you is undeniable.

"Relax," you moan lightly, seeing the way his jaw is clenched tight, his eyes screwed shut as if he's in pain. You brace your hands on his chest, feeling the frantic hammering of his heart against your palms. "Let me in, Lix. Don't fight it."

"I'm not fighting," he gasps, his voice thin and reedy. "It's just—you're so tight. And you feel so good. I can't—" He breaks off with a shuddering breath, his hips giving a tiny, abortive thrust upward, seeking more friction, more depth.

"Stay still," you remind him, your tone firm despite the breathless quality of your voice. You give a slow, experimental roll of your hips, grinding down onto him, and the noise that tears from his throat is pure sin.

"Jesus," he chokes out, his back arching instinctively before he forces it flat against the makeshift support, his abdominal muscles rippling with the effort of maintaining the position. "You're... you're milking me. I can feel you clenching around me."

"You feel it too, then," you murmur, starting to move. You don't bounce—that would be too much jarring for his back. Instead, you roll your hips in slow, deep waves, grinding down onto him until your clit drags against his pelvic bone, sending shockwaves of pleasure up your spine. "Fuuuck." You moan.

The rhythm is hypnotic, a filthy, wet glide that fills the room with the sound of skin meeting skin. Every roll of your hips pulls a broken sound from his throat, his hands gripping your waist so hard you know you’ll have bruises tomorrow. You welcome the idea of them—marks of ownership, proof that he was yours in this moment.

"Look at us," you command breathlessly, reaching down to cover one of his hands with yours, lacing your fingers together and pinning it to the mattress beside his head. "Look how well you take it."

The shift in angle sends a jolt through you both. By pinning his hand, you’ve forced yourself to lean forward, changing the depth of his thrusts inside you. Now, every slow grind of your hips drags the head of his cock directly against that sensitive, aching spot deep inside your cunt.

You ride him with a deliberate, rolling rhythm that’s less about speed and more about pressure—using your internal muscles to grip him, to squeeze and release in time with the rotation of your hips. It’s a mastery of motion that leaves him gasping, his mouth falling open in a silent, wide 'O' as his eyes flutter and struggle to stay open.

"I said look, Felix," you grit out, your own breath hitching as a particularly deep grind sends a shockwave of pleasure up your spine. You squeeze his hand where you have it pinned, grounding him. "Keep your eyes on mine."

His eyes snap open, the brown almost entirely eclipsed by black, his pupils blown so wide it’s like staring into an abyss.

"I am," he gasps, his voice barely recognizable, stripped down to a raw, broken rasp. "I'm looking. I swear, Y/N, I'm looking."

"Good," you breathe, the word hitching in your throat as you grind down particularly hard, feeling the thick head of his cock drag against your walls. "Because I want you to see exactly who’s fucking you right now. You look so good like this. All needy for me, yeah? Don't think I've ever been this turned on before." You laugh. "Wanna hear me this time? Hm? Want me to get loud for you, Lix?"

The question barely leaves your lips before you decide to answer it yourself. You straighten your spine, bracing your hands on his chest—feeling the hammering of his heart against your palms—and begin to move with intent. You abandon the slow, torturous grinding for a rhythm that is deeper, filthier, designed to drag high, broken sounds out of both of you.

The change in pace is electric.

"Oh my god—yes," Felix gasps, his eyes squeezing shut as the new angle sends a shockwave through him. "Yes, just like that. Fuck, don't stop."

Sweat drips from your hairline onto his chest, mingling with the sheen already coating his skin. The room smells of sex and salt, a primal, musky scent that clings to the back of your throat. You can feel the coil in your own belly tightening, a hot, heavy weight that demands satisfaction. The friction against your clit is maddening, every roll of your hips sending sparks skittering up your spine.

"I'm not stopping," you grit out, your voice ragged. You squeeze your inner walls around him, a deliberate, rhythmic clenching that makes his eyes roll back in his head. "Not until you fall apart for me."

The words seem to undo him completely. His control snaps.

The snap is audible in the way his breath hitches—a sharp, desperate intake of air that sounds more like a sob than breathing. His hands leave your waist, flying up to grip your forearms where they brace against his chest, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. He isn't guiding you anymore; he’s just holding on, his knuckles white, his entire body vibrating like a plucked string.

