𐙚 “Trace Me Here” - Lee Chanyoung 𐙚
Warnings: Explicit sexual content, Oral sex (cunnilingus), Face-sitting/face-riding, Nasophilia, Dirty talk, Praise, Light teasing, Dominance and control
It’s late, the apartment is soft and quiet, and the TV is throwing dim color across the couch where Anton is half-sprawled, one arm behind his head, bare forearms crossed over his chest. You keep telling yourself you’re paying attention to the show. You’re not. You’re paying attention to him—specifically, the line of his nose catching the light when he turns to say something, the angle, the clean slope down to the tip.
You’ve noticed it before. Tonight it feels like gravity.
“Commercials again,” he says, reaching for the remote and dropping it when he doesn’t actually need it. His mouth tips, amused. “You keep zoning out. Bored?”
“No.” Your voice comes out a little too fast. You take a sip of your drink to stall, then set it aside and turn, folding one leg under you to face him. “Just… thinking.”
“About what?” He pitches it lazy, curious. He knows you well enough to hear the static you aren’t saying.
You lean in before you change your mind and drag your thumb down the bridge of his nose, featherlight. You play it like nothing, casual, the way you’d brush lint from a shirt. His eyes flicker, then narrow with interest.
“That?” He goes still under your touch like you’re dangerous and he’s choosing not to run. “My face?”
“Your nose,” you say, and the truth tastes like a dare. “I like it.”
He blinks, then laughs once under his breath, surprised but not mocking. “That right?”
You flatten your palm against his cheek, tracing a slow path to the tip. You’ve thought about this in showers and in lines at the grocery store and staring out of Ubers at red lights—about the press of him against you, the way that shape would sit exactly where you get weak. The thought alone has pulled heat low in your stomach more times than you’d admit out loud.
You look at him. “Do you want me to stop?”
“That is very far down the list of things I want from you.” His hand wraps softly around your wrist, not pulling you away, just holding you there while his gaze skims your mouth. “Show me what you mean.”
The room shrinks to the space between you. You climb into his lap, knees bracketing his hips. The TV hisses in the background, irrelevant. He tips his head up to meet your kiss, slow to start, warm and open. You kiss him like you’ve got all night because you do, until the softness tilts and something hungrier catches.
You break away to nose along his cheekbone, down the bridge to the tip, then back up again. He exhales, eyes dipping shut, letting you map him. When you kiss him again, you steal his breath and then give it back with a soft gasp against his lips. You keep moving until your mouth is at his ear and you can tell him what you want without looking at him.
“I keep thinking about it,” you whisper. “How it would feel. Right here.” Your fingers curl in his hair. “If I ride your face.”
His hands tighten on your hips like a reflex. You feel him harden under you, sharp and sudden. He looks up at you like you just said his name in a prayer and a threat.
“That’s what you want?” His voice drops low, steady but frayed at the edges. “You want to use me like that?”
You tilt your hips, slow grind against the rigid line of him because you can’t help it. “I want you under me. I want your nose right where I need it. I want to feel your tongue and your breath and—” Your throat works around the rest. “I want you to let me.”
His answer is immediate. “I’ll do anything you want.”
You don’t move for a beat. You just look at him—at his open face, the heat in his eyes, the way he’s already there with you, not asking you to justify it. He shifts you gently to the cushion and slides off the couch in one smooth motion, dropping to his knees on the rug. He palms your thigh and tugs, nudging you to the edge.
“Come here,” he says, voice gone dark and patient. “Take what you came for.”
You push your shorts down and off, underwear following, the air cool on your skin in a way that makes you acutely aware of your own heat. He spreads you with firm hands and looks at you like he’s allowed to, like this is his favorite view in the world. The look alone makes you tighten around nothing.
“Pretty,” he says softly, almost to himself, and then he bends and kisses you once, just a careful press of lips like a greeting, before his mouth opens on you.
It’s good immediately. He starts with tongue—long, slow licks that coat you in warmth, then shorter strokes that test where you jump. He hums when you shiver, pleased, then follows it. He’s focused, attentive, not in a hurry. He eats you out like he’s building something.
