go ho or go home {himym - lily/robin}, this is going to cost you {bb11 - jeff/laura}
Title: Go Ho Or Go Home
Fandom: How I Met Your Mother
Characters/Pairings: Lily/Robin.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 759
Author's Note: Never written in this fandom before -- quite frankly I'm terrified of the results. Written for the promptathon.
Summary: Set after "Best Prom Ever". Lily's lesbian experience -- part two.
The boys go down to McLaren’s afterwards. The guys’ night out they intended to have and failed at, somewhere between stuffing wedding invitations and delivering sheet music, plus Barney just spent a few hours surrounded by jailbait and managed to keep his hands to himself, so he’s more or less intent on getting a reward for that.
Robin, on the other hand, has half a dozen dresses laying on Lily’s bed, and she’d really, really like to change out of this one before she goes home, so Lily and her head back to the apartment early.
“I really hope the dry cleaner doesn’t ask what got on this,” Robin says, looking down at the side of her dress that’s taken on a brownish-yellow tint. Of course she got puked on at prom. Of course. She needed that clichéd teenage nightmare.
Lily frowns. “Let’s hope not.”
Even if their little talk in the bathroom had done something to reassure Robin that everything was okay, Lily’s general mood on the walk up here had managed to at least partly reverse it. She looks like she’s living primarily in her head right now, and it worries Robin. “You’re sure you’re okay?”
She catches Lily’s attention, and she bothers to glance over at Robin as she situates the blue dress she’d almost left in earlier that night on a hanger. “Yeah, no, I’m fine. I’m great,” a smile accompanies that last part, so that it doesn’t sound sarcastic, but Robin still gets the feeling that it’s a ruse. She knows fake cheerful Lily.
“You know you can still travel,” Robin starts, anyways, focusing on undoing the straps of the heels that are absolutely killing her feet. “It’s not a death sentence or something; it’s Marshall.”
With the dress successfully hung up, Lily turns to face her. “Kind of optimistic for someone who isn’t into marriage.”
“I didn’t say it didn’t work for some people.” Satisfied with the shoes that now lie in the corner of the room, she sits down on Lily’s bed and starts gathering her own clothes to take back with her, separating them from Lily’s. It’s a mess of jewel tones, satins and silks, fancy grown-up clothes that had no business at a tacky high school prom. “I’m just saying you can still have your dream job, you can still paint. And you already had your lesbian experience.”
She scoffs. This little ‘pfft’ sound that oh so casually makes it through barely parted lips, and Robin looks at her with a raised eyebrow. “Oh come on, that was more like dipping your feet in the pool than a lesbian experience.”
Robin finds herself half-waiting for Lily to take that back, or add a ‘but’, something, but she doesn’t. “That so sounded like a dare in the making.”
“What? A dare?” Lily asks, all surprised in a way that she can’t tell if it’s feigned or not. “There was no dare.”
“Sounded like a dare.” She pauses, to stand back up again, and she’s pretty much walking toward Lily without a freaking game plan, which would be really helpful to have at the moment. Right now she’s got her mind wrapped around slutty teenagers all over each other, Barney’s words of ‘go ho or go home’ in her head, and just a little bit of hurt pride.
It’s all apparently lead up to Robin leaning in, tilting her head so that they don’t bump noses, and kissing Lily, who changes from stunned to smiling against Robin’s lips within the first second. This time there is no chaste peck on the lips. This time she slips her tongue between Lily’s lips, tasting the crappy non-spiked punch from the prom and resisting the urge to giggle against her mouth, because this whole thing is ridiculous. Many, many shades of ridiculous.
But it’s prom. Not theirs but someone else’s, and as far as she’s concerned that’s still permission to do crazy things.
When Robin pulls back, self-satisfied, a tinge of nervousness even so, she says, “In my defense, I think that cough syrup did give me a buzz.”