"I can't," he gasps, his head thrashing against the pillows, his eyes squeezing shut as if trying to block out the intensity of the pleasure crashing over him. "It's too much, Y/N, I'm gonna—I'm gonna—"

"No," you cut him off sharply, your voice cracking like a whip through the haze of the room. You slow your hips just enough to make him whine, a high, frustrated sound that vibrates against your palms, but you don't stop the relentless, grinding pressure that keeps him right on the edge. "You don't get to rush. You take what I give you."

"Breathe through it," you command, your voice dropping an octave, rough with your own rising pleasure but steady enough to anchor him. You press your hands flat against his chest, feeling the rabbit-fast thud of his heart against your palms. "I said take it, Felix. Don't you dare come until I say so."

"I can't," he sobs, his head thrown back, the cords of his neck standing out in sharp relief. "It's too much, you're so deep, please—"

"You can," you correct him, leaning forward to change the angle. The shift presses the base of his cock against your clit, sending a jolt of electricity up your spine that forces a sharp gasp from your own throat.

The cry he lets out is raw, but the way his body jerks beneath you tells you everything you need to know. He loves it. He loves the loss of control, the feeling of being held down by someone stronger, someone steady. He loves that the only thing he has to do is feel.

But you can feel his control fraying, the trembling in his thighs intensifying as the coil in his belly winds tighter. His hips are twitching, fighting the urge to buck up into you, his breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps.

"Too much," he whines, his head tossing against the pillows. "Y/N, I'm going to—if you keep doing that, I'm gonna—"

"You aren't going anywhere," you interrupt him, your voice dropping an octave, rough and possessive. You dig your nails in slightly, scratching down his chest, leaving red welts in the wake of your touch. "And you definitely aren't coming until I say so."

He lets out a shattered moan, his back arching off the mattress, but the support of the sweater keeps him safe, keeps the pressure off his spine even as he writhes. "Please... I can't... it's too good..."

"You can," you correct him ruthlessly, leaning forward to change the angle once more. The shift presses your weight down against him, and you deliberately drag your pebbled buds against his bare, sweat-slicked skin, the friction of the skin over his sensitive nipples making him gasp.

"Ah!" His back tries to bow, but the support holds him firm, leaving him nowhere to go. "Sensitive... too sensitive..."

"Good," you murmur. You reach up with one hand, still rolling your hips in that maddening, deep rhythm, and pinch his left nipple between your thumb and forefinger—hard.

The reaction is instantaneous. His whole body bows taut as a drawn wire, a sharp cry tearing from his throat. His hips jerk up against the support, driving him deeper inside you for a split second before you bear your weight down, pinning him immobile.

"Sensitive, huh?" you murmur, your thumb circling the tight, reddened nub. You don't let up; you roll it, catching the tip of his nipple between your fingers and giving it a sharp, calculated tug.

"Ah! Fuck, fuck, wait—!" Felix gasps, his hands flying from your arms to your wrists, not to push you away, but to grip you hard, his knuckles turning white. His eyes are squeezed shut, tears leaking from the corners to track into his hairline. "It burns, oh my god, it feels like—like electricity—"

"You like it when it burns," you accuse softly, your hips slowing to a devastating grind that forces him to feel every thick inch of you stretching him. "I can feel you getting harder inside me, Lix. Don't lie to me."

He lets out a sob, his head thrashing. "I do... I do like it, please, don't stop..."

"Then stop whining and take it," you snap, though there’s no real heat in it, only a dark, delicious command. You release his nipple, watching the reddened skin glisten with his sweat, and sit up straighter, breaking the contact of your chest against his. The loss of warmth makes him whine low in his throat, his hips shifting restlessly on the makeshift support.

You start reaching out to the bedside table where the hotel staff had left a silver ice bucket and a crystal decanter of water hours ago. The condensation on the silver metal is cold, beading and dripping.

Felix’s eyes go wide, a flash of panic cutting through the haze of arousal. He tracks your hand as you dip your fingers into the melting ice. "What... what are you doing?"