You thread your fingers through his hair and tug. “Higher,” you say, breath catching. “Come higher.”
He understands right away. He angles in, nose skimming up until the tip nudges your clit. The contact is light at first, teasing—he’s testing the sensitivity, not trying to overwhelm you. He drags his nose down again, then back up, pressure measured. You arch. He does it again, and this time he lets the bridge settle more firmly. He breathes in, breathes out, the warm rush ghosting over your skin, and then he plants his mouth lower and sucks while his nose presses up.
You hear yourself make a sound you don’t usually make.
“Yeah?” His voice is muffled by your body, but he doesn’t pull away. “This?”
“Don’t—” You’re already chasing it, rolling your hips to angle yourself, to set the line of him exactly where it makes your brain go bright. “Don’t stop.”
He doesn’t. He locks his hands around your thighs and keeps you where he wants you. He resets his angle a hair lower and then holds steady—tongue working a slow, relentless rhythm while the firm slope of his nose grinds into your clit each time you rock down. It’s obscene how perfect it is. You feel greedy instantly, needy in a way that strips you of language.
You end up using him. You move because you have to, because the friction is precision and your body has been waiting for this pattern like it recognizes an answer. He meets you in everything; he adjusts when your hips stutter, he moans when you bear down, he inhales at the exact moment you push forward so heat pours over you and you shiver like it’s a current. He drags his nose side to side minutely and you keen, a noise that sounds like you’ve stopped pretending you’re composed.
“Good girl,” he murmurs against you, and the words slide under your skin. “Take it. Rub yourself on me. Let me feel how bad you want it.”
You clench hard, thighs shaking, hands fisting hair and couch. You rut, sloppy now, barely in control, and every pass lands—slick and hot and grinding you open. The pressure is perfect: not sharp, not soft, just solid enough to push you past the place where you usually hold yourself back. He holds you down when you try to lift off, and something in you snaps in the best possible way.
“I—” You bite down on a curse, eyes stinging, breath chopping up. “Anton. I’m—”
He laughs softly, delighted and wrecked, and answers by sucking you harder while his nose rides higher, circles just enough to make you go white-hot behind the eyes. You unravel there, the orgasm hitting messy and huge. You gasp and clamp and shake, and he stays right with you through it, letting you grind it out on his face like he exists for this. You ride the comedown in little stuttering pulses, whimpering with each aftershock you can’t swallow down.
You try to pull back and he won’t let you. He keeps your hips pressed and licks you slow through the twitching until it’s too much, until you’re pushing at his shoulder and saying his name like a plea. He kisses your inner thigh and finally eases away, panting, lips and chin and the tip of his nose damp with you.
He looks beautiful like this—flushed, eyes dark, mouth swollen. You feel wrecked in the kind of way that makes you laugh breathlessly. He smiles up at you like you’ve shared a secret you can’t take back.
“How’s my nose doing so far?” he says, shameless, voice gone rough.
“I hate you.” Your chest still heaves unevenly. “I hate how much I like that.”
“Liar.” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then leans in and rubs the slope of his nose against the inside of your knee just to make you shiver. “You love it.”
You drag him up by his shirt and kiss him, tasting yourself. He groans into your mouth, hands finding your waist like a reflex. He’s hard against your hip, heavy and insistent, but he doesn’t grind seeking relief; he waits to see what you want. That patience makes your head swim, even now.
“On the couch,” you say, voice steadier than you feel. “Lie back.”
He does, quick and obedient. You climb over him, thighs braced outside his shoulders, and sit without hurry this time, lowering yourself until the first glide of his tongue meets you and you can feel his nose line up exactly where you need it. You exhale a shaky sound like relief.
He lets you set the pace. His hands curve around your hips, warm and sure, but he doesn’t steer. He just opens his mouth and gives you everything. You move slow at first, small tests, trying angles like dials until you feel the one that lights your nerves. Then you sink in and ride.
It turns worshipful and filthy at the same time. You hold the back of the couch with one hand and his hair with the other, rolling down, up, down, letting his nose grind into you on every pass. He groans when you take more, when you hold yourself there, when you start to tremble and can’t stop. He talks to you in the spaces where he can breathe.
