Mila can only take so much of Yakov bickering with his ex-wife, before she's going to explode.
They want to do this inside the double-ended suite, yelling at the top of their lungs at each other. She marches out with a pinched expression, and a furrow in her brow. The door gets slammed harshly behind her, elegantly-constructed knob jerking and twisting noisily when Mila's hand lets go. Unfortunately, it's been like this for hours—on the plane, off the plane, in the limousine, and since arriving at their destination.
Yuri should consider himself damn lucky that his room is further away.
For such a expensive, gigantic occasion, the Star Hotel doesn't hold back on the appearance of comfort—a shining beacon against the wintry, darkened backdrop. All of the lighting radiates golden and glowing, matching the accents to the hallway carpeting and illuminating the marble flooring.
To be honest, Mila doesn't mind not being one of the VP guests for the Rostelecom Cup. Her own hotel bedroom is spacious and generously heated, even her neighbors are a pain in the ass.
Last she explored the hotel, there was a private guest downstairs with better WiFi and an array of cushioned, elegantly beaded chaises.
Sounds good enough for her and her mobile.
Mila hops on an available elevator, glancing around curiously. Designed with golden interior with the rich, decadent red carpeting as well, elevator walls reflecting and distorting her image.
Nobody joins her until a soft ding! overhead and—oh, jesus christ, it's Sara.
The Sara Crispino, who Mila only met on a few occasions during the women's skate competitions. And, she can say this without hesitation, every single occasion had been nearly magical. There is nobody like Sara in their group.
Alright, maybe Mila's been bisexual as hell her whole life—it's just—Sara comes off genuinely cute as a button to her. Sara smiles like she's stolen every ounce of warmth from the sun.
(Being bisexual also makes her feelings feel more complicated, but…)
"Hey—! Oh my gosh, Mila!"
Sara looks positively ecstatic, bouncing on her heels and running towards the other woman.
"Hi," Mila whispers, accepting the brief, practically vibrating hug.
It's really nice to see Sara without her brother or her brother's shadow. Michele and Emil can be a pain too, as well as noisy. She does not have a clue how Sara has the patience to deal with people so apologetically clingy.
A quick, pleasant flush heats up Mila's creamy complexion, thankfully unnoticed when Sara's fingers reach up and pet her chin-length hair. She combs through Mila's softly tousled, red waves.
"You look SO good with that hair cut," Sara tells her, falling back a step and winking. "Che cavolo… I wish I could pull off something like that…"
She's one to talk—Sara's hair goes to about her waist and gleams like starlight has touched it. Mila's not exactly pale as a sheet, but she thinks the natural amber color of Sara's skin is so, so beautiful.
"… or, y'know, without Mickey being an stronzo. Hey, are you and Danny still a thing?"
The hockey player.
She hasn't thought of him since the breakup in April. Which is good because she doesn't need a reminder of him calling bisexual woman "fake slut bitches". It did feel extra good to be the "fake slut bitch" knocking him on his ass with a powerful right hook.
"It's been over for a while."
The gilded, mirror-like elevator doors hum, closing together.
Sara gazes over her, not appearing upset about that specific piece of news, but her cheerful nature fading. "Probably better for it, huh?" she says, lips quirking downwards. "You're too good for that meathead anyway. I saw his Instagram a while back… he's very anti LGBT which I cannot stand. At all."
Mila blinks, feeling shocked for a moment. Her heart thudding faster.
"You're an ally?"
The other woman presses her lips together, touching her own cheek musingly. "More like… um, what do you call it when you're still in the closet?" Sara asks her. As if this is no big deal.
Mila presents her hands out, nervously waving them. "Sara, listen, I didn't mean to pressure you to tell me…"
"Hey, it's okay. It's actually a relief to talk to someone about it." Sara's amethyst-bright eyes glance her over again, her glossy lips smiling. "Maybe I'm wrong, but… I get the feeling you too?"
There's no verbalized agreement, but Mila's own lips twitch into an identical, wistful smile.
"So, are you…?" Sara's forefinger poises over the ground-level button. "…going down then~?"
Mila snorts unladylike.
"You think I haven't heard that one before?" she says, not losing any sass behind it—despite the fact Mila's heart soars out of her chest and this feels like a dream coming to life.
They wait for the ding! before Sara's fingers gravitate to Mila's low rise, garnet-red jeans, undoing the front button. Their noses bump with semi-painful impact, much to their giggling, mutual embarrassment. And finally, their mouths clash, Mila's front teeth scraping against Sara's upper lip.
