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OPEN MIND YOUR LEGS | c. san

SYNOPSIS your psychology lecturer sucks, and nothing is helping so you seek help from a student who happened to take it last semester and scored a whopping 95 on the subject. Said student is also your cousin's highschool friend. What could possibly go wrong.

WARNINGS unprotected sex m&f (when have I ever written protected sex), he cums inside multiple sex positions, m and f oral receiving, fingering, san lives in a studio dorm I feel like that should be a warning, there's a scene where he pulls her to one edge of the bed and fucks her throat while fingering her which takes inspo from an enha fic but I forgot what it is I'll link when I find it (eventually). cnc if that counts cus she tries to push him off and says stop but he keeps going. san has a minor bulge kink. I have calc midterm why am I doing this NICKNAMES USED: dove I think he called her a slut or good girl I forgot

GENRE smut. minor fluff almost pwp

PAIRING san x fem bodied+presenting reader, reader is referred to as 'she'

WORD COUNT 6.7k (omg)

A/N wrote parts of this while my friends were playing repo on discord I'm so sad I couldn't join my laptop is mac uggghh. Anyway consider this my intro to working on more members of ateez I plan to write for each member once before disappearing again but don't take my word for it. Set in summer because I can and summer is a #stateofmind TECHNICALLY I am one foot in autumn but why should I conform with the rest of the world I'm the one writing this fic if I say it's summer it is summer. inspired from what im currently studying in psych rn everyone says it's ez af and I needed a wam booster cus im cooked. also idk for other countries but here in some student dorms are sometimes color or theme coded this takes inspo from a student dorm I used to live in I hate student dorms I lived in one for 6 months and I got depressed I tried my best describing it. ill stop fucking talking now enjoy this shitshow

one.

You decided to take a psychology subject this semester. Why not, right? It’s supposed to be a chill, easy elective. Light reading, maybe a little “how do you feel about that?” energy. That's what everyone told you. “You could pass this psych subject with both eyes closed and let God take the wheel!” Was what one of your friends said and you were like okay, bet.

Yeah. No. Wrong. Catastrophically, embarrassingly wrong.

Your lecturer is an asshole. Not just any asshole either, he’s the kind that makes you believe Sigmund Freud has risen from the grave just to personally ruin your GPA. You’re supposed to be critiquing Freud. Debunking him. Questioning his theories. Instead, this man stands there, reading off slides like they personally wronged him, and somehow manages to twist every single point into “and this is why Freud was actually right.”

The lecture hall is silent, not because people are learning.But because everyone is collectively thinking: why is he like this.

“He’s so fucking weird,” you rant, flopping dramatically onto Wooyoung’s bed like a Victorian woman with consumption. Wooyoung doesn’t even look up at first. He’s halfway through a juice box like a five-year-old, laptop balanced on his knee as he scrolls through his module.

“If it’s that bad,” he hums, finally glancing at you, “I’ve got a friend who took that psych subject last semester.” You narrow your eyes. “If you say you, I’m dropping out.” He ignores you, “High school friend. Got like… a 95 or something.”

You sit up immediately. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” he nods. “Remember San? The guy I introduced you to during orientation?” You do remember Choi San. Unfortunately. Because nothing about that man screams “psychology major.”

He looks like he invests in crypto for fun. Hoodies, varsity jackets, and now because it’s summer, collared polos that make him look like he’s about to discuss property investments over brunch at a country club. Add in the slightly slicked-back hair and those stupidly attractive “professor glasses” Wooyoung won’t shut up about? Yeah. If anything, he looks like the type to say “trust me, bro” before losing your life savings.

But annoyingly, he’s actually good at teaching.

Like, actually good. Patient. Clear. Explains things without making you feel like a complete idiot. Which is impressive, considering you have the attention span of a drunk raccoon in a nightclub.

two.

Every Thursday at 3pm, without fail, you show up at his student dorm. The sun is brutal, like “if I step outside any longer I might legally evaporate” levels of heat and the pavement looks one degree away from melting into soup. His building is… depressing. You take note of that the first time you visited, looking up from Google maps and thinking to yourself “is this a minimalist prison?”. A soulless, overpriced shoebox where the entire personality is “neutral tones” and “minimalist’s wet dream”

You text him and wait near the front entrance, he opens the door. You step inside. And then; awkward silence.