“Yeah. Use me. That’s it.” A kiss to your clit that makes your stomach drop. “I’ve got you.” Another long lick that leaves you open and throbbing. “Sit on it. Come on my face.”
You do. It’s easier than words, easier than pretending you want anything else. You take him like you wanted to from the moment you let yourself name the thought. The second orgasm builds faster, the edges already thinned out from the first, and when it hits you, you almost cry with how sharp it is. You grind through the spike until you can’t, until your thighs are shaking uncontrollably and your hands slip and you collapse forward with a helpless, broken sound.
He holds you, one arm around your waist to keep you from sliding, the other smoothing over your spine while you pant into the hollow of his throat. You feel him laugh, soft and pleased, chest moving under your cheek.
You breathe until you can lift your head. He looks smug and sweet and completely gone for you. You brush your thumb over the bridge of his nose and he catches your wrist, kissing your palm.
“Okay,” you say, half-dazed, half-accusing. “You’re never allowed to use that thing against me in an argument.”
“Oh, I am absolutely going to weaponize it.” He grins, then drags his knuckles down your side in a slow, idle stroke that makes your whole body react. “You looked so pretty riding me. You should see yourself when you’re chasing it.”
Heat flares again, embarrassing and thrilling. You press your face to his neck to hide the way your expression gives you away. He tips your chin back with two fingers because he’s unfair like that.
“Hey.” His eyes are bright, his voice low. “You’re not gonna look me in the eyes the same after tonight, are you?”
“That’s not a no.” He kisses you, lazy and sweet, then pulls back just enough that you can see the spark in his expression turn razor-sly. “Next time you want it,” he says, like a promise he’s going to enjoy keeping, “you’re going to ask me nicely.”
You swallow. “I just did.”
He laughs softly, delighted. “You told me. You didn’t ask.”
Your stomach flips like you’ve been tipped toward the edge of something else. He taps your bottom lip with his thumb, then slides that thumb into your mouth until you close around it. He watches you suck once, slow, the corner of his mouth kicking up.
“Use your words,” he says, gentle and firm. “Beg for my nose.”
You’re not sure whether it’s the command, the audacity, or the way he looks at you like you’re his favorite kind of trouble. You pull off his thumb with a wet sound and glare at him, defiant on the surface and molten underneath.
His eyes darken, satisfaction flashing like a blade finally unsheathed. He leans in and kisses your jaw, then the underside of it, then lower. He’s still hard beneath you, untouched and patient; you can feel how much he’s holding back.
“Tomorrow,” he says against your skin, a promise smudged into a threat. “I’ll make you.”
You feel that word in your spine. “Tomorrow?”
“You heard me.” He nips lightly, then soothes. “You’re already floating. Tonight I wanted you to have exactly what you asked for.” He looks up at you, lazy and wicked. “Tomorrow, you’ll learn how to ask.”
You hate how much your body answers to that. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re obsessed.” He noses at your throat, playful and taunting. “Which, for the record, I like a lot.”
You can’t argue with that. You’re the one who climbed on and chased the shape of him like it could save you. You’re the one who’s still shaking a little, mouth dry, thinking about tomorrow like it’s already in your hands.
“Turn off the TV,” you say, softer. “Stay with me here.”
He reaches for the remote without looking away from you, clicks the room into darkness but for the lamplight. When he settles back, you curl over him, breathing slow until your pulse stops skittering. He strokes your back mindlessly, humming something you recognize and can’t place, and kisses your temple like he can’t help it.
Just when your eyes slip shut, he tilts your chin again, thumb brushing your lower lip.
“One more thing,” he says.
“You start trying to pretend you don’t want it tomorrow?” He smiles, all teeth. “I’m going to put you right back on my face and keep you there till you remember how to ask.”
You exhale a laugh you feel everywhere and shove at his shoulder, and he takes the shove and pulls you closer anyway. The last coherent thought you have before sleep drags you under is embarrassingly simple and completely honest: you are doomed, and you cannot wait.
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