Lily laughs, shaking her head, and it’s nice to know that this isn’t going to change anything between them. It’s just this thing they did, maybe for a good cause (because at least now Lily doesn’t look as conflicted as she did when they walked in here).
“Hey, it might not have been an experience exactly, but I think it counts for something.”
“Yes, you are a very convincing lesbian.”
It’s her turn to laugh now.
---
Title: This Is Going To Cost You
Fandom: Big Brother 11
Characters/Pairings: Jeff/Laura.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 766
Author's Note: Requires livefeed knowledge up to Week 2.
Summary: He makes good on his promise.
He makes good on his promise.
“I’m a man of my word,” Jeff insists, even if they both know that phrase means next to nothing anymore. They’ve all seen what good someone’s word is in that house. And Jeff is a good guy, in her eyes, but his word got left in the dirt along with everyone else’s.
She still smiles, a little too wide.
There is a steak dinner, and she can tell that he doesn’t completely believe that she’s actually going to go through with it until they’re sitting in a restaurant and she’s telling the waiter “medium rare” with an odd little sense of joy.
“You underestimate me,” she chides, a warning she’s repeated far too many times in the past few months, except it’s a teasing tone here. Laura would say that the stakes are lower here, but even she doesn’t buy that. There’s something in the air, and she’s going to label it possibility with apprehension working a knot in her stomach, maybe even her fingers crossed - for what outcome she doesn’t know.
His answer is a nod, simple, wordless either in his acknowledgment or his agreement.
It’s kind of both.
Dinner lasts a little over an hour, and their wine glasses have been refilled and emptied more times than absolutely necessary. His eyes find hers over dim restaurant lighting and she knows what he both wants to ask and is mildly afraid to.
The good guy. The one who kept his hands to himself, for the most part, through three months of having a hot blonde pressed up against him, only to have her split three days after the finale. It bothers him; so much more than what he lets on in front of the cameras, interviewers who want to know ‘was it real?’.
Laura has found that there are far too many definitions of that word, and she can’t honestly tell you where the line between what was truth and what was a lie, what was personal and what was game, starts and ends.
In a way, it feels like they’re all still playing.
“You want to come back to my room?” She asks, the question she knows is on his lips, because she never needed the guy to make the first move and the wine hasn’t done anything but exacerbate the itching in her fingers.
Briefly, she wonders if he’ll even go through with this.
The answer comes in the form of his body pressing hers into the closed door to her hotel room, hips pinning hers, the hand that isn’t braced against the wall coming up to tangle in her hair (rich chocolate brown, and wishes that she didn’t think that was significant here). It comes in the way that he doesn’t take his time when he’s pushing the straps of her dress (tight, red, she looks good in red) off her shoulders, a pool of cinched satin that falls around the black stiletto heels she’s left to balance in. It comes while she’s spread out on the bed and he hesitates, lingering inches from her lips, and she puts her hands on his shoulders, tense muscles underneath her fingertips, and maneuvers them so that she’s on top, straddling his hips, and they’re moving.
Later:
He does not make a grab for her, arm across bare waist, and she is content to lie on her back, looking at pristine white ceiling in a way that she kind of got used to for three weeks somewhere in July.
“Did you ever think we’d be here?” And she wonders when the hell he became philosophical or deep or maybe just started acting like this was some romcom that they were accidentally living (she’d called him ‘Days of our Lives’ back then, before she realized that there was something there beyond a pretty face).
“No,” she says, and it’s ironic that that right there is more of a lie than the next part of her sentence; she still says it like she’s merely teasing him, “I knew you wouldn’t win.”
His laugh is only half bitter. “Nope. Wasn’t in the fucking cards.”
“I knew you’d win jury prize though. America likes eye candy,” she adds, light tone to contrast his.
“Oh, is that all it was?”
“Why do you think I voted for you?”
“Because you knew if I won you could twist it into a free dinner.”
“Two.”
“Whatever.”
She isn’t quite sure whether she should be anticipating a repeat of tonight, or avoiding one. Conflicted has become an all too natural state of mind for all of them.