"Temperature, Felix," you say, your voice deceptively light, belying the dark thrill rushing through your veins. You fish out a single ice cube, holding it up between your fingers. The water clings to your skin, cold and contrasting sharply with the stifling heat of the room. "Since your back is acting up, I thought we’d try a little contrast therapy. It’s good for inflammation, isn't it?"

He swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing violently. "That’s... that's not what physical therapy usually looks like."

"We’re improvising," you tease. "Keep your hips still. If you move, the ice goes somewhere you won't like. Understood?"

The threat hangs in the air, heavy and intoxicating. Felix’s breath hitches, his eyes wide and locked on the glistening cube in your hand. The contrast between the freezing chill of the ice and the scorching heat of his skin is a physical charge you can feel from where you hover above him.

"Understood?" you repeat, your voice dropping to a whisper that feels like a touch against his lips.

"Yes," he breathes, the word trembling. "Yes, I understand. I won't move. I swear."

"Good."

Without preamble, you lower the ice cube to his chest. You place it directly on his right nipple; the one you haven’t touched yet.

The reaction is violent. His entire body jerks, a sharp hiss tearing through his clenched teeth as the freezing water meets the overheated, sensitive skin. His hands fly to your hips, gripping hard enough to bruise, but he remembers your command. He forces his hips down, his abdominal muscles rippling with the effort to stay still as the ice begins to melt, the cold water trickling down the curve of his pec.

"Shh," you hush him softly, dragging the ice cube in a slow, agonizing circle around the taut peak. The contrast is brutal—the sharp, biting cold of the ice against the feverish, sweat-slicked heat of his skin. His breath hisses through his teeth, a jagged intake of air that sounds like pain, but the way his cock kicks inside you tells a different story. "Just breathe through it. You wanted help with the inflammation, didn't you?"

"It's c-cold," he stammers, his voice trembling violently. His chest heaves under your touch, his muscles twitching as the freezing water trails off his nipple and runs down the side of his ribcage, leaving a glistening wet path in its wake. "Christ, it burns... it feels like it's biting me."

"But look how pretty you look when you shiver," you murmur, captivated by the sight of him. His skin is flushing a deep, mottled red wherever the ice has been, the blood rushing to the surface in a desperate attempt to warm the area. You press the cube flat against his chest, right over his racing heart, holding it there until he whines, his head falling back as his chest arches involuntarily into the chill. "So responsive. Every nerve ending in your body is awake right now, isn't it?"

"That's it," you coo, watching the flush spread across his chest like ink in water, the cold shocking his system while his insides burn with the heat of your body. "Let me see you."

You slide the melting cube further down, leaving a glistening wet trail over the ridges of his abdomen. His muscles jump and twitch under the freezing touch, a visceral reaction he can't control. You trace the line of his hip, careful to avoid the strained muscles of his lower back, teasing the sensitive skin right above his pubic bone.

"Y/N, please," he gasps, his hips rocking involuntarily against the sweater support. "It's too cold... it's too much..."

"Shh," you hush him again, though the sound is more gloating than comforting. "It’s only too much because you’re fighting it. Stop thinking. Just feel."

The ice cube is shrinking rapidly in your hand, melting into a slippery, numbing sliver. You glide it lower, right to the neat-shaven skin, leading down from his navel. Felix’s abdominal muscles contract violently, his stomach caving in on itself as the cold water dribbles over his heated skin, pooling in his belly button before spilling over onto the sheets.

"Please," he chokes out, his head thrashing against the pillows. "It’s going to make me—It’s too intense, I’m gonna lose it."

"You aren't going to lose it," you correct, your voice steady and low, cutting through his panic. "You're going to hold it together because I told you to."

You discard the tiny, remaining sliver of ice onto the bedside table, shaking the freezing water from your fingers. But before the heat of his skin can fully return, you lean down and press your open mouth over the wet path you’ve created.

"Oh—!" Felix’s back tries to arch off the bed, a violent, full-body shudder ripping through him as the heat of your tongue meets the chilled, sensitive skin of his stomach. The contrast is shocking—your mouth is a wet, furnace against the lingering cold, and the sensation sends a jolt of electricity straight to his cock. You feel him throb inside you, a heavy, desperate pulse that makes your own walls clench in response.

