Professional Procrastinator

are requests open?

hell yeah they are!! if you want character/reader, character & reader, or imagine-esque stuff, i'm your guy! you can also pop into my ask box at any time. drop headcanons or whatever :D i'm so lonely

awesome! where can i find your published works?

i'm on ao3 under the same username!

you're taking a long time to update. what's going on?

first of all, i'm a human with a life (barely lmao). second of all, i planned for this!! if you want to check what i'm working on at any given time, you can check my master doc

what are your limits for requests?

i write for the following fandoms (this list may expand in future. hyperfixations are, unfortunately, entirely unpredictable)

lord of the rings (obviously)

knives out

loki

agents of shield

now you see me

operation mincemeat

young sherlock

i don't do nsfw but i'll do fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, crack, and T-rated romance. or fade-to-black if that's your thing. i default to gender neutral reader (unless requested otherwise). i'll do pretty much any relationship pairing barring incest and pedophilia. if it sucks, well, i'm doing this for free, okay?

how does your tag system work?

the queer has hobbies: incorrect quotes, memes and silly fandom stuff the queer panics queerly: me having feelings about fictional characters the queer answers the inbox: exactly what it sounds like the queer is procrastinating: exactly what it sounds like the queer reads: take a wild frickin guess the queer draws: i suck at drawing the queer writes: writing process stuff the queer is on ao3: published works the queer runs a discord server: updates on my numerous (4) servers

yes, i refer to myself as “the queer” it was originally an affectionate nickname from @emmalvt and i do not consider it derogatory. you may also refer to me as such. (ex. "the queer wrote this awesome fanfic").

Muffled yelling can be heard through your bedroom wall. One of the voices is clearly Danny’s, but the others are hard to make out. Your clock reads 1:15 AM. You groan, fold your pillow over your ears and try to get back to sleep. 

Resolution is finally reached after half an hour of argument.

The compromise was as follows: if Jack was to be assigned recon for nearly every job, he can pick which one of you comes with. Atlas can roll his eyes all he wants; Jack chooses you. Without hesitation. A sharp knock on your door pulls you out of an admittedly fitful sleep (what could they possibly have been yelling about this time?) and you crack the door open a few inches. 

“Hi,” Jack greets sheepishly. He plants a kiss on your forehead. “We have a date tomorrow.” He punctuates this by tossing a file toward your bed. You tsk in Jack’s general direction but let him in anyway. 

“Next time, yell at Danny at a reasonable hour, yeah? Some of us have a regular sleep schedule.” Jack hums in reply and assumes his regular position in the spinning office chair. You sit cross-legged in bed and begin flipping through the file.

The bar was frequented by a few high-profile shareholders; maybe he picked you because of your familiarity with the bourgeoisie. Maybe it was because the two of you worked together like a well-oiled machine, finishing each other’s sentences and sometimes not even needing to speak to communicate. 

Or maybe it was because Jack wanted to take advantage of a night out with you, you realize as he slips a keycard out of the bouncer’s pocket and drags you by the hand through the velvet curtain into whatever trouble he’s about to get the both of you in. You smirk, knowing no matter what, he’ll be able to get you out of trouble again.

Thirty minutes and a few too many shared nervous glances later, you’re not so sure. You’ve gotten into a conversation with one of your marks. He has a gray handlebar moustache, finely waxed into points. He’s charming, a gentleman– he waves at a few sharply-dressed men with grave expressions that you pass on the way to the bar. But there’s something unnerving about him that you can’t yet place. The man ushers you into your seat—one where you won’t be able to see Jack. You shake your head, grinning anxiously. 

“That’s alright, I’ll—” He gestures more intently. You relent, not wanting to seem impolite. He raises a finger in the bartender’s direction.

“Macallan, single, on the rocks. And—” he inclines his head toward you in question. You take it as a good sign he didn’t try to order for you.

