.

.

Sara wants to collapse on her feet — god, if she could, and take a long nap.

Right here. Right on the wooden, ebony-painted steps leading up to the art's building. They're old as hell and creak beneath her tennis shoes, as if reminding her about that fact. Some of the natural golden-brown color worn down and exposed through the lustrous coat of paint.

It's the dead of winter. The university's trees damp and dark, not painted, but festering with mold and decay. Orange-red leaves curl up and dry on the ground, blanketing it.

She could refuse to go to her volunteering assignment — after all, a hot shower is calling her, like a siren's song.

There's her final group presentation in business honors, studying for educational psychology and her literature honors exam, and her scheduled tutoring hours to prepare for during the weekend. On top of it, another women's lacrosse game on Sunday.

Her university teammates, after a hard-earned, roaring victory an hour ago, invited Sara for chinese takeout and a re-watch of Magic Mike XXL. It had been so tempting.

But she needs her volunteer hours and the credit, pushing herself forward, hiking the last two flights of outdoor steps for the unheated old building at the top of the hill. Sara hates it — she's been freezing her tits off since the prior week, posing nude for the life drawing class.

Just like the other students upon entering, the art instructor confiscates all mobile phones, including hers.

That doesn't bother Sara. It's to guarantee nobody can record the lesson.

Namely, Sara and her freezing tits.

She nearly cries, murmuring out a prayer of thanks to the appearance of the massive space-heaters put in a circle around the platform, below her emerald suede-padded stool.

The instructor greets his students, discussing probably something to do with exam-time.

Sara tunes him out, shimmying down to her lemonade-pink, boy-cut underwear, and tugging them off. One junior boy has made inappropriate remarks — "fuck, man, I'd hit that" —and failed the lesson. Since then, every person has been on their best behavior, especially the boys.

Not that she cares about dumbass boys.

Despite the bullies in her past, Sara isn't scared of leers or even nasty, filthy words. She's hot— and can punch anybody's lights out, if they didn't know their place.

Chin lifted, Sara poses herself on the stool, now listening attentively as the instructor says her name and asks Sara to raise her hands from her lap, to casually fold her arms under her breasts. Sara's legs move apart, by an inch, one of her ankles tucking behind the other.

"That's great, thank you," he calls out, nodding in Sara's direction.

While the bright white of the spotlights fall on her, she's not able to adjust her vision. Not only specific faces. The students, circling her just beyond the warm, warm space-heaters are only masses of darkness. They're beyond the hyper-focused light hitting Sara's amethyst-hued eyes.

It's sixty-five minutes of public nudity, and then… shower.

Sara feels herself dozing for a moment, surrounded by the lulling, rumbling volume of the instructor answering questions and the light, scratchy noises of pencils and charcoal.

The moment stretches, out and out, until the lights vanish.

She wakes, face-down on the platform, her chin throbbing in immediate, fresh pain. "Oh my god!" someone yells out, and there's the stomping of feet getting near. Sara rolls herself onto her right side, grabbing her chin and moaning. "Holy shit—! Is she okay?"

There's so many hands visible, but none dare to touch her. She's hot, but also very naked.

"Move—!" A girl with strawberry-red hair thrusts between an instructor and another girl, carrying a manufacturer-blue tarp. Sara feels it crinkle and wrap around her shoulders, as the other girl kneels down with her, draping the tarp around her and shielding her body.

As soon as she's upright, the instructor shouts to everyone else, to pack it up and head home. Class will resume at a later date.

A few mumbling protests, but they obey, retrieving their mobile phones and scurrying out.

"Mila, can you get her to the walk-in clinic?" he asks gruffly, eyeing the other girl.

"No, no," Sara declares, no longer clutching her face. She tastes a bit of coppery blood on the inside of her bottom lip. Must have been the impact. "I'm fine, really—"

"Sure, Mister Celestino," Mila interrupts, grasping Sara's hand and easing her down the platform. She waits until he's on the other end of the room before whispering, "At least let me walk you back to your car or something? We were freaking out because you fell pretty hard."

Sara tosses her a relieved, wide smile.

"Deal," she answers, limping for a second back towards the lump of her clothing abandoned to a tabletop. "I actually live on campus."