The elevator ride up is always quiet. Not uncomfortable. Just… weirdly formal. Like you’re both pretending this is a professional tutoring session and not whatever this is.

His room is small. Entryway, wardrobe on the left, bathroom on the right. Tiny kitchen with two stovetops that look like they’ve never experienced joy, a desk, a bed, and a window overlooking the university park. There's his things scattered around, which does help make it feel more alive, but that's about it.

You take the plush chair on his desk, and he takes the plastic one.

Week one.

You are the picture of academic validation; Notes. Questions. Engagement. You prepared, You revised beforehand so he wouldn’t think you’re dumb. You’re nodding like you understand everything. You’re saying things like “that’s interesting” unironically.

You are a liar, but at least you are a convincing one.

Week two?

Forty minutes in, your phone comes out, subtly. Like you think you’re slick.

San notices, of course he does. His friend (your cousin) has the same habit of finding whatever view is the nearest more interesting, tongue in cheek, before fiddling with his fingers whenever he finds something annoying or uninteresting. But you’re still answering everything correctly, so he just lets it go.

You’re also dressed for the heat, henley top, a few buttons undone, short skirt, because the weather decided to cosplay the sun. San, mid-explanation, pauses for half a second. His Adam’s apple bobs, and he looks away. Mouth agape for a second but shut the second he regained composure so you wouldn't think he's a creep.

Then he continues, like nothing happened. You pretend you didn’t notice, of course. But as it turns out.

You both pretend a lot of things.

Week three?

He realises something. You are, unfortunately, the same breed of menace as Wooyoung.

Which explains everything, actually. When he talks, you nod. Then slowly, your hand drifts to your phone. At first, he’s offended. You can tell. He pauses more, and his jaw tightens. But over time, he just exhales and resigned to continuing his ramble.

“...as long as you’re listening,” he mutters once while flipping through his notebook

You are listening, surprisingly. He is good at explaining.

You’re just also on TikTok, scrolling through videos. You are a multitasker, after all.

three.

“So, neutral stimulation essentially—” He stops mid-sentence for the first time, his jaw clenches before inhaling slowly like he’s trying very hard not to commit a crime.

You, completely oblivious, stretch in your chair. Arms up, back arching slightly.

Your shirt rides up just a bit, just enough to expose some of the skin of your stomach.

San immediately turns his head, and the window suddenly becomes the most fascinating thing he has ever seen. You drop your arms, glance at him, and smirk. “Lose your train of thought, professor?”

He doesn’t even look at you, murmuring as he flips through his notes from last semester “Don’t call me that.”

“Oh?” you tilt your head, sweet and insufferable. “But the glasses—”

“Continue reading page 42.”

“Wow,” you lean back, crossing your legs slowly, deliberately. “Authoritative.”

Silence.

“You’re failing this subject.”

You grin at him, the same grin that Wooyoung has. Physically it's different, but it radiated the same amount of mischief and playfulness.

“Not with you teaching me” you purr at him.

He mentally rolls his eyes at you.

Tonight he's on classical and operant conditioning. You know this because he said classical and operant conditioning twenty minutes ago and you said okay and opened TikTok.

"The unconditioned stimulus," San is saying, somewhere to your left, "produces an unconditioned response without any learning. So Pavlov's dogs salivated at food before any conditioning occurred. Are you following."

"Mhm," you say, to your phone

"So," San says, and something in his voice has shifted, just slightly, just enough that some animal part of your brain lifts its head “let's say you're crossing a road, you press on the pedestrian button. Do you think that counts as classical or operant conditioning?” He turns to you, your eyes are still glued to whatever interesting video your friends are sending you as you hum, “operant. You receive reward or feedback from an action.”

“That's correct,” San says, "if every single time you wear a short skirt," a beat, "and I get hard, is that a voluntary or involuntary response?”

You hum again, trying to think. But then your brain rewinds and tries to register his words, and your thumb stops scrolling.

You look up, and San is looking at you with an expression you have never seen on him before. His eyes that's usually warm, usually easy, the eyes of someone Wooyoung described once as annoyingly likeable, are sharp. Dark at the edges. His notes are still spread in front of him and his pen is still in his hand and his jaw is tight in a way that makes something in your stomach drop several floors

"Hold on," you say. "Wait."