You hum against his skin, the vibration traveling straight through his damp flesh, savoring the way his entire body shudders beneath you. You lick a hot stripe up his stomach, chasing the melting droplets, your tongue contrasting sharply with the lingering chill of the ice. You can feel the way his abdominal muscles flutter and jump under your touch, desperate to escape the intensity, but the weight of your body and the support beneath him pin him in place, forcing him to endure every second of it.

"Let me fuck you hard now. Make you cum all over me."

"Brace yourself," you warn, your voice dropping to a low, dark growl that vibrates against his sternum. You pull back just enough to get the leverage you need, planting your hands firmly on his sweat-slicked chest. "And don't you dare take your eyes off me."

You don't give him a moment to prepare. You lift your hips until just the head of him remains inside you, teasing the sensitive rim, before slamming back down. The sound of skin meeting skin is loud, a wet, sharp slap that echoes through the high-ceilinged room, followed immediately by Felix’s ragged shout.

"Oh, god—yes!"

The pace you set is merciless. You use your thighs to drive yourself down onto him, taking him to the hilt with every thrust, the wet slap of skin against skin filling the room. The support of the rolled sweater keeps his lower back safe, but it also forces him to feel the full brunt of your weight, the depth of the penetration inescapable.

"Look at you," you grit out, riding him through the aftershocks of his own sensitivity. "Falling apart just like I knew you would. So pretty when you're desperate."

His eyes are locked on yours, wide and wet and unblinking, as if he’s terrified that if he looks away, this—whatever this is—will vanish. He’s hypnotized by the sway of your breasts above him, by the sheen of sweat coating your collarbones, by the dark, possessive look in your eyes that promises he won't leave this bed until you've completely wrecked him.

The rhythm you set is brutal, a ceaseless, driving cadence that leaves him gasping, his mouth open in a silent whumper as he struggles to process the overload of sensation. You aren't making love to him; you’re taking him, using his body to chase your own end, and the sheer force of your dominance is unraveling him by the second.

"Is this what you needed?" you demand, your voice breathless but sharp, cutting through the wet slap of skin. You punctuate the question with a particularly hard roll of your hips, grinding down against him, feeling the thick head of his cock drag against every sensitive inch of your walls. "To be taken? To be used?"

His only response is a choked, guttural moan, his fingers digging into your thighs with bruising force, trying to ground himself against the overwhelming intensity of what you're doing to him. His hips jerk up, a helpless, instinctual response to the sensation of you taking him so deeply, but you push him back down, maintaining control.

"Ah, ah," you chide, your hands gripping his chest harder, your nails biting into his skin. "I said don't move."

Your orgasm builds fast and hard, a molten heat that pools low in your belly and spreads through your veins like wildfire. You can feel it in the flush that creeps up your chest, in the tight peaks of your nipples, in the way your breath hitches with each thrust.

"Come on," you growl, leaning down to scrape your teeth against his ear, relishing in the shudder that racks through him at the sensation. "Cum for me. Let me feel it."

His entire body seizes up, his cock jerking inside you as he finally gives in to the overwhelming pressure that’s been building since the moment he first touched you. His hands grip your thighs tightly enough to bruise as he holds himself there, his hips bucking up involuntarily as his orgasm tears through him.

You don’t let up, not even as he sobs through his release, his body shaking and trembling underneath you. You keep the rhythm steady, using him through the last waves of his pleasure, your own orgasm still just out of reach.

"Fuck, yes," you hiss, feeling him spasm inside you, his hot spend filling you as you take him relentlessly, chasing your own end. "Just like that. Cum for me, baby. Fuck, you feel so good."

His eyes flutter closed, overwhelmed, but you won’t allow it. You need him to see you, to know it’s you making him feel this way. "Look at me," you demand, sharp enough to cut through the haze of his pleasure. "I want you to see me when I cum on you."

His lashes flutter open, his eyes finding yours through the post-orgasmic fog, and the sight of him so completely undone by his release is what finally sends you over the edge. You come with a cry, your walls clenching and fluttering around him, milking the last of his spend from him.