"Then I'll drive you."

Mila glances away as the other girl slip on her bra, clinching her blouse. "Are you fucking kidding me—" She whips around to see Sara glaring intensely at the tabletop, looking up at Mila. "Someone took my fucking panties—lord give me strength—"

She can't help it — a horrified, strangled giggle escapes Mila's lips.

"Wow, today is not your day."

"No kidding!" Sara exclaims, throwing her hands up. Her livid emotions soften away. "Mila, yeah?"

"Yeah."

Sara tosses her long, jet-black hair over her shoulder, pulling on her jeans. "If you find the shitbag before the administration does, you let me know?" she asks, smiling with a cruel, vengeful flash of teeth and gums. "I now have a score to settle."

Mila nods, returning the enthusiasm but only halfheartedly. "You got it—but uh—" She jabs a finger towards Sara's back-pocket. "Is that—?"

To her humiliation, Sara locates her panties, safely tucked, forgotten in her jeans.

"Oh my god—"

She can't even glare at Mila dissolving into laughter, instead joining her, clutching her torso.

.

.

It's snow flaking the nighttime skies, unable to stick to the leaves and blacktop.

The car-ride is mostly quiet, with Sara bundled up in her puffy, winter coat, side-eyeing the driver ruefully. "Sorry about this, Mila," she murmurs.

"I totally get it." Mila turns the upholstered wheel, leading them down another quiet, empty road. "I would… probably set someone on fire if this happened to me," she admits, smiling a little. Reassurance floods Sara's chest. "You're really good. You don't nervous at all up there."

"You don't do anything but sit for an hour and daydream, so it's not like it's tough."

Mila scoffs. "If I was that pretty, maybe I would confident enough to do it."

A flush of warmth hits Sara's cheeks. Was she flirting with her? Please be flirting with her. "Excuse me—you're pretty," Sara insists, tilting her head knowingly.

"Ha, no." Mila's voice goes low and sincere-sweet. "Definitely not like you."

"We're gonna have to agree to disagree on this, honey." Sara poses herself with her brown, willowy hands folded elegantly over a crossed knee. "Because you are absolutely my type."

Mila doesn't reply, but she clears her throat, grinning wider than before.

.

.

It's another nine minutes before the dormitory's parking lot comes into view.

Mila swerves up to the curb. She waits for Sara to unbuckle herself and pop up the car-door, before announcing, faking a pout, "I guess I won't be seeing you much anymore…"

"You can see me around any time you want," Sara emphasizes the 'see' with a playful finger-tap beside one of her eyes. "It's not like we don't go to the same university."

Before she climbs out, Sara makes a purposeful tongue-click, yanking out her mobile.

"Ever been to a lacrosse match?" Mila shakes her head, bemused. "Sunday, it's off-campus," Sara tells her, gesturing for Mila's mobile phone clasped on the dashboard. "I'll text you the location."

Mila raises an eyebrow in mild challenge, watching Sara enter her number at lightning speed.

"How do you know I'll even come…?"

Sara presses a hand against her collarbone, opening her mouth. "Do I look like a white boy?" she asks, humored by the pointed, confused silence. "Then you won't have to guess if you're coming or not."

The other girl makes an amused, scrunched face, dropping her forehead against the steering wheel and quivering with her restrained laughter. Mila's own voice quivering as well. "Iahaha—I don't know if that's the best or the worst line I've ever heard—"

Sara's cheeks flush deeper, with pride and a tad embarrassed.

"Byyyee, Mila~," she singsongs, waving from outside the car-door.

Mila calms herself long enough to salute with a mittened hand, wrinkling her nose. Her grin is sugar-sweet and colorful like raspberry dreams, just like that wavy, red hair.

Sara finds herself chewing a little on her lip, watching Mila's car vanish into the snowy darkness.

Shower. Then coming.

.

.


Yuri on Ice isn't mine. Frickity frick but there was a Tumblr post about a girl falling asleep while posing nude and it was highkey inspiration for this story. I haven't been able to find it again. Dammit. I'll keep hunting for it, and I feel really good about this fic and I hope it shows! Please any thoughts/comments appreciated!

Also... next week's YOI Weds fic will be rescheduled into Thursday.