"You've been teasing me," he says, simply. Not an accusation. Just a fact he's decided to present. "For three weeks."

"I haven't—"

His eyes drop to the skirt, comes back up.

You have been. You know you have been. You are not going to say that.

"San"

"Voluntary or involuntary" he says. "Answer the question."

Your mouth opens. Your psych knowledge, what little has survived three weeks of looking at him instead of his notes, scrambles for purchase. “Involuntary” you say, because the skirt was before the.. because the response would be… because…

"Good," he says, and the word lands differently than you expected, low and warm and doing something to your pulse that you would like to not examine right now "so if I talk to you like this" his voice drops, just slightly, just enough, "and you get wet"

Your face goes hot.

"That's an involuntary response," he continues, calm, clinical, San, who has been Wooyoung's friend since high school and is now looking at you like you're something he's been patient about "isn't it, dove." The dove goes directly into your sternum and stays there.

"That's—" you start "Unconditioned," he says. "Means you can't help it. Means it's not your fault." He tilts his head, just slightly. "You're already wet, aren't you."

You are not going to answer that.

The answer is yes, you are not going to say yes. You are better than a dog during mating season.

He nuzzles against you and something in him just snaps. Three weeks. Three weeks of short skirts and tiktok and that mouth and the way you tilt your head when you're actually listening which is always, annoyingly, always three weeks of being patient and good and sitting in the plastic chair out of courtesy while you get the comfortable one and explaining conditioning theory while you cross and uncross your legs like you're doing it on purpose.

Three weeks of blue balls in his own dorm room on a Thursday at 3pm like clockwork and he is done. “ your pupils dilated when I moved closer. That's not something you can fake, dove." San’s eyes are like laser beams staring into yours, and you have to pretend that you're not intimidated.

“I have no idea what you're talking about” you say, you try leaning backwards even more if that's even possible, because your back is already against his chair and it's getting suffocating. “You've been conditioning me too” San says gently “every Thursday you always wear these..short skirts and slightly unbuttoned henley tops” his eyes flickered down to your slightly exposed chest “did you think I wouldn't notice the pattern, dove?”

You decided to bring Wooyoung into the conversation as a last resort, somewhat of a ‘hail Mary'. “What will Wooyoung think about this?” Your voice comes out small and raw, your throat feels as dry as a desert and suddenly the afternoon sun shining through his window feels too much.

San actually pauses at this, he considers it.

"Wooyoung," San says, thoughtfully, "would say you've been asking for this for three weeks." A beat. "He knows you.". "Same mouth," San says, almost fond, sliding his hand up your thigh, "same deflection tactics. Doesn't work on me either.”

The position he's got you in is embarrassing.

He's kneeling in front of you, kneeling between your legs that are placed on top of his broad shoulders. His fingers are playing with the hem of your skirt, this is probably the most awkward and tense lead up to sex you've ever had if it wasn't for the pounding in your chest. He presses his face against your mound and breathes it in. "San I don't think this is appropriate—"

That voice, that voice that is all Wooyoung, sassy and deflecting and nervous underneath, and something behind his eyes makes a decision that his patience has been vetoing for twenty one days. His hands find your underwear and he pulls them down fast, none of the gentle peeling he'd planned, just off, gone, your ankles and then the floor and then he looks at you and exhales through his nose hard like a man who has been waiting a long time and is now very close and cannot be reasonable about it

He open mouth and kisses you hard, not soft, not polite, lips and tongue and heat all at once, messy and immediate, his hands pushing your thighs apart when they try to close and holding them there with a grip that means no, stay, and you gasp so loud it bounces off the walls of his small neutral-coloured dorm room.

San licks into you rough and thorough, not slowly, not academically; hungry, is the word, three weeks worth of hunger and his tongue working through you fast and deliberate and the sounds he's making are low and continuous and genuine and nothing like the patient tutor, nothing like country club polo shirt san, nothing like anything she's seen from him before surfaces. Chin soaked. Eyes absolutely wrecked. Jaw tight.

"I was right," he says, and his voice has dropped into something rough and frayed at the edges, "involuntary response." He pushes your thighs wider and looks at you and his chest is heaving slightly "you're wet." Thumb parting your labia, proving his point, watching your face twitch "you've been wet, haven't you."

