#cursedcarmine

you glance up. he smirks. "see? you noticed."

you bite your lip, shaking your head. "shut up."

"or what?" he teases, voice low, leaning even closer. the library is quiet except for the hum of the fluorescent lights and the occasional page flip.

"or i'll—i don't know—focus on my notes," you say, heart pounding.

"mm," he hums, unamused. "or you could do this." and before you can protest, he's brushing your hair back, fingertips grazing your neck, thumb sliding over your collarbone.

your stomach flips. you try to pull away, but he leans his other hand on the table next to yours, trapping you subtly, almost teasingly. "you're way too tense for finals," he murmurs. "let me help you relax."

you don't answer. and that's exactly what he wants.

the smirk on his face grows when he notices your breathing hitched. slowly, he presses his lips to your neck. light at first, teasing, dragging his tongue along the curve of your jaw.

"gojo—" you start, but your voice falters.

"shh," he whispers, one hand sliding under the hem of your hoodie, fingers brushing over bare skin at your hip. "quiet. library rules, but who's gonna care about two nerds who need to study?"

your hands grip his hoodie, tugging him closer without thinking. he grins, teeth brushing your earlobe, and suddenly you're aware of how close the back corner of the library is. nobody around, the tables stacked to create your little private nook.

he slides his hands further, teasing, under the edge of your pants. you gasp softly, trying to keep it quiet. his lips find yours in a messy, hungry kiss, teeth and tongue, tugging at your bottom lip.

"fuck, you taste like coffee," he murmurs against your mouth, grinding his thigh against yours.

you moan into him, and that's it. no more pretending. your hands tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, heels pressing into the edge of the table for leverage.

he backs you against the table, knees pressing into yours, hands roaming, lips trailing down your neck, biting softly, leaving marks. you arch, mewling against him, gripping his hoodie like it's an anchor.

"shit, you're gonna get us caught," you whisper, but your words are hollow because you don't care.

he hums, low and satisfied, pressing his body against yours. "let them catch us. finals week doesn't need to be this stressful anyway."

hands everywhere, kisses everywhere, the desk shaking slightly under your weight as he fucks you against it slowly at first, then harder, hips grinding together, murmurs of your name, gasps, the quiet library humming around the two of you.

he slides your pants down along with your panties, his fingers teasing over your thighs, before pushing in. you cling to him, your mouth open, moaning, thighs trembling. each thrust is deliberate, hungry, messy.

you cum first, gasping and arching, nails digging into his shoulders. he groans, choked and rough, then follows, letting out a low growl against your neck.

when it's over, you're both breathing hard, hair stuck to foreheads, sweat and heat mingling. he smirks at you like it's the best thing he's ever done.

"library study session done," he murmurs, tugging his hoodie back down, zipping it up like nothing happened.

you shove him lightly. "asshole."

"don't lie," he says, grin sharp. "you liked it."

and yeah. you did.

your dorm room is smaller than his, but much warmer. the lights are softer, the air faintly scented with laundry detergent and something sweet. he sits wherever you gesture — the chair, the floor, the edge of your bed — careful and respectful. always staying longer than planned.

tonight, you're both supposed to be studying. you're not.

you sit cross-legged on your bed, notes forgotten at your side, watching tokoyami as he leans back against the mattress, long legs stretched out in front of him. he's quieter than usual, dark shadow curled lazily nearby instead of prowling. he looks... comfortable.

"you can sit up here," you say, nodding to the bed.

he hesitates — just a beat — before complying. he sits beside you, close but not touching, hands folded neatly in his lap like he's holding himself still on purpose. your knee brushes his. neither of you moves away.

"you don't mind," he says quietly, "that i come here so often?"

you shrug, pretending your heart isn't beating too fast. "i wouldn't invite you if i did."

he hums, thoughtful. "...then i am glad."

the silence stretches — not awkward, just still. your shoulders inch closer until they touch. the contact sends heat curling low in your stomach. tokoyami notices.

"if i am too close," he murmurs, "you must tell me."

you turn to him instead. your fingers curl lightly into the fabric of his sleeve, testing. his breath stutters — barely audible — but he doesn't pull away. his hand lifts instinctively, hovering near your waist, stopping short like he's waiting for a signal.

you give it to him.

you lean in and kiss him. it's soft at first — careful, almost shy — but deliberate. the moment your lips meet, he freezes, feathers fluffing before he can stop them. then he melts.

his hand settles at your waist, thumb pressing firmly enough to steal your breath. he kisses you back slowly, carefully, like he's afraid of rushing something sacred. the heat builds anyway, steady and pooling beneath your skin.

when you pull back, it's only an inch.

"...you initiated," he murmurs, voice low and rough.

you smile, a little breathless. "was that okay?"

his grip tightens — just slightly.

"it was," he says. "more than okay."

you stay close, foreheads touching, his hand still warm at your side and yours resting over his chest, feeling how fast his heart is beating. neither of you pushes it further. you don't need to.

later, when he finally stands to leave, he pauses at your door like he always does.

"...may i return tomorrow?" he asks.

you nod. "i was hoping you would."

and this time, when he leaves, it's already understood — the space between visits won't feel as long.