bakerstreet | Lap pillow

Lap pillow

The Lap Pillow Meme

From TV Tropes: A good way to show the physical intimacy and trust which a couple have is to rest one's head on the other's lap. Usually, the man does the resting while the woman provides the lap, not only because of anatomical reasons but because the lap-owner is typically of a nurturing nature more associated with femininity. Bonus points if she's feeding him grapes or stroking his hair. In some cases this is done between people who are not necessarily lovers, to comfort someone who is weeping or injured.

Or, in the case of the meme: screw the rules, we'll do anything. Maybe they're tired and just found a good place to rest? Maybe both parties were asleep? Hard to tell. All we know is, someone's head is going to be on another person's lap. Shenanigans will ensue.

How this works:
→ Leave a comment with the usual information in the subject line: character name, fandom. Any preferences, including what you don't want, should be included as well.
→ Congratulations,whoever tags your character has their head on your character's lap!
→ Tag around. Please please tag around.
→ Have fun, and be excellent to each other!

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( ota 16+ for shipping, ota for gen. assumed cr/crosscanon welcome! )

[ alex really thought he was going to visit quentin and hang out doing cool and normal things, like getting high and getting laid. he really committed to the idea that he could will any residual psychic hangover away. instead of either of those things, as soon as he's sitting on the (much-discussed) couch, he sort of goes pale and slumps to the side, right into quentin's lap. one of his brain cells is like "is touching another person really something i want right now?" but all the other ones are on fire, so it doesn't really matter.

but don't worry, he's not dead! he makes a noise somewhere between a groan and a wheeze. wow. amaze. ]

[ Quentin really thought Alex was coming over to get high and paw each other till they both passed out. He isn't expecting the passing out bit to come so soon. For a heady second, he thinks the swan dive is an attempt to go in for a kiss, and the humiliation of realizing he was wrong doesn't last very long. This is bad. ]

Shit--Alex? Fuck, are you-- [ This is bad. Not good even. He palms Alex's cheek and sweeps his fingers back over his temple, pushing the hair away from his forehead. Fever? His fingertips dip into Alex's pulse on instinct. ] Hey. Hey, what's wrong? What did you take? Alex.

[ Both hands frame his face, thumbs lining his jaw so that Quentin can tilt his face up, get a look at his eyes. ]

This isn't funny, so you know. Come on, can you hear me, man?

[ don't cry from pain, alexander. nobody is supposed to see him like this — least of all quentin. he's a feral cat who would rather crawl under a dumpster to die than to look to another human soul for help being dragged out from behind the dumpster. the plus side of having to keep his eyes closed because light hurts too much is that he doesn't have to see anyone caring too much about him: facts. ]

I didn't take anything. [ that was what he pulled out of quentin's slew of questions; most of them blurred together to sound like the charlie brown teacher popping off.

anyway— it's actually true (for once). "time to drown out the pain with a medicine cabinet cocktail" hadn't been penciled in on his schedule yet— although it probably should have been. having too many good days in a row gets you feeling a little too cocky.

but his pulse is normal and he isn't running a fever. if anything, he's cold and clammy. when a chill hits you like a mack truck. thanks, psychic brain full of broken glass. ]

... What? You said too much shit. [ his voice sounds distant and tinny in his own ears. without pause, as part of this stream of consciousness: ] I'm gonna throw up.

[ but he doesn't make any movement towards throwing up. it's just his declaration to the world. he's quentin's giant pool noodle. ]

[ His eyes jump around the floor for something more suitable to barf in, but there's no spasm or rumble to suggest that Alex is going to follow through on that threat--no fever to justify it either. On a deep breath, his touch lightens till just his fingertips skim Alex's cheekbones and skate up into his hair.

[ Just one question now, on the second pass through the thick curls, asked low and quiet: ] What do you need?

[ if alex wasn't feeling too delirious for shame, he would definitely have an ocean of it welling in his stomach right now, in lieu of acid reflux. both for collapsing and having no response for what he needs besides — ]

Anything. Valium? Tylenol? A screwdriver...