You collapse forward, your forehead resting on his chest as you try to catch your breath, your heart pounding in your ears. Your body feels liquid, boneless, and you can't help but grin at the sheer satisfaction of what just happened.

He's breathing hard beneath you, his chest rising and falling rapidly under your ear. You can feel his heart pounding, a frantic, almost frightened rhythm that tells you just how overwhelmed he is.

"Feel good?" you murmur against his skin, already knowing the answer. His cock is still inside you, twitching with the aftershocks, and you can feel the way his muscles are jumping and quivering, overstimulated and sensitive.

When he doesn't answer, just lets out a shuddering exhale, you lift your head to look at him. His eyes are closed, his face a mask of pleasure so intense it borders on pain. You feel a surge of possessiveness at the sight, knowing you’re the one who did this to him.

Without pulling off him completely, you start to rock your hips again, grinding down onto his semi-hard cock. He lets out a strangled sound, somewhere between a gasp and a moan, and his hands fly to your hips, his fingers digging in.

"Wait—" he starts, but you cut him off.

"Don't tell me you can't go again," you tease, lifting up until just the tip of him is inside you before sinking back down.

"I—" Felix gasps, his head pressing back into the mattress, his throat working as he swallows hard. "I didn't think—"

"You didn't think," you finish for him, shifting your weight so you are bracketing his hips with your thighs, trapping him. "That’s the problem, isn't it? You’re so used to pushing, to forcing your body through the pain for the stage. But right now, you don't have to think. You just have to take it."

You kneel between his parted legs, running your hands slowly up his inner thighs, feeling the muscles tense and jump beneath your palms. He watches you with a mix of desperation and awe, his lips parted as if he wants to speak, but no sound comes out.

"Shh," you murmur, leaning forward to press a soft, lingering kiss to the hinge of his jaw. "You've done enough thinking, Felix. Tonight, you just feel."

You shift your weight, moving with deliberate, agonizing slowness until your breasts hover just inches above his straining length. The anticipation alone is enough to make him whimper, his hands clenching into fists at his sides as he fights the urge to reach out and touch you without permission.

"Look at me," you command softly.

He obeys instantly, his dark eyes locking onto yours. You maintain that contact as you lower your chest, letting the soft weight of your breasts slide against the heated, sensitive skin of his shaft. The sensation makes his hips buck instinctively, a sharp intake of air hissing through his teeth.

You begin to move. It’s a maddening, fluid rhythm—the slow slide of your soft skin against his rigid length. You press your breasts together, enveloping him completely in a warm, intoxicating embrace. The friction is exquisite, a slick, slow glide that has him tearing at the sheets, toes curling.

You maintain that torturously slow dance, watching the way his abs contract violently with every drag of your skin against him. His head is thrown back, the cords of his neck standing out, exposing the vulnerable line of his throat.

"P-please," he chokes out, his voice cracking. "Faster... it's too much... I can't..."

"Too much?" you murmur, tilting your head. You press your breasts tighter around him, intentionally slowing the pace even further until the movement is barely a grind. "You perform for thousands of people, Felix. You dance for hours on end. Surely you have a little more stamina than this?"

He whines, a broken, needy sound that goes straight to your own arousal. "I can't... I'm going to... it's too slow, I can't take it..."

"Quite, Lix. You'll be fine."

You relish the way his composure fractures, the famous idol persona completely dissolved by the slow, agonizing drag of your soft skin against his most sensitive nerves. He’s leaking steadily now, the fluid smoothing the path between your breasts, making the glide wetter and hotter, but you refuse to increase the tempo.

"Look at it," you command softly, glancing down to where his flushed, angry-red cock disappears and reappears from the valley of your cleavage. "Look at what you're doing for me. So hard it hurts, doesn't it?"

"It does... please, it hurts so good..." He whines

"Tell me what you need," you prompt, though you have no intention of giving it to him quickly. You keep the slow, torturous rhythm, watching the flush spread from his chest all the way to his cheekbones. "Use your words."

"I need..." He gasps, his eyes squeezing shut as you drag your chest downward, the tip of his cock just barely grazing your chin before you slide back up. "I need to come. Please. I feel like I'm going to explode."