“Ginger ale, neat.” Moustache quirks an eyebrow, but nods at the bartender to put it on his tab. You try your damndest not to look around for Jack—Moustache is close enough to notice and it might throw up a red flag. You’re good at this because you make it look effortless, no matter how hard you’re trying to do so. Moustache clears his throat. 

“I’d like to discuss a business partnership. I hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time,” you state smoothly. Moustache breaks into a smile. 

“Well, why didn't you just say so? In that case, let’s talk somewhere more private. I have all the time in the world for…business partners like you.” Even as his smile widens, his eyes rake you up and down in a way that isn’t entirely innocent. Bile rises in your throat. All you can do now is try to regain control of the situation. You drain the rest of your ginger ale (the place couldn’t splurge for larger glasses?) and follow him toward the door. Without warning, his hand wraps around your lower back. You turn away slightly and find at least half a dozen suits staring back. The nearest one has his hand on the clear outline of a gun beneath his jacket, drums his fingers carelessly on the table. It hits you then: These men answer to him.

You still can’t see Jack. As you approach the curtain, your throat starts closing up. You desperately try not to show any signs of panic. This is the mission, after all: get close, get as much information about the marks as possible. You can’t help chuckling nervously at the fleeting thought that you may have gotten too close. Moustache turns to you in question, but keeps walking. The two of you are inches from the exit.

“Hey, asshole,” is the only warning you hear before the thwack of flesh on flesh. You see blood on Moustache’s face, but only a glimpse before you’re tugged backward by a familiar hand. Jack tilts his head, smirking at the suddenly standing guards. 

“Good evening, fellas!” He rips the velvet curtain down and the crash is loud enough to distract the shareholder’s lackeys from your sudden absence. 

The commotion from downstairs is strangely comforting. You ascend the last rungs of the fire escape and grab Jack’s open hand. You suppose the roof of your mark’s bar isn’t the best place to stop, but the adrenaline of escape quickly gives way to panic. Jack knows you too well, turns around at the first catch of your breath and pushes “getting home” to the back burner. How couldn’t he, when you aren’t okay? And it’s clear you aren’t, letting go of his hand as you collapse into the roof. Your chest heaves in a desperate bid for air; your hands shake.

“Hey, hey, I’m here. I’m sorry I took so long to get there. You did so well,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around you. You shake your head vehemently.

“You didn’t have to do that. The mission is jeopardized because you stepped in. I was doing fine, I just—” You swallow. “I couldn’t see you.” Jack pulls back to look you in the eye. 

“I don’t ever want you to feel that the mission is more important than your safety. I’ll punch them all out, take Danny’s shit, anything. As long as it means you’re safe.” You dry your eyes on his sleeve. 

“I want to go home,” you whisper. The two of you stand and make your way to the nearest subway station. Anyone staring at your tear-streaked face gets the stink eye from Jack, and soon enough you’re back at the apartment.

Jack gives one last squeeze to your shoulder before unlocking the door.

2. "you've got a friend in me" (subject to change lol)

about 1.1K of hobbit trauma is ready!! i was planning to write a second chapter/section before publishing but eh it's better than nothing

3. "lightly stabbed"

this aragorn x trans male!reader fic is in the process of being betad. warning: may suck as it was handwritten at 1am, then transcribed into docs.

4. "*dysmorphia*" (subject to change)

aragorn x insecure!reader. needs to be betad & retitled. it made @emmalvt cry so. i think that means i wrote it well

5. "monotony"

my long-unupdated autism4autism montlie fic!!! i'm going back in to make some edits, possibly rehaul the entire plot.

6. "MY COOL SECRET MASTERPIECE" (my personal favorite)

ys!james moriarty x self insert oc. yeah. BUT i'm doing a heckton of research to make this a masterpiece of epic proportions: basically each chapter makes a philosopher/writer's work (that the characters would have been familiar with) an allegory for what james is experiencing!! PLUS trans oc!!!! i'm so so excited to write this y'all don't even know. PLEASE ask me about it i'd be so so happy to tell you!!