[ having time for comedy while sounding like you're dying: a true gift. not that anything really stopped the eldritch migraines beyond taking the edge off, but less edge is better than nothing. his head leans into quentin's touch, like a cat. he's still unsure if the touching makes his general situation better or worse, but still also can't care enough to ponder it for that long. ]

What kind of screwdriver, vodka or flathead?

[ He's definitely got Tylenol, might even have diazepam squirreled away somewhere in doses parceled out for a dog. Problem is, he'd have to leave Alex on the couch to grab it, and when he tips into Quentin's hands like that, looking awful--it absolutely pains him to leave even for a second.

[ Okay, okay babe, hold on murmurs above him as Quentin maneuvers a pillow under his head, cradling it heavy in his palm until he can rest it on the cheap pillow. Finding drugs takes a little longer than he'd like; he juggles his phone in one hand while he digs, trying to multitask on a diagnosis while he searches his medicine cabinet and pockets. Nothing lines up as far as he can see on the internet (especially not if Alex is sober like he attests), but Quentin does turn up a couple capsules of prescription-strength ibuprofen, half a bottle of a sports drink, and a heavy throw blanket that all come back to the couch. ]

Can you take this, or do you need help? [ Clipped, as cool as he can manage while tucking the blanket around Alex snugly. ] Small pills, but I got you if you can't move.

[ aw, quentin understood his lil joke. somewhere, deep deep down, his heart is warmed. a mumble: ]

Both. Surprise me.

[ there may have been a time when he'd have made a bitchy comment about the first aid beggar's meal... but that time would be when he didn't actually need it. also: a time when most of his focus wasn't dedicated to breathing and battling nausea.

(as loath as he would ever be to admit it, it was... nice? to have someone take care of him? when was the last time someone was carding their hands through his hair and tucking him in on the couch? impossible to say. ]

Nah, I got it. [ his hand snakes out of blanket prison to receive pills. his plan is to swallow them dry; drinks are for cowards. ]

[ He doesn't have to use the liquid for the pills, but Quentin will be hovering at couch edge, holding the bottle near Alex's face until he deigns to take it. His other arm folds on the cushion, head rests on his wrist. ]

Scared the shit out of me, man. What would you call that--a swoon?

A swoon? The fuck am I... [ the comparison he's looking for slips out of reach, like a singular glitter snowflake in a snow globe. victorian woman? fainting couch? something... something... ] Jane Austen?

[ close enough. once alex realizes the bottle isn't leaving the vicinity of his face, he grabs it. when the power of spite strengthens you, tbh. ]

I dunno. I blacked out. You ever been there and then you aren't?

Yeah, but usually Captain Morgan is there with me. [ He sits back, happy enough that Alex is drinking, even if he's sour about it. ] What do you think--work maybe? Do you need to take a vacation or something?

[ cw, info & permissions ]

[Beware her knees are hella boney]

[The first time she'd wolfed out, so much had been going on that the after-effects had just seemed like a haze to her. The school was burning, people were in danger, Wednesday was in danger. She had priorities, and the shift back to her normal form and the pain of her injuries hadn't been high on that list.

... But in the months following the attack on Nevermore, Enid's come to realize that the hours after her shift sucked. Worse than her time actually in her wolf form. So as soon as she stumbled back into her and her bestie's shared dorm, she made a beeline for the closest soft surface - which happened to be Wednesday's bed, with the smaller girl still on it.

With a groan, she somewhat overdramatically flops down onto the bed, head dropping in Wednesday's lap like a sack of rocks. Hopefully she wasn't working on anything important!]

[For all of her natural interest in the macabre lives of monsters, Wednesday knew startlingly little about werewolves before she met Enid. It was never quite in priority while she was feeding other students to piranha swarms. Sufficed to say, this roommate relationship was bearing some benefits, she might even admit, more often than not.

She wondered sometimes what the transformation felt like. Painful, perhaps, although Enid never really spoke of that. The shift back always seemed to take it out of her more, leaving times when her "roomy" had to recuperate.

Like right now, it seems. Wednesday was just reading a book - Modern Embalming Techniques for the Almost-Deceased - when she felt a hard whump that shifts her from her rigid seated position. A pause. She looks down.]

Enid.

[This is... very within her personal space.]

You shifted back.

[ this can be gen as well, very here for platonic cuddles ]

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Lap pillow

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