"San—"

"How long," he says. Not asking gently. His grip on the meat of your thighs tightens. "How long have you been sitting in that chair like that"

"I don't know what you're—"

"Dove," he says, and the word comes out low and sharp and nothing like when he said it before, "I have your underwear on my floor. We are past the part where you pretend.”

"Three weeks," he says, and something in his jaw is doing the thing, the tight furious fond thing, "of that skirt and that mouth and you sitting in my chair crossing your legs every five minutes—" he ducks down and licks into you hard and fast and you cry out and your hand flies into his hair and grips and he groans against your cunt, as if saying yes, there, before he finally surfaces again immediately, breathing rough. "You've been doing this on purpose."

You open your mouth to say something.

"Don't," he says. His eyes are dark and his mouth is slick and he has never once in three weeks of Thursdays looked like this, the gentle hunk is somewhere else entirely, this is what was underneath the polo shirt the whole time "don't tell me you weren't." His hands shove your thighs wide and he goes back down and this time he doesn't surface, just stays, tongue working into her rough and relentless, no warmup no mercy no academic pace, just three weeks of patience cashing out all at once and the sounds coming out of you are embarrassingly immediate and loud and you’re grinding against his face before she means to and he groans like that's exactly what he wanted, like he's been wanting her to stop being polite about it. His fingers push in without warning. two, immediately, rough and deep and you gasp so hard you choke on it, your back arches clean off the chair and his tongue doesn't stop, won't stop, is working at your clit fast and relentless while his fingers curl and drive and find the thing that makes your thighs shake around his head. God, he loves it when you squeeze his head with your legs. He's always wanted those thighs wrapped around his face.

"San, San that's too—" He doesn't stop. His fingers pump into you rough slick and loud, the wet sounds obscene in the small room, and he makes a low hungry noise against your clit that vibrates through your entire body and the grip in his hair tightens. He surfaces one more time. Breathing wrecked. Hair destroyed from your hands. Eyes dark and satisfied and still sharp. "You want this," he says, rough, his fingers still moving inside you. watching your face fall apart, "say it."

"Three weeks, dove," his fingers curl, "say it."

"I want it " it comes out broken and small and honest and he smiles. "Good girl," he says, finally, warm underneath all the rough, and pulls you off the chair and onto the bed in one motion, "was that so hard?"

You don't give an answer because his fingers are still inside and your brain has stopped providing useful output and somewhere on the floor the psych notes and your underwear are keeping each other company and it's thursday at 5 pm. The sun is giving the dull room a golden glow.

Wooyoung is never finding out about this.

He's got one hand on your waist, guiding your head towards the edge of his bed. Your head is almost tipping back off the mattress until the world inverts and you're looking at the wall upside down, the ceiling and the underside of his desk, and San who's still got that slight flush on his cheek. Everything is making you slightly dizzy and warm in a way that's wrong in the absolute best way.

Your clothes are still half on, skirt shoved up, shirt slightly pushed down so San could see your bra. He considers taking the entire thing off but hormones said no and he'll take what he can get. You're a mess, general evidence of someone who got relocated mid sex, you make a noise of protest about the position but San places a hand on your sternum gently as a warning. From this angle he's just a shape above you. Dark eyes looking down at her inverted face, jaw tight, hair slightly messed from your hands, and he looks big, from here, the perspective doing something to the gentle hunk image that makes your stomach swoop hard

You hear his zipper.

"Three weeks," he says, conversationally, from above you, "of sitting in my chair." You feel him, the blunt warm press of him against your lips, and your mouth opens automatically, conditioned response, you think deliriously, unconditioned response, whatever, you don't care.

"open wider, dove." He taps on your lower lips. You open wider.

He pushes in slow from above and gravity does the rest and the angle is.. the angle is everything, the stretch of your throat, the depth he reaches without trying, and you gag immediately and he makes a low sound that is definitely not an apology

"There she is," he says, fond and rough simultaneously, his hand coming to rest on your throat, not pressing, just feeling, feeling himself there, and the intimacy of that makes your eyes prick "been wanting to see this for weeks." His hips start to move. Shallow at first, just enough to feel the flutter of your throat around him, and simultaneously his other hand finds you still slightly wet and pushes in two fingers, immediate, curling and the sound you make around him is muffled and desperate and your hips jolt up as an involuntary response. "Stay still," he says, and he sounds wrecked already, voice low and tight, "you're going to take both."