"God, I'm sorry—but you smell like your brother," Mila announces, choking down a laugh and backing off. She's pretty sure there's an English swear in the long, exhaling groan from her companion.
The woman who stole sunshine giving a nasty SWEAR is way hotter than anything else.
"I hate his cologne so much—hold on—" Sara grimaces, stripping off her lightweight, pigment-blue blazer. And then wriggling off the unbuttoned, two-piece cardigan, turning the woolen sleeves inside out. Now it's only a thin, black tanktop on Sara's heaving torso, and her pair of black, capri jeans.
She kisses Mila with more gentle intent, cradling her face with both hands, lips skimming Mila's jaw. Sara's bare, trimmed fingernails caress over Mila's sensitive, ticklish earlobes.
That's encouragement for her to work open Sara's capris, pressing her fingers downwards. Cotton panties, just by the sensation, and—holy shit, she's wet enough to be soaking through. Mila's fingers feel cramped up, between feverishly hot flesh and Sara's jeans. The shuddery, happy moan is worth it.
God, all she wants to do is bury her face into starlight-dark hair, breathing in her coconut shampoo—
The elevator doors hum again, sliding open.
Mila squeals, pulling away when Jean Jacques stares open-mouthed from the entrance. He recovers from his surprise almost instantly, his grin more of a leer combined with the hungry, aroused glint in those narrowing eyes.
"Well, alright…" Jean Jacques nods his approval, walking up to Mila and raking his eyes down her body, before doing the same to a tiny, infuriated Sara. "I'm liking where this is going. You ladies need a hand—mmpphm—"
The rest of the sentence muffles when Sara's palm smacks against his face, covering it.
Mila watches in utter astonishment as the other woman growls through her teeth.
Sara uses apparently all of her strength to push a stumbling Jean Jacques of the elevator, right onto his ass. Mila can't help it—the laughter erupting out of her is childishly delighted.
"You did not just do that to JJ… oh my god…!"
"He deserved it!"
Sara's little, heart-shaped mouth pouts.
"Oh come on, he's a perv—stop laughing at me, Mila," Sara insists, poking Mila's side, her own laughter bubbling out. Soon enough, she gets what she wants, silencing Mila with a deeper, coaxing kiss, tongues lightly stroking.
Mila interrupts herself from thumbing over Sara's breast when the other woman begins shimmying out of her pants. "Hey… listen, you said you were doing down," Sara informs her, when Mila grabs one of her arms and questions her what she's doing. A grin flashes over Sara's features. "Nevermind… you know what? I totally got this, Mimi."
Now that's not a nickname she ever expected to hear.
Mila's thoughts of disapproval fizzle out when it's her jeans getting peeled off, along with her cutesy penguin-print panties.
Sara urges her up against a golden elevator wall, right near the emergency safety break.
Once they've come to a complete, jolting step, just two floors from ground level, Sara's hot, soft mouth presses against Mila's inner thigh, nibbling kisses and licking in small, teasing circles.
(What did she say about exploding earlier? Oh hell.)
Mila's hands fist, knocking back against the wall. Sara's tongue laps against vaginal lips, quickening her pace when the other woman vents out a high-pitched whine, tilting her head backwards.
There's a intermittently flashing, red light, high above the elevator's platform.
Yuuri frowns, squinting his eyes through his thick-rimmed glasses.
Does that mean… it's out of order…?
He's about to step over to the next available elevator when the light flashes to green. After a couple of moments, the gilded, sliding doors open.
Two woman stroll off, and one of them he recognizes.
Sara's cheeks are darkly flushed, a little shiny with perspiration. "Hey, Yuuri!" she hollers. He stares in polite bemusement when Sara pinches his cheek gently and coos slightly at him.
The second woman—now that Yuuri gets a better look, he thinks she might be one of Yurio's friends—walks past him along with Sara, maintaining eye-contact with him and murmuring in a sweet, small voice, "Hey."
Nothing looks particularly strange about either of them, minus being rumpled and flushed expressions.
Yuuri rubs his cheek thoughtfully. He looks back over his shoulder one last time while both woman hook their arms comfortably around each other, laughing uproariously and nudging their heads together.
Yuri on Ice isn't mine. IT'S FEMSLASH TIME! Since episode 8, there's been a surge of popularity for Sara/Mila which I completely am 100 percent for. The Yuri On Ice Kink Meme on Tumblr has been gracious enough to provide "Sara/Mila - NSFW rating. elevator sex." and HERE WE ARE. Any thoughts/comments appreciated!