Warning: This story is a silly, smutty, sexy one-shot. It contains mature themes—in fact, it's solely mature themes. You have been warned.

Commentary: Thank you to those of you who said I could—and should—do this. You know who you are. =) I hope you like the end result!

Also, to intercept the question before it arises: where are their shoes? They took them off.

Important Message from the Author: If this bothers too many people, I will take it down. I don't think it's nearly as explicit as it could be, but then again, I also think I look good in green jeans and many of my cohorts beg to differ. My goal here is to make you all laugh, make you all smile—not to offend you. If I'm not successful in that, let me know.

To all of you who read, review, message, question, critique, and encourage me: thank you so much. Please continue to do so.

As always, I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Disclaimer: I do not own the BSSM franchise. It belongs to the goddess Takeuchi Naoko.

LIBRARY

Haruka was not a good study partner.

It was harmless to start: just fingers on her wrist, stroking. Michiru found it quite sweet. She smiled, nibbled the tip of her pencil, and looked at her lover sidelong. "Flirt," she accused Haruka. The blonde smirked back at her, nails only just scraping flesh, thumb smoothing their sear away again. In the next moment she dropped her stormcloud eyes down to her differential equations, sighed. Her ribs brushed Michiru's just beneath the surface of the table.

Next: the fingers between them, on her thigh. Stroking still. More insistent this time: rolling up her skirt, in fact. When the hem hit knuckles, Michiru realized her partner's intent, stiffened, and whispered to the other woman, "We are in a library."

"You," Haruka murmured, looking lustily down beyond the table, "are wearing pink panties. They clash horribly with your hair. Here, let me get them for you."

"Pink looks good with gre-een! Haruka!" A deft slither of silk—a snap, and muffled, devilish laughter. Michiru dropped the pencil. It made a skitting line over her stoichiometric scribbles. "Give those back!"

"Nope," Haruka denied. "They'll just get dirty." She stuffed the stolen slip in a pocket, wrapped a hand over Michiru's thigh once more. She hitched the skirt farther up the creamy curve in small pulls and presses, determined, nigh undeniable. With her other hand she flipped Michiru's notebook closed.

"Library," Michiru reminded Haruka. She clamped her hands over the blonde's wrist beneath the table. Haruka's fingers nevertheless slid down the well of darkness between her legs. "Library," she maintained. "Oh—oh, oh. That's—" She bit the inside of her cheek, struggled not to arch. She dug her fingernails into her partner's palm, choked out, "Library, Haruka!"

"Hm?" Haruka drew her hand away, sucked thoughtfully on her fingertips. She sighed. She slid closer. They were nearly in the same chair. "Oh, right. I'll be quiet."

"You're never quiet," Michiru whispered, accusatory. Haruka's hands stretched to fall over her again, too fast for her to catch and too talented for her to mind too much. "You make these little—uhm. These little guh-growly noises and"—she stuttered, flushed—"Haruka stop that."

"Growly noises?" Haruka chuckled. "Just for that, I'm definitely not stopping. I'm slowing down instead. You like it like that, right?" She shifted her fingers—leaned in too, to trace her mouth over the heady pulse throbbing in Michiru's throat. "Like… this?"

A joining, slow but sudden—an intimate, unexpected connection. No seam between them. Michiru turned her face into Haruka's temple with a small, shuddery half-gasp. She hooked her fingers over the edge of the table. Her knees quivered, jerked. She bit her lower lip but Haruka nuzzled her, nuzzled her sweetly and softly and her mouth was on Michiru's mouth, nipping and nibbling and suckling. Michiru whispered curses and lamentations into Haruka's laughter and they kissed, kissed in lingering languid laps of tongues and low wet heat, tasting each other, taking their time.

Haruka's hands were more impatient than the rest of her. One kept her bound to the smaller woman, a torturous, tenuous limbo of small movements and slick sweat. The other waded between the ridges of cloth on Michiru's blouse, dipping within to smooth the satin skin cloistered there. Ten fingers so unapologetically shameless—two buried deep, a thumb circling. Michiru squirmed. She wrapped her arms around Haruka. She clung, pleading.

"Not ready," she protested. It was only halfway true. And next: "Not here. We're in an aisle! Someone could just walk right up and—"

Haruka's fingertips, delving deep. Michiru sobbed. Her body followed them in a trembling, helpless arc, and the blonde provided, "Where, Michiru? Tell me." She smiled, promised, "I'll take you there."