You try. You cannot stay still. His fingers are working into your gummy walls rough and deep and his hips are rolling forward. You're upside down and dizzy and full from both ends and the blood is rushing to your head and everything feels static and warmth.

"So good," he breathes above and you can hear it in his voice, the crack in it, the three weeks worth of wanting underneath the composed psych tutor "you're so good, look at you" his fingers curl and you gag around him, he hisses sharply "taking it like you were made for it". Yout hands find his thighs from below, the only anchor you have. “Mean girl," he says, low and fond and rough, hips pushing deeper, fingers pumping fast and slick "three weeks of that skirt" you gag. "and that mouth" his fingers curl. "and now look at you." You can't look at anything. The room is sideways and warm and his hand on your throat feels every sound you try to make before it gets past his cock and your eyes are streaming from the position and the fullness and the fingers working into you without mercy

"Involuntary response," he says, somewhere above you, strained and quiet and almost gentle "see. Your body always knew." His thumb finds your clit and presses, your muffled cry vibrates around him and his rhythm stutters. "Gonna be good for me from now on," he breathes, and it lands somewhere soft and permanent, fond underneath all the rough "aren't you, dove."

You squeeze his thighs. He takes it as the yes it is.

He finishes with his head tipped back and his hand braced on the mattress edge and a sound that isn't a word, just air leaving him rough and involuntary, his hips pressed forward and his fingers buried and your throat working around him milking every last bit of it down. He stays there for a moment, catching himself. The room is loud with both of you breathing, then he pulls out slow and you cough immediately, turning your head, gasping, the sudden absence of him leaving your throat raw and your lungs grateful and your whole upside down world spinning. he gets his hands under your head before it can drop, careful now, guiding you back up to horizontal and then sitting you upright on the edge of the mattress and crouching in front of you, hands on your knees, watching your face with those sharp warm eyes gone soft at the edges.

"Look at me," he says, quietly. Tutor San is back, checking for feedback. You look at him. Streaming eyes, wrecked throat, hair absolutely destroyed, and you meet his gaze and don't tap, don't pull back, just breathe and blink and hold his eyes, and he reads you the way he reads everything, thoroughly, and something in his shoulders drops half an inch.

Then his eyes go down.

His fingers are still slick. His hand, the one that had been inside you, and the bedsheets beneath where you'd been are wet. he goes very still for a moment looking at the evidence of what you did somewhere between the third finger and the ceiling, while you were crying and muffled and shaking. He groans. Low and genuine and a little devastated about it.

"You came," he says. Not an accusation. Just awe, slightly. Like you've done something to him personally. Your face goes hot. You say nothing.

"All over my fingers," he continues, and his voice has done the thing again, the rough fond thing, and his jaw shifts "and my sheets." He looks up at you. "Dove."

"I didn't mean to." You say, sounding somewhat normal for someone who just got their throat destroyed. He pushes you back toward the headboard.Not roughly but with the particular energy of someone who has just been handed new information and intends to do something with it immediately, guiding you up the mattress until your back meets the headboard and you're against it and he's kneeling over you and his hands find your legs. One goes up. One stays down. The split is immediate and exposing and your whole body protests the stretch and you grab his shoulder

"San, wait. I'm still—"

"I know," he says, and lines himself up, and you can feel the thick blunt head of him and you're shaking, you've been shaking for ten minutes, your thighs are trembling and your throat is raw and you are not prepared. He pushes in whole. One go. Slow but complete and entirely without mercy, seating himself fully while you're still adjusting to the split of your own legs, and the scream that comes out of you is immediate and loud and his hand claps over your mouth fast, dorm building, is the distant thought, neighbors. The scream goes into his palm and he feels it and his jaw does the tight thing and his eyes close briefly like he needs a second.

You're full. Impossibly, completely full, the stretch of him in the split position deeper than anything, kissing parts of you that have never been introduced to anyone, and it hurts, the good kind, the kind that lives right next door to more and shares a wall. He opens his eyes and looks at you. Hand still over your mouth. Your eyes are streaming again, fresh tears, and you're shaking underneath him and gripping his arm hard enough to leave marks

"Oops," he says.

You stare at him.

