insomniaccorner

[insomniaccorner]

A Chance Encounter been awhile since I wrote for TMofV so have this

The night was warm for Gotham, the smell of rain clinging heavy in the air. Duck trailed after Selina with a grocery bag dangling from their arm, the plastic crinkling softly as the woman led them down a quiet side street. They paused at the mouth of an alley, and like clockwork, cats began emerging from the shadows—skeletal strays with wary eyes, drawn to the promise of food.

Duck crouched down and poured out kibble, murmuring soft encouragements as the animals crept closer. One particularly scrappy tabby brushed against Duck’s arm, earning a faint smile.

“You’re still too soft,” Selina teased, watching them with a smirk.

Duck shot her a side glance. “Yeah? Takes one to know one.”

Selina’s answering chuckle was interrupted by a voice.

“Selina.”

It was a voice Duck had heard countless times. A voice they knew down to the bone.

Bruce Wayne stood only a few feet away, his tall frame half-cast in shadow. His coat was neat, his expression carefully neutral—but his eyes locked onto Duck like a man who’d just seen a ghost.

Selina arched a brow, slow and smooth. “Well. Brucie. Out for a midnight stroll?”

Duck’s pulse pounded in their ears. They kept their hood up, jaw tight, refusing to flinch. Pretend. That was the only way to survive this. Pretend.

They shoved their hands deeper into their jacket pocket and muttered, flat as stone, “Who’s he?”

Selina’s lips curved into a razor-sharp smile. “Just an old… friend.”

Bruce’s eyes flickered, his mouth opening—like he was about to say their name.

Duck moved first. They stood, brushing imaginary dirt off their pants, and said with bored disinterest, “Cats are fed. I’m done here. Can we go now?”

Selina gave a purr of amusement, looping her arm around Duck’s shoulders. “Impatient little thing.” She turned back to Bruce with a grin that was more warning than pleasantry. “See you around, Bruce.”

But Bruce stepped forward, voice firm. “Y/N.”

Selina stopped. Duck didn’t. They pulled free of her arm and kept walking, their shoulders stiff, eyes glued to the cracked pavement.

“Y/N.” The name came again, rougher, heavier.

Duck’s steps faltered, just for a fraction of a second. They tightened their fists inside their pockets, nails biting into their palms until it hurt. Then, slowly, they turned, their face cold and unreadable.

“You’ve got the wrong person,” they said flatly. “Don’t know who you’re talking about. I go by Duck.”

For a moment, Gotham was silent. Selina’s smirk softened into something sly but protective as she stood between the two. Bruce’s face, however, betrayed him—eyes tight with regret, mouth pressing into a thin line.

Duck didn’t wait for him to answer. They turned on their heel and disappeared into the alley’s shadows, Selina gliding after them.

Bruce stood there for a long time, the rain finally starting to fall.

And Duck? Duck didn’t look back.

[insomniaccorner]

Someone asked if I’d do commissions for longer fics and honestly?? I kinda want to. If I opened those up, would people be interested? Requests would be closed while I work on commissioned fics tho.

I probably won't do them for long, maybe 5 slots or so for starts to see how it goes.

I want to get y'alls opinions before I decide on anything. So please let me know if that would interest you!

[insomniaccorner]

I mean like I pay you for a longer story! I love your work and would love a long fic (like 1000-2000 words) and would happily pay for it!

Would people actually want to do that???

Like, genuinely asking, cause if so, I could set up something for people to send money for longer fics.

[insomniaccorner]

The Wade fic you did was so good!! Loved it

-H.S

I'm glad! The good thing about writing for Deadpool as that anything can be canon lmao

[insomniaccorner]

Can I have a Sweetheart Shortbread with the Jack in the box guy?

Also do you do commissions?

Oh my gods, the jumpscare. I FORGET THAT'S THEIR MASCOT 😭

I guess you can??? And wdym by commissions? 🤔

[insomniaccorner]

God I order so many Bittersweet Brioche…and again I will order it today with Deadpool and reader who hasn’t really seen Wade get hurt/killed all that much so when they are on the field together Reader genuinely gets upset and Wade is a bit freaked out when reader comforts him after a mission because he’s used to people playing it off that he’s died like 10 times in one mission (I know Deadpool would not die that much he has been trained for years and everything but still) and Wade gets emotional over reader carrying about him.

-H.S/✍️

You’d been warned about teaming up with Wade Wilson. Everyone had their story. Some said he was unbearable, others said he was reckless, and a few admitted he was effective—but nobody ever called him stable. You’d figured you could handle it. After all, you’d grown up around mercenaries, trained with hunters, and faced down enough monsters that a man with too many guns and a red suit didn’t exactly rattle you.