7. "knives out 4"

this is going to be in screenplay format because yes. i can't spoil anything (bc there's no plot yet) but queerness and political commentary will abound. will i finish it? uhhhh

“Would you miss me?” The question spills from your mouth far too lightly for the weight it carries. 

Pippin’s quarters in the White City are humble, but there is space enough for the two of you to sit sideways on his bed, legs hanging over the edge. There is even room to spare between you. Before you were stupid enough to open your mouth the silence was commiseratively gloomy. The hobbit smoothed his borrowed tunic, still getting used to the garb of a soldier. Yet he looked unprepared for inevitable battle. It was merely a waiting game— good would prevail, or evil. 

Sunlight peeked in from the small window that looks out to the courtyard. You drew your daggers, turned them in the light, grazed one across your palm. And the moment was anxious, but it was quiet, and it belonged to the two of you alone. 

From Pippin’s chest, the White Tree seemed to glare at you. As if he knew your thoughts he crossed his arms to cover it. Your companion clenched his fists and without warning moved, shrinking the gap between you. You tapped your feet on the floor contentedly. His closeness was a balm to your anxieties. You might have gotten too comfortable.

And you asked.

“Would I—you—what?” Pippin’s gaze flicks from the wall in front of him, to your too-blank expression, to the blade pressing too hard into your hand. 

It really was a pretty knife. The pair was Elvish and had served you well thus far, on this journey and others. The hilts were comfortable, the blades were engraved with floral patterning and Tengwar for “knife.” When Elrond finally translated the glyphs, everyone found it hilarious.

The look on Pippin’s face now was one that told you he found none of this funny. 

Metal breaks skin. Blood beads on your palm and runs down toward your wrist.

In an instant, he is on you: Pippin wrenches the blade away. It falls to the floor with a clatter. The loud sound seems to jolt you out of your stupor. Your eyes widen, and you move to leave the bed, to leave your blades, to leave him. But he is faster—Pippin holds fast to your uninjured hand with surprising strength.

“Look at me,” he pleads. You continue to struggle, anxious to get away away away.

Foolishly, you look back at him. And oh, his eyes hold a fear that pierces you— fear of what you would do to yourself if he let you go. That eye contact is just enough for you to stay. You fall into him, inadvertently smearing blood on the Tree on his chest as you clutch that tunic for dear life. Silent sobs wrack your body, but your eyes remain dry.

“Do you really have to ask?” Pippin murmurs. “I need you, alive and whole.” Tenderly, he takes your bloodied wrist (to assess the damage, you tell yourself). Gooseflesh rises on your shoulders. And you laugh, soft and low. “What?” Even now his voice is not annoyed, just confused.

“You wouldn’t find it funny, but… I can’t remember the last time I knew that someone cared.” Pippin stills his ministrations.

The cut is not deep, but his thumbs are stained where he probed at it. It is your turn to take his hand; blood encrusts his nails and the whorls of his fingertips. The sight fascinates you—it is beautiful in a strange way, your damage a deep stain on his skin.

He has not yet spoken and for a moment your anxiety once again overcomes the care in his touch. Pippin must see your hesitance, because he pulls your head into his lap and oh…

And the moment is painful, but it is soft, and it belongs to the two of you alone.

A tinkle of your doorbell as it knocks against the wood, accompanied by a rush of cold air, drags you out of an hours-long mess of paperwork. It’s not possibly that late already, but the unmistakable susurrus of his coat forces your eyes up to James. And oh, isn’t he a sight, with his face flushed from the cold, hair sparkling with snow? He flashes a smile in your direction—the one meant for you and you only; the one that makes your stomach flutter no matter how many times you see it—and you rush to be close to him so that you can kiss the cold from his face. 

“Welcome home, Jamie,” you murmur playfully into his jaw. He bristles at the nickname yet continues to bask in your attention and warmth. That you care enough for him to deny him even a moment of discomfort is a treasure that James tucks away in a corner of his heart to admire later while he watches the rise and fall of your chest beneath his hands. 