"Should've been more gentle," San says, and his voice is wrecked and his jaw is tight and he is buried to the hilt inside you and he is smiling, just slightly, just the corner of his mouth, the gentle hunk smile, the country club smile, worn by a man who is currently doing the opposite of gentle and is not sorry about it in any capacity.

You bite his palm.

He tips his hips forward just slightly and you make a muffled sound against his hand and stop biting. "There," he says, soft, fond, wrecked, his forehead dropping toward yours, "there she is." His free hand finds your hip and grips. "Hold on." He starts to move, your breath is knocked out of your lungs.

four.

The view outside his window has always been your favourite. Overlooking a park near University and slightly covered by a tree, right now the view is indifferent to whatever just happened as the sunlight seeps through. San’s sun-kissed skin looks more golden as he's thrusting on top of you, courtesy of the warm ball of fire thousands of kilometres away. He starts slow. That's almost kind of him. Deep and rolling, the split position is already devastating on its own, and you're trying to breathe through it, trying to find the rhythm, your hands in the sheets and your eyes at the ceiling and your whole body doing the recalibration it needs to do when someone is that deep. Then he makes a sound. Low and involuntary. And stops being slow.

"Fuck—"

He shifts. One fluid motion, hoisting himself upright from braced over you to sitting, changing the entire geometry of it, your leg still up, perpendicular, his hands finding purchase, and the new angle makes the world tilt and you make a sound that isn't a word because he's deeper, somehow deeper than before, deeper than you thought the position allowed. He looks down at your stomach.

Goes very still for exactly one second.

"San—"

He presses his right hand flat against your lower abdomen. Palm down. Feeling. And then his hips pull back and drive forward and his hand feels it and his jaw drops open slightly and he makes the most wrecked sound you have heard from him all afternoon

"Oh," he says, soft and devastated, "oh that's—"

His hips snap forward again and he watches his own hand, watches the slight shift beneath it, and his expression does something that has no business being as attractive as it is, dark eyes wide and jaw loose and chest heaving and he looks like someone who has just made a discovery he wasn't prepared for and intends to repeat the experiment indefinitely. The tears come back immediately. Different this time, not from the throat, not from the fingers, just from the sheer overwhelming fullness of him at this angle, kissing your cervix on every stroke, his right hand pressing down and feeling himself move inside you and his left hand finding your face. Not covering your mouth this time. Just cupping your cheek. Tilting your face up toward his. Catching the tears with his thumb while his hips work into you rough and relentless and his right hand stays pressed flat on your stomach watching.

You cry into his palm and he lets you.

"Look at that," he breathes, eyes still down, hips snapping forward, you feel the bulge shift under his hand and sob "look at—" another thrust, "you're taking all of me—" his voice cracks on it "feel that?" You feel it. You feel it everywhere. You feel it in your spine and behind your eyes and in the specific place where coherent thought used to live. "San, San it's too much!"

"It's not," he says, and his left thumb wipes your cheek gently while his right hand presses down firmly on the next thrust and you cry out and your back arches and your hands scrabble for something to hold onto and find his knee, grip it hard and he looks at your hand on his knee and then back at your face and something in his expression cracks clean open Fond. Devastatingly, helplessly fond. Underneath all the rough and the jaw and the right hand monitoring the bulge like a researcher who has found his life's work. just fond. "Doing so well," he says, quiet, almost to himself, hips rolling forward deep and slow for just a moment, giving you a breath, his left hand stroking your cheek while his right hand just rests, warm and present "taking it so well, dove."

You make a sound against his palm that has no dignity left in it whatsoever. "Yeah," San says softly, and his hips snap back to rough, and his right hand presses down, and he watches with those dark wrecked eyes as the evidence of him moves beneath his palm and his head tips back for just a second, jaw tight, the sight of it doing something to him that three weeks of thursdays have clearly been building to. "Mine," he says, at the ceiling, rough and quiet and certain, his right hand pressing down and his left hand cradling your face while you cry and take it.

The university park is outside the window. The psych notes are on the floor. Your underwear is somewhere near the desk. and you are never going to be able to sit in that plush chair again without thinking about how your psychology tutor rearranged your guts on this very date.