What you hadn’t expected was this.

It was a mission like any other—guns, explosives, a trail of bodies leading through a warehouse. Wade laughed the whole way through, cracking jokes at corpses, yelling movie references you barely caught, and tossing grenades like candy. He didn’t seem nervous, didn’t seem fazed. You couldn’t even tell if he was paying attention.

Then the bullet hit him.

You’d seen people take shots before, but Wade… Wade went down hard. Right through his ribs. Blood spilled out, and for the first time in the mission, he didn’t make a quip. He just gasped and crumpled.

Your heart seized. You sprinted across the warehouse, cutting down anyone dumb enough to stand in your way. When you skidded to your knees beside him, you pressed a hand to his chest, desperate to stop the bleeding. “Wade! Stay with me—god, come on—”

He wheezed a laugh. “Wow. Someone sounds like they actually care. That’s new.” His voice cracked, wet and strained, and you realized with horror that he was actually dying.

“No—don’t joke right now.” You pressed harder, ignoring the way his blood seeped between your fingers. “Just—hold on, okay? I’ve got you. I’m not letting you go like this.”

His eyes widened behind the mask, the humor falling away. He looked… startled. Like your panic didn’t fit into the script he’d written for his life. “You’re… serious.”

“Yes, I’m serious!” you snapped, voice breaking. “You think I’m just gonna let you bleed out? You idiot, I—” You stopped yourself, breath shuddering.

And then—like some cruel trick—the wound began knitting itself closed. Flesh pulled together. Blood clotted. His chest rose stronger, fuller, until he was breathing like nothing had happened. You stared in stunned silence as his body healed under your hands.

Wade sat up, stretching his arms like he’d just woken from a nap. “And that, boys and girls, is the miracle of modern regenerative science. Sponsored by—oh, wait. No one paid me for this ad.”

Your hands dropped from his chest, still shaking. Your pulse thundered in your ears. “…You almost died.”

“Keyword ‘almost.’” He tilted his head, voice going sing-song. “C’mon, sweetheart, lighten up. It’s just part of the gig. I die, I get back up, rinse and repeat.”

Your jaw clenched. You pushed to your feet, glaring down at him. “That’s not funny, Wade. That scared the hell out of me.”

He froze. Really froze this time. No joke. No deflection. His posture shifted like someone had pulled the rug out from under him. “…You mean that.”

“Of course I mean it.” Your voice softened, but it cracked on the edges. “I don’t care how many times you come back—I don’t want to see you fall like that. I don’t want to lose you.”

For the first time since you’d met him, Wade didn’t know what to say. His mask couldn’t hide the way he blinked too fast, the way his breath hitched. “People… they don’t do that. They don’t—” He stopped, swallowed hard. “Usually it’s just, ‘Oh, there goes Deadpool again,’ you know? Red smear on the pavement, and then—pop!—back up. Comic relief. Punchline. But you—” His voice cracked. “You actually give a damn.”

You crouched back down, gentler this time, taking his hand in yours. “Of course I do. You think you’re just some joke to me? Wade, I care about you. I can’t just watch you get torn apart and shrug it off.”

He stared at your hand like it was something alien. Slowly, almost afraid, he curled his fingers around yours. His voice dropped, raw and unfiltered. “…You don’t know what that means to me.”

“Then let me show you.” You squeezed his hand, meeting where his eyes would be behind the mask. “You don’t have to play it off. Not with me. I see you, Wade. Not just Deadpool. You.”

His shoulders trembled, and for once, he didn’t hide behind the snark. Didn’t turn it into a punchline. He just let out a shaky laugh, choked and wet. “God, you’re gonna ruin me.”

You leaned in, resting your forehead against his. “Good. Someone has to.”

And for the first time in a long, long time, Wade Wilson let himself believe that maybe—just maybe—he was worth being cared for.

[insomniaccorner]

AHHHH I LOVE YOUR WRITING also you're one of the very few writers who doesn't write smut and I absolutely love that too. This is not specific like at all but could you write more Loki fics 🥹 preferably with Loki and reader being childhood friends, something hurt/comfort maybe? Thank youuuu <3

Awww, thank you! I'm glad you like my writing. 😊

If I may, @witherby also writes really good fics too! You should check out their Littlest Wayne and Punchline AUs. They got me into writing in the first place.

I do plan on writing more Loki fics in the future so if you have any ideas, feel free to send me them!

[insomniaccorner]

Love the new fic!