"At home in b-bed," Michiru grouched. She reached for Haruka's tie and jerked it furiously. Her lover's shaggy head bobbed: light from the flickering fluorescent fixture above them sent lightning-yellow whicker-whips over the woman's cowlicks. "Or at least on the couch."

"I think I saw a couch behind the stacks," Haruka offered helpfully.

"Our couch."

"We could make that one our couch too. We just need to christen it."

"I am not doing that on a library couch! …to a library couch!"

Haruka pulled her fingers away. She nursed them between her lips, her eyes on Michiru's crimson face. The squall in the taller woman's gaze was the friendly sort: the kind that coaxed waves high, brought them to a filmy rollicking froth. "How's this couch different from that bench in the music room at Mugen?" she asked. She mused after a small pause, sampling her knuckles, "You taste good. Like—"

"That! That. Uhm." Michiru strangled herself quiet. She watched the petal-pink furl of Haruka's tongue rasp over flesh: imagined it elsewhere. Wanting warmth prickled between her shoulderblades and thighs. She finished lamely, "That was a special. Err. Occasion."

They studied each other, more than they had either of them considered their schoolwork over the past several hours. Haruka propped her chin in her free hand. She smiled invitingly. The sandspire scatter of her bangs over her forehead hid the knowing arch of her brows. She unfolded her legs, ran the edge of one narrow foot along Michiru's ankle. "I can make any occasion special," she murmured, her tone full of not so much pride as it was a sincere pledge.

Michiru eyed her partner, a reluctant albeit blossoming smirk hovering about her lips. "Is that right?"

"Of course it i—"

"I'm sorry," Michiru interrupted. She frowned. "What was it you said I tasted like?"

Haruka opened her mouth to reply. She stopped, made a hoarse sound low in her throat. Twin scarlet trellises crawled over the sharp bows of her cheekbones. "Well," she attempted.

"Mm?"

"You. You, ah—" She scowled, thunderous. "You made me lose my train of thought. I was getting all sexy and seductive, too."

Michiru giggled. She tried to ignore the smoldering ache in the pit of her belly. "I win," she sighed. She suddenly hated winning. An irremovable victor nevertheless, she stuck out a hand between them and wiggled the tips of her fingers, expectant. "I thwarted your attempts. Give me back my underwear. And then we can go home and maybe," she allowed, "I'll have a look at a proper couch. A couch we own. And I'll see if maybe I'm up to letting you try again."

Haruka took Michiru's proffered hand. She wove their fingers together. She chuckled and pulled her lover from her chair and forward, such that the smaller woman spilled into her lap, a tangle of startled limbs. Michiru's cheek fell onto Haruka's shoulder. Haruka's arms pinned her close, canted her partway upright. Michiru tried to say something—to berate, to fuss, to scold—but her partner stole her words in a clinging edge-ember kiss. Their teeth ticked faintly: Haruka's seared the inside of Michiru's lower lip. She laved the sting away, left behind a trace of strange simmer-salt sweetness.

"That's what you taste like," she husked. She gave Michiru's fingers a squeeze. "Hope you don't mind me sharing." She stopped—she smirked. "Let's see if you do mind," she decided. Michiru's skirt rode up between them, bunching amidst thigh and hip. Haruka's touch crept beneath it, brisk and brazen. She cupped the smaller woman at her crux, entered her, rocked her teasingly to and fro on the heel of her hand.

"Not ready, y-you sneak," Michiru half-snarled again. She bit Haruka's vulnerable neck, partly in punishment—mostly because she didn't want to be the one of them to let go. With shaking fingers she worked at Haruka's tie. She loosened it, pulled it away. She tossed it onto the table behind them and it landed in a defeated emerald coil betwixt their abandoned notebooks. She rolled to Haruka despite her claim, shame a fading figment, exhilaration coloring the core of her throat a crushed-coral pink. So what if they were in a library?

"You liar," Haruka laughed, and nipped the tip of her ear. The smart tingle sang retribution. "Look at you! Liar, liar, liar." Her breath puffed down Michiru's throat, hot promise: her voice softened, impossibly fond. "Here. Move to me—mm. Like that."

Michiru moved. Haruka helped her with one hand and thrust to her with the other, obliging, smug. Her fingers bit hungrily into the firm flesh of Michiru's buttock, and the smaller woman busied herself tracing her mouth down the blonde's throat. She jerked pleadingly at the sleeves of Haruka's blazer.