"No more," you're saying, and you mean it, you think you mean it, "please San, I can't no more" He tips you into missionary like he's rearranging pillows. One hand on your hip, one on your thigh, and you go over easy because your body has stopped taking instructions from your mouth, which he knows, which is maybe why he doesn't answer you just settles between your thighs and looks down at you, wrecked and tear-streaked and shaking, and his chest is heaving and his hair is destroyed and his polo shirt is somewhere on the floor and he looks unhinged, is the thing, the composed patient tutor has left the building entirely and what's left is this jaw tight, eyes dark, breathing rough, a man who has completely lost the plot and is not looking for it.

"San please I'm serious" your whines fall deaf on his ears. He pushes back in. The sound you make rolls up from somewhere deep and involuntary and your eyes go wide and your hands fly to his chest and he catches your wrists, pins them above your head in one hand, and bottoms out and stays there, fully seated, looking down at your stomach. He goes very still.

His free hand moves to your lower abdomen. Presses flat. Slow. Deliberate. Feeling.

He pulls back slightly and pushes in and watches his hand and the sound he makes is not sane. "Shit" low and wrecked and wondering, "shit, I'm—" he thrusts again and his hand feels it and his jaw drops "I'm in so deep, baby"

You're drooling. You realize this distantly. The position and the crying and the overwhelming fullness and his hand on your stomach has shorted something out and your mouth is just open, tears and spit, every refined thing about you completely dissolved, you are drooling on your own chin and your eyes are doing the thing where they're not focusing on anything in particular and you can't bring them back.

He looks at your face and laughs. Not a mean laugh, or not only a mean laugh. It's genuine, delighted, slightly unhinged, the laugh of a man who got a 95 in psychology and spent three weeks being patient and is now watching his carefully maintained study partner drool on herself on his mattress and finding it the funniest most devastating thing he's ever seen.

"Look at you," he breathes, still laughing, jaw tight and eyes crinkling and nothing about this is composed anymore "look at your face" he thrusts rough and watches your eyes roll and laughs again, softer, rougher, the laugh turning into something else at the edges. "where'd your mouth go, dove, hm?" Another thrust. "All that attitude" thrust "three weeks of that smart mouth". His hand presses down on the bulge. You drool more. Your eyes go completely. "Pathetic," he says, and he sounds fond about it, devastatingly fond, like pathetic is the best thing he's ever seen, his hand covers your mouth now, palm flat, catching the drool and the muffled broken sounds you're making and he feels you against his palm, every sob, every whine, every attempt at please and no more that has no real weight behind it.

He presses down on your stomach with his other hand and thrusts hard and watches the bulge move under his palm and his laugh dies into something low and reverent and barely human. "Fuck," he breathes, "fuck, that's—" pressing down, thrusting in, watching his jaw is working like he's biting down on something, teeth catching his lower lip, the expression of a man doing long division to stay functional. "so deep inside you baby, you feel that?"

You feel it. Your eyes are somewhere in the back of your head. You are drooling into his palm and making sounds that would embarrass you if embarrassment was something you still had access to.

"Ruined," he says, rough and laughing and wrecked, his hips snapping forward and his hand pressing down, watching your stomach, watching your face, watching your rolled eyes and your open mouth and the complete and total wreckage of the girl who showed up at his door with her short skirt, tiktok videos and her smart mouth every thursday.

"I ruined you." Not a question. Just awed. Delighted. Then he laughs again, quieter now, the mad fond laugh of someone who didn't expect this to happen and cannot believe it has. "three weeks and I completely ruined you" He presses down hard on the bulge and holds and drives in and your muffled scream goes into his palm and he watches your eyes roll back with the expression of a man who has won something and intends to collect. "Smart girl," he murmurs, soft, his thumb stroking your cheek even now, even through all of it, the gentleness underneath the rough that has always been there "my smart girl, where'd she go, hm?"

You’re gone. completely gone. drooling into his hand on a Thursday afternoon with psych notes on the floor and definitely not coming back for a while. San laughs again, low and quiet and completely mad about it. "There she is," he says. Another laughter rip from his chest, cold and unforgiving but still has the undertones of the sweet and patient San you know.

You have a feeling that this will go on till the golden hour passes and the evening hues taken on the room, and you’re proven correct as San turns you over. You let out a yelp of disagreement, but it is quickly muffled by a pillow. You could feel his looming presence behind you as he prepares himself again.

Yup. you’ll be here for a while.

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