"Explode," you repeat thoughtfully, a dark amusement curling in your stomach. You finally, mercifully, lean forward, flicking your tongue over the head of his cock as it emerges from your cleavage. The taste of him—salt and musk and pure need—is heady.

The mere flick of your tongue over his sensitive slit is like a match to gasoline. His whole body bows off the mattress, a broken cry tearing from his throat as his hips snap upward, seeking more friction, more warmth, more of you.

You shift slightly, changing the angle. The heavy warmth of your breasts slides away from him, leaving his cock twitching desperately in the cool air, wet and flushed from your earlier attentions. He whines at the loss of contact, his hips bucking up into nothingness, searching for friction.

"Patience," you remind softly, pressing a hand flat against his lower abdomen to pin him to the mattress. "We’re going to focus right here."

Your index finger extends, hovering just millimeters from the crown of his cock. You can see the frantic pulse of his heartbeat in the thick vein running along the underside of his shaft.

You start with a single, featherlight tap against the slick, weeping slit.

Felix cries out, his back bowing off the mattress as if he’s been shocked. It’s barely a touch, just the pad of your finger grazing the most sensitive bundle of nerves he has, but to his overwrought system, it’s lightning.

"Shhh," you soothe, not stopping the movement. "Just the tip, remember? That's all you get." (LMAOAOAO just the tip..)

You keep the rhythm maddeningly inconsistent—sometimes a firm press, other times a whisper-soft graze that has him gasping for air. The pad of your finger circles the flushed head, gathering the pearlescent beading of moisture that leaks continuously from him. You use it as lubrication, swirling the slick fluid around the hypersensitive rim until his entire length is trembling.

You wrap your hand firmly around the base of his shaft, anchoring him completely. Your grip is possessive and tight, restricting the flow of blood just enough to make the head of his cock darken to an angry, desperate purple.

Without warning, you bring your other hand up. The pad of your thumb—calloused and precise—presses flat against his weeping slit. You hold his gaze, watching the moment the realization hits him, right before you start to rub your thumb in circles.

The motion is relentless—a staccato, flicking rhythm directly against the frenulum, targeting that tiny, electric bundle of nerves with ruthless precision.

Felix lets out a sound that isn't even a word, just a high-pitched, shattered keen. His hips try to snap upward, seeking more of the friction, but your grip on his base is iron-clad, pinning him to the mattress. He is entirely at your mercy.

"You're so sensitive right here," you murmur, your eyes locked on the slick, flushed head of his cock. You increase the speed just a fraction, flicking your thumb back and forth over the slit in a blur of motion. "Just a little button, so easy to play with. Isn't it?"

The stimulation is too precise, too overwhelming. The rapid flicking of your thumb against his slit sends electric shocks racing up his spine, short-circuiting his ability to do anything but feel. He’s gasping, mouth open wide, his chest heaving as he struggles to draw in oxygen.

"I—stop, I can’t, it’s—fuck!" he screams, his body seizing up as the friction teeters right on the knife-edge of pleasure and agony. "It’s too much, please, I’m gonna—"

"Let it go," you order, your voice dark and commanding. You don't stop the motion of your thumb, maintaining that ruthless, vibrating speed against the most sensitive part of him. "Make a mess for me."

The command breaks him.

With a hoarse, broken cry that tears at his throat, Felix’s entire body goes rigid as a bowstring. The rapid, torturous flicking of your thumb against his slit pushes him violently over the edge, and he explodes.

It's intense—a sudden, overwhelming rush that hits him like a freight train. Thick, hot ropes of cum strip from his pulsing tip, shooting out with enough force to paint your skin in chaotic, erotic arcs. The first heavy spurts land high on your chest, splattering across your cleavage and dripping instantly down the curve of your breast.

The release is violent, wracking his body with shuddering aftershocks that leave him gasping for air, his chest heaving violently. The wet warmth coats your skin, a visceral, possessive mark that gleams under the soft lights of the bedroom.

But you don't stop.

Even as he’s pulsing through the last waves of his orgasm, your thumb keeps flicking—relentless, rapid, circling the hypersensitive slit with torturous precision. The sensation shifts instantly from ecstasy to overstimulation, a sharp, electric jolt that makes him sob.