Fandom: How I Met Your Mother
Characters/Pairings: Lily/Robin.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 759
Author's Note: Never written in this fandom before -- quite frankly I'm terrified of the results. Written for the promptathon.
Summary: Set after "Best Prom Ever". Lily's lesbian experience -- part two.
The boys go down to McLaren’s afterwards. The guys’ night out they intended to have and failed at, somewhere between stuffing wedding invitations and delivering sheet music, plus Barney just spent a few hours surrounded by jailbait and managed to keep his hands to himself, so he’s more or less intent on getting a reward for that.
Robin, on the other hand, has half a dozen dresses laying on Lily’s bed, and she’d really, really like to change out of this one before she goes home, so Lily and her head back to the apartment early.
“I really hope the dry cleaner doesn’t ask what got on this,” Robin says, looking down at the side of her dress that’s taken on a brownish-yellow tint. Of course she got puked on at prom. Of course. She needed that clichéd teenage nightmare.
Lily frowns. “Let’s hope not.”
Even if their little talk in the bathroom had done something to reassure Robin that everything was okay, Lily’s general mood on the walk up here had managed to at least partly reverse it. She looks like she’s living primarily in her head right now, and it worries Robin. “You’re sure you’re okay?”
She catches Lily’s attention, and she bothers to glance over at Robin as she situates the blue dress she’d almost left in earlier that night on a hanger. “Yeah, no, I’m fine. I’m great,” a smile accompanies that last part, so that it doesn’t sound sarcastic, but Robin still gets the feeling that it’s a ruse. She knows fake cheerful Lily.
“You know you can still travel,” Robin starts, anyways, focusing on undoing the straps of the heels that are absolutely killing her feet. “It’s not a death sentence or something; it’s Marshall.”
With the dress successfully hung up, Lily turns to face her. “Kind of optimistic for someone who isn’t into marriage.”
“I didn’t say it didn’t work for some people.” Satisfied with the shoes that now lie in the corner of the room, she sits down on Lily’s bed and starts gathering her own clothes to take back with her, separating them from Lily’s. It’s a mess of jewel tones, satins and silks, fancy grown-up clothes that had no business at a tacky high school prom. “I’m just saying you can still have your dream job, you can still paint. And you already had your lesbian experience.”
She scoffs. This little ‘pfft’ sound that oh so casually makes it through barely parted lips, and Robin looks at her with a raised eyebrow. “Oh come on, that was more like dipping your feet in the pool than a lesbian experience.”
Robin finds herself half-waiting for Lily to take that back, or add a ‘but’, something, but she doesn’t. “That so sounded like a dare in the making.”
“What? A dare?” Lily asks, all surprised in a way that she can’t tell if it’s feigned or not. “There was no dare.”
“Sounded like a dare.” She pauses, to stand back up again, and she’s pretty much walking toward Lily without a freaking game plan, which would be really helpful to have at the moment. Right now she’s got her mind wrapped around slutty teenagers all over each other, Barney’s words of ‘go ho or go home’ in her head, and just a little bit of hurt pride.
It’s all apparently lead up to Robin leaning in, tilting her head so that they don’t bump noses, and kissing Lily, who changes from stunned to smiling against Robin’s lips within the first second. This time there is no chaste peck on the lips. This time she slips her tongue between Lily’s lips, tasting the crappy non-spiked punch from the prom and resisting the urge to giggle against her mouth, because this whole thing is ridiculous. Many, many shades of ridiculous.
But it’s prom. Not theirs but someone else’s, and as far as she’s concerned that’s still permission to do crazy things.
When Robin pulls back, self-satisfied, a tinge of nervousness even so, she says, “In my defense, I think that cough syrup did give me a buzz.”
Lily laughs, shaking her head, and it’s nice to know that this isn’t going to change anything between them. It’s just this thing they did, maybe for a good cause (because at least now Lily doesn’t look as conflicted as she did when they walked in here).