"Off," she demanded. "Haa. Stop—stop for a minute. Let me—"

"You don't want me to stop," Haruka admonished. To prove this, she added another finger. Michiru hissed, grasped at Haruka's shoulders for strength and balance and sanity. "Do you?" Haruka asked. She grinned and kissed Michiru's rosy cheek, chasing the threads of her lover's blush over the stained curve.

"Feels good," Michiru agreed, breathless. She gave Haruka's sleeve another insistent tug even so. "I want to taste you too," she provided. She savaged Haruka's collar, wrote her name there in bitemark-glyphs. "All of you."

Haruka laughed. The sound echoed in the empty stacks. "Someone's gotten daring," she observed. Startled delight dulled the blade of the barb in her words; she licked her lips, pleased. "I'm flattered, really." Despite the eager lightning-lit gleam in her eyes, she kept up the staggered rocking rhythm of her fingers. She was resolute. She was merciless. She was driving Michiru mental. "No," she resolved. "You first, love. This time."

"Haruka—!" Michiru disapproved.

"If you can still walk when I'm finished with you, I'll let you do whatever you want," Haruka permitted. She hitched Michiru closer, feathered her mouth over her lover's protesting one. "Be mine for now, Michiru," she coaxed. "Come to me. For me."

Faster, faster, faster, a brilliant burning blaze between them, a coal glowing white-hot. Michiru sucked in a breath and the smell of books filled her nose, twined with it the spicy-silk scent of her partner and the breezes that forever buoyed their hearts together. She dropped her face helplessly, willingly onto the shoulder-shelf beneath her chin. She looked sidelong and up and Haruka's jaw was there, its familiar near-conceited clench the bower of her world. Haruka tipped her head down. Their eyes met. Haruka smiled. She touched the deepest part of Michiru. She took it. She tended it softly.

Michiru shattered partway, small spiderwebbing cracks along the seal of her pleasure. She cried out. Another patron some several shelves over cleared a throat irritably and Haruka pursed her lips, reproachful. "Library, Michiru," she reminded the shuddering woman in her lap. She stopped, shifted: her hand surged to Michiru, rougher this time. She teased, "Inside voices."

Inside indeed: molten, claiming, clinging. Michiru wrapped her arms about her lover and held fast to her, muffling her hoarse pants against the scratchy fabric of the blazer. Haruka's chin fell into her hair; blunt nails rolled up her blouse and slithered beneath it, the narrow touch a treatise of jealous heat. The taller woman hid Michiru in her shadow and buckled her near, beckoned her high, brushed her center with fingertips all possession.

"Oh," Michiru begged, "that. Please, Haruka, please—" Inches from the end of it, her eyes squeezed shut, her mouth crushed against Haruka's throat. The chair creaked. Michiru's pulse ran ragged in her ears and through her cramped kiss she sensed Haruka's racing it, the flickering wink of sunlight on seawater. She felt Haruka other places too, pressing deeper.

"Ssh," Haruka soothed her, and she kissed Michiru's temple and whispered as they moved together, hard and fast and finite, "I know. I've got you."

Had her, had her, had her: her body, near bending; her heart, hammering so hard it was a sibilant lull; her soul, twisting with its partner like her fingers were twisting in Haruka's and—

"Ah," Michiru began, and finished, and broke into Haruka's touch.

Their sway stuttered, stilled. Haruka stirred her fingers into motion once, twice, thrice more—rested next, tracing her thumb idly over her partner. Michiru, panting, squirmed in agonized, half-protesting delight. She finally reached between them and took Haruka's wrist.

"Stop, stop," she commanded. "You'll have me..." She trailed off, flushed. She admitted, "I'll want it again. …I already do. But—"

"That's not a bad thing. The library doesn't close for another two hours," Haruka mused. Mischief etched shiver-shadows over her smirk.

"It's your turn," Michiru protested. She frowned, made to rise. "I'm going to make you wish you hadn't started this. I'll teach you a lesson. You'll see."

"I don't know that you'll be teaching me anything," Haruka noted. "You remember my terms. Can you stand?"

Michiru tried. She slid away from her partner, braced her hands on the chair's rungs, and struggled upright. Her legs wobbled. Her stomach provided a pleasant, fluttery pang; her ankles turned to water. She hissed an oath under her breath and sank to the floor before Haruka's chair, skirt flared about her traitorously trembling thighs.