The overstimulation is immediate and devastating. Your thumb doesn't let up, maintaining that rapid, flicking rhythm against the now-hypersensitive slit.

Felix actually screams. It’s a raw, ragged sound that tears from his throat as his body tries to curl in on itself to escape the sensation, but your grip on his base prevents him from retreating. His hands fly to your wrists, not to push you away, but simply to hold on, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise as he rides out the painful pleasure.

"Too much! Fuck, it's too much, please, I can't—" he babbles, his head thrashing against the pillow, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes to track into his hairline. He looks completely destroyed, sweat slicking his temples, his chest heaving as he struggles to draw a breath.

"Shh, I know it hurts," you coo, your tone contrasting violently with the ruthless motion of your hand. You can feel him pulsing under your thumb, the rhythmic spasms of his orgasm winding down, but you don't let up. The friction is relentless—a blurred, vibrating speed against the hypersensitive slit that forces him to keep producing.

"You have more," you insist, your eyes dark with hunger as you watch his face contort. "Give it all to me, Lix."

The sensation is too sharp, too localized. It breaks past the barrier of standard pleasure, pushing him into a state of sheer, overwhelming sensation. His breath hitches in his chest, his abdominal muscles locking up so hard they ripple beneath his skin. He’s trembling all over, a fine sheen of sweat coating his body.

"I can't—it's—oh god, oh god—" Felix’s voice cracks, dissolving into a breathless, high-pitched keen. His body seizes up completely, every muscle locking down as the sensation hits a fever pitch. The rapid, merciless flicking against his slit forces a reaction deep inside him, bypassing the standard throb of orgasm and triggering something much more primal.

With a sharp, ragged gasp, he arches off the mattress. The stimulation forces a sudden, violent expulsion of fluid—not just the thick ropes of his release, but a sharp, clear spray that jets from him, splattering wetly against your chest and mixing with the mess already cooling on your skin. It’s a full-body convulsion, his cock kicking hard in your grip as he empties himself in a way that leaves him shuddering violently.

"That's it," you praise, your voice a soothing anchor amidst the chaos. You finally slow your thumb, letting the rapid flicks taper off into gentle, milking pulls that coax the last few drops from him. "Such a good boy. Let it all out."

"Shhh," you soothe immediately, feeling the way his body is still trembling with the aftershocks. You release your grip on him, your hands shifting instantly from a source of relentless stimulation to a source of grounding comfort.

You lean forward, pressing your chest against his—ignoring the sticky, cooling mess between you—and wrap your arms around his shoulders, holding him tight while his heart hammers against yours. He collapses into you, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his breathing ragged and uneven.

"I've got you," you murmur into his sweat-dampened hair. "You did so well, Felix. Breathe for me."

You hold him like that for a long time, letting the silence of the luxury apartment wrap around you both, broken only by the gradual slowing of his breathing. His heart is still thumping a frantic rhythm against your ribs, but the wild panic is leaving his limbs, replaced by a heavy, liquid lassitude.

When he finally pulls back, his face is flushed, eyes glassy and rimmed with red, looking thoroughly wrecked. He starts to shift, trying to move his legs, but you stop him with a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"Stay still," you command softly, though the edge is gone, replaced by professional warmth. "Don't move yet. You’re going to cramp up if you aren't careful."

You press a kiss to his temple, tasting the salt of his exertion, before gently pulling away. "I'm going to get a washcloth," you tell him, your voice steady and low. "Do not move. Keep your back flat against the mattress."

He nods weakly, his eyes slipping shut as he attempts to obey, his body sprawled in exhaustion. You slip off the bed, moving quietly through the darkened apartment to the en-suite bathroom. The light is harsh, so you keep it dim, running the water until it's perfectly warm—hot enough to soothe, but not scald. You soak a soft, plush towel and grab a dry one, along with a bottle of the unscented lotion you’d specifically packed for his sensitive skin.

When you return, Felix is exactly where you left him, but the lines of tension are already starting to creep back into his face as the adrenaline fades and the reality of his injury sets in. The disc in his lower spine doesn't care about orgasms; it cares about position and inflammation.

How unprofessional of you.

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