James holds your cheek in one palm, reaching out with the other to hang up his coat. You take advantage of this and press him into the wall. The soft touches of your lips move further down his neck. Which is all fine and dandy until your legs buckle and you have to grip his lapels tighter in order to stay on your feet.

“Still make your knees weak, do I?” He’s always been so goddamn proud of his effect on you. At a shake of your head he pulls away, noticing that your features have taken on a distinctly pale hue. A frown spreads across his own face. His dark eyes flick down toward your shaking hands that still hold his jacket for dear life. 

“What have you eaten today, love?” The question is gentle but a sharp reminder of an ache in your stomach. Had you eaten? It was honestly hard to remember. James’ hand angles your face toward his with a tenderness that would make you cry if you weren’t so ashamed of yourself. Your avoidance of his gaze tells him everything he needs to know. You press your lips together meekly.

“Well…maybe a cup of tea around one…” His eyebrows pull together in concern. You squeeze your eyes shut, bracing for beratement. Or pity. Pity would be worse. Instead, you are turned sharply around by the shoulders and a cold hand pulls on your own. His voice is cheerful but not too loud. Because he knows how vulnerable you are right now.

“Come on now! I’ll make you some supper, and we can eat together, yeah?” Although he is smiling, James must notice your confusion, for his grip lessens slightly. He makes an inquisitive sound; you shake your head.

“You aren’t going to tell me it’s my fault for forgetting?” Your voice wavers. Now it is his turn to shake his head in confusion.

“Never; who would—?” He cuts himself off. Swallows. Forces a smile. Once again he tugs you by the hand; you let him. 

You can feel anxious eyes on you from across the table as you inhale your meal. A few times, James opens his mouth to speak but seems to think better of it. All of a sudden, he doesn’t. 

“You know I love you, hm?” Food momentarily forgotten, your concerned eyes pierce him and spur him to continue. He leans toward you and laces his fingers together on top of the table. 

“Because I would never blame you for forgetting. Of course, I am worried that you would have keeled over without my intervention. I worry for you because I love you. And I’m sorry if anyone ever told you it was your fault. If anything I blame myself for not being back earlier. When you need me, Sherlock can wait. To me you are infinitely more important. So important it scares me sometimes.” 

James stares down at his hands,  fidgets with his fingers and the gesture makes it clear that he’d been scared even to express it out loud. There is a sudden wetness on your face and you realize that you’re crying. He seems to notice at the same moment and rushes over to your side of the table. The sight of him on his knees for you makes you cry even harder. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he apologizes over and over. “I shouldn’t have said that. I shouldn’t have scared you like that, I—” James swallows and seems unable to continue. He takes the safe road and reaches for your hand. You squeeze, needing to feel him there and soft and not leaving you. He lets you. 

When you finally find it in you to speak your voice is scratchy and quiet. 

“I implore you not to blame yourself. You could never scare me, James. Because I trust you. And I love you.” With those four words, you can see in each others’ eyes that all is forgiven. You scrape the rest of your dish into the garbage disposal, and turn to see him still knelt next to your empty chair, eyes wet with gratitude and something neither of you can name but both know is a testament to the love you share. The sight makes an ache swell in your chest—but it is a good ache. That your unconditional trust has him like this is something you don’t take for granted. You sit back down and cradle his jaw in your palms. 

“Oh, James…” Your tender voice is a balm to his raw pride. He keens low in his throat and leans into your soft touch. Your hands slide down his neck, squeezing his shoulders as his head drifts to press against your thigh. The two of you sit like this awhile: him murmuring apologies and drying his tears on your trousers; you carding your fingers through his curls. Maybe you should “forget” to eat more often if this is what you get from him after, you muse.  

When the clock strikes a quarter to eleven, your eyes meet. James presses a swift kiss to your knee and you know it is his way of saying thank you. It is your turn to tug him by the hand, upstairs toward your shared bed. The both of you collapse fully clothed. The last thing James sees before his eyes close is the rise and fall of your chest, calm and trusting, beneath his hands.

He dreams of warm lips on his cold face.