Haruka, her laughter muted but superior anyway, leaned over. "Here," she offered. "I'll help you up."

Michiru folded a hand firmly about Haruka's face and shoved her back into the chair proper. It rocked back on two legs. Only Michiru's studious elbow, thrust between Haruka's knees on the seat, kept it from crashing completely into the bookshelf flanking their hideaway. One heavy paperback tome on a high shelf did fall from its perch. It caught Haruka a glancing, slapping blow to temple and cheek and slammed into the floor beside them, sending up a mushroom cloud of dust. They glanced at it together, Haruka dumbfounded, Michiru with a told-you-so smirk. It was a copy of Moby Dick.

The blonde tore her gaze away from it to stare at Michiru. She clutched at the edges of the chair instinctively, bristling, a cobweb caught across her cowlicks.

"Michiru, what—"

"While it's very gentlemanly of you to offer your services," Michiru muttered, kicking the book away, "I'm providing mine instead. Regardless of your stupid terms. Whether you like it or not." She gave her elbow a firm press. All four of the chair's legs met the floor again and Michiru, jittering still in the aftershocks of their intimacy, reached to hook her hands in Haruka's belt. She had it off in less than four seconds. "But," she finished, flinging the leather hoop shamelessly aside, "don't worry. You will like it."

Her thumbs found the hem of Haruka's trousers. She hauled her partner forward over the chair's laminated seat with one fierce tug at that hem. Dipping her head, she took the zipper in her teeth and ran it down; she kissed the shocked, tension-taut skin its parting revealed. She shimmied the trousers low and dealt similarly with the undergarments they hid. She delved her tongue greedily into Haruka's navel. She found the fine trail of hair beneath that moments later and nibbled her way along its descending length until—

"Oh God," Haruka blasphemed. "Michiru, that's—!" She arched shallowly, pleading, and Michiru's hands crept beneath her to cup her aloft. They kneaded, nails leaving white trails in the bronze skin of Haruka's thighs and buttocks; they caressed too, tender in even turns.

Soon Michiru guided Haruka's legs over her shoulders. She pulled away a bit as she adjusted those long limbs, licking her lips, and Haruka growled a groaning complaint.

"Don't stop!" she appealed hoarsely. She carded tremulous fingers through Michiru's curls—her breath came in rough hitches, and Michiru saw with satisfaction that an iris-bloom blush had crept over her partner's collar. Slumped sideways in a uniform suitably rumpled, head thrown back against the chair's rungs, Haruka sought the smaller woman through the slant of her lashes and implored, "Please—please don't."

Michiru shook her head, sighed. She hid a doting smile high along the inside of Haruka's thigh, pressed light quiver-kisses there. "As though I'd ever leave you," she scolded. "Sit up just a little, now."

Haruka did. Michiru took her once more: with tongue and tormenting fingers, so suddenly that Haruka yelped her partner's name in an unwitting clarion of astonished worship. Michiru grated her teeth punishingly over her prize and Haruka's cry intensified, rolled into wordlessness, crafted its crescendo in a rippling reverberation over the shelves and scripts around them. Her body bent aright in a staggered arc and Michiru, gentle, hungry, splayed a warm palm over her lover's bare belly. She pressed her down again. She suckled, lingered, lapped until Haruka could give nothing else: no syllable, no sound, no shiver.

When they were finished, the two of them, Michiru pillowed her cheek on Haruka's thigh. Haruka smoothed a reverent thumb behind Michiru's pale ear. They rested, silent, sated, until the taller of the pair regained enough of herself to speak.

"That was…" Haruka determined. She fumbled, faltered, flushed. She gave Michiru a smirk verging on sheepish.

Michiru grinned back up at her partner. She proposed, "Fun?"

Movement in the stacks behind them, faint shoe-scufflings. They hunched, huddled: Michiru bit her palm to keep from giggling, and Haruka hid her face in the crook of a quivery elbow, her shoulders heaving in snorted, smothered mirth. They waited, tense and terrible—and finally fading footfalls marked the renaissance of their solitude.

Boneless in her relief, Haruka slid down from the chair and wrapped her arms about Michiru. They clutched at one another, red from restrained laughter, breathless in the delight of their own shared secret.

"Yeah," Haruka whispered at last. She smiled into Michiru's cheek, kissed her temple, held her close. "It was fun, wasn't it?"