“Hey, it might not have been an experience exactly, but I think it counts for something.”
“Yes, you are a very convincing lesbian.”
It’s her turn to laugh now.
---
Title: This Is Going To Cost You
Fandom: Big Brother 11
Characters/Pairings: Jeff/Laura.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 766
Author's Note: Requires livefeed knowledge up to Week 2.
Summary: He makes good on his promise.
He makes good on his promise.
“I’m a man of my word,” Jeff insists, even if they both know that phrase means next to nothing anymore. They’ve all seen what good someone’s word is in that house. And Jeff is a good guy, in her eyes, but his word got left in the dirt along with everyone else’s.
She still smiles, a little too wide.
There is a steak dinner, and she can tell that he doesn’t completely believe that she’s actually going to go through with it until they’re sitting in a restaurant and she’s telling the waiter “medium rare” with an odd little sense of joy.
“You underestimate me,” she chides, a warning she’s repeated far too many times in the past few months, except it’s a teasing tone here. Laura would say that the stakes are lower here, but even she doesn’t buy that. There’s something in the air, and she’s going to label it possibility with apprehension working a knot in her stomach, maybe even her fingers crossed - for what outcome she doesn’t know.
His answer is a nod, simple, wordless either in his acknowledgment or his agreement.
It’s kind of both.
Dinner lasts a little over an hour, and their wine glasses have been refilled and emptied more times than absolutely necessary. His eyes find hers over dim restaurant lighting and she knows what he both wants to ask and is mildly afraid to.
The good guy. The one who kept his hands to himself, for the most part, through three months of having a hot blonde pressed up against him, only to have her split three days after the finale. It bothers him; so much more than what he lets on in front of the cameras, interviewers who want to know ‘was it real?’.
Laura has found that there are far too many definitions of that word, and she can’t honestly tell you where the line between what was truth and what was a lie, what was personal and what was game, starts and ends.
In a way, it feels like they’re all still playing.
“You want to come back to my room?” She asks, the question she knows is on his lips, because she never needed the guy to make the first move and the wine hasn’t done anything but exacerbate the itching in her fingers.
Briefly, she wonders if he’ll even go through with this.
The answer comes in the form of his body pressing hers into the closed door to her hotel room, hips pinning hers, the hand that isn’t braced against the wall coming up to tangle in her hair (rich chocolate brown, and wishes that she didn’t think that was significant here). It comes in the way that he doesn’t take his time when he’s pushing the straps of her dress (tight, red, she looks good in red) off her shoulders, a pool of cinched satin that falls around the black stiletto heels she’s left to balance in. It comes while she’s spread out on the bed and he hesitates, lingering inches from her lips, and she puts her hands on his shoulders, tense muscles underneath her fingertips, and maneuvers them so that she’s on top, straddling his hips, and they’re moving.
Later:
He does not make a grab for her, arm across bare waist, and she is content to lie on her back, looking at pristine white ceiling in a way that she kind of got used to for three weeks somewhere in July.
“Did you ever think we’d be here?” And she wonders when the hell he became philosophical or deep or maybe just started acting like this was some romcom that they were accidentally living (she’d called him ‘Days of our Lives’ back then, before she realized that there was something there beyond a pretty face).
“No,” she says, and it’s ironic that that right there is more of a lie than the next part of her sentence; she still says it like she’s merely teasing him, “I knew you wouldn’t win.”
His laugh is only half bitter. “Nope. Wasn’t in the fucking cards.”
“I knew you’d win jury prize though. America likes eye candy,” she adds, light tone to contrast his.
“Oh, is that all it was?”
“Why do you think I voted for you?”
“Because you knew if I won you could twist it into a free dinner.”
“Two.”
“Whatever.”
She isn’t quite sure whether she should be anticipating a repeat of tonight, or avoiding one. Conflicted has become an all too natural state of mind for all of them.