-H.S

thank you! there's so much you can write about with Bucky.

now I gotta get back into finishing the requests 😔

jk, I love them, they silly

[insomniaccorner]

The Weight of Shadows

Bucky Barnes x Reader

The first time you met James Buchanan Barnes, he was staring at the floor like it held every answer he’d ever lost.

You hadn’t meant to intrude. The Avengers’ compound was massive, and you were still getting used to its endless hallways and high-tech doors that hissed shut like vaults. You had been hired months ago to help with field data analysis—a job that mostly kept you in front of monitors with late-night coffee and a stack of files nobody else wanted to organize. It wasn’t glamorous, but you liked being useful without standing under the spotlight.

That night, though, the glow of fluorescent lights led you to a training room you hadn’t seen before. Inside sat Bucky Barnes, still as stone on a bench pushed into the corner. He didn’t look like the lethal soldier you’d read about in redacted SHIELD reports. He looked… tired. Almost breakable, despite the broad shoulders and the gleam of metal that caught the light when he shifted.

He noticed you instantly. His blue eyes flicked up, sharp and cautious, as if gauging threat levels. For a second, you swore he might actually leave—just vanish through the door like smoke.

But instead, he spoke. His voice was hoarse, unused. “You lost?”

You hesitated in the doorway. “Yeah. Sort of. Sorry, I didn’t mean to bother you.”

He shrugged, but his shoulders stayed tense. “Doesn’t matter. Place is too damn big anyway.”

It could have ended there. You could’ve turned and left, muttered another apology, and never crossed paths again. But something about him—about the way his flesh hand twisted against the seam of his jeans, restless and unsure—made you stay.

“Do you want me to go?” you asked gently.

That question caught him off guard. For a flicker of a moment, his expression cracked—confusion, almost surprise, like nobody had given him the choice before. Then he shook his head, looking back down at the floor.

“No. Stay if you want.”

And so you did.

Over the following weeks, you found yourselves colliding in small ways. In the kitchen, both reaching for the last cup of coffee. In the gym, when you lingered too long near the equipment and he offered to show you how to adjust the weights. Sometimes in silence, sometimes with brief conversations that lasted just a sentence or two longer than the last time.

Piece by piece, you learned him.

You learned that Bucky carried silence like a second skin. That he hated loud rooms and sudden touches, but he listened more closely than anyone you’d ever met. That when Sam teased him, his frown never quite masked the twitch of amusement in his eyes. That he avoided mirrors when he could, but once—just once—you caught him watching his reflection with a look of grim defiance, as if daring it to blink first.

And he learned you.

He learned that you preferred late nights because the quiet felt safer. That you liked puzzles and patterns, not because you had to for work, but because finding order in chaos was comforting. That you carried your own shadows, tucked neatly under your ribs, and didn’t press him for answers you knew he wasn’t ready to give.

One night, after everyone else had gone to sleep, you found yourselves in the library. He sat across from you, a book open but unread in his hands. You were buried in reports, chewing absentmindedly on the end of a pen. The silence stretched comfortably until he broke it.

“Do you ever think it’s too much?”

You looked up. “What do you mean?”

His jaw flexed. “Living here. With them. Trying to… fit in. Like it’s never going to stick, no matter how hard you try.”

The honesty in his voice pulled at something inside you. You set the pen down and leaned back in your chair. “All the time,” you admitted. “But maybe it’s not about fitting in perfectly. Maybe it’s about finding the cracks where you do belong.”

His gaze held yours, steady and searching. For once, he didn’t look away.

“Maybe,” he said quietly.

The shift between you was subtle, like watching the seasons change—slow and steady until one day you realized everything was different.

He started waiting for you in the mornings, leaning against the counter with an extra cup of coffee already poured. You started saving him a seat during debriefings, even if he never said much. He’d walk you back to your quarters after late nights, his presence steady beside you in the dark hallways.

But with every step closer, there were walls you couldn’t see but could feel—the kind that bristled around him whenever the past crept too close. Sometimes you’d catch him in the grip of a nightmare, breath ragged, eyes glazed with memories that weren’t really his. Sometimes his hand would twitch toward his metal arm as if it betrayed him just by existing.

One night, you reached out on instinct, brushing your fingers over his human knuckles. His entire body went rigid, like the world might end in that second.

“Sorry,” you whispered, pulling back.

But his hand caught yours before you could retreat. Cold metal and warm flesh, both trembling.

“Don’t be,” he said, voice breaking like gravel. “Just… don’t go.”

So you didn’t.

Love wasn’t something either of you rushed into. It wasn’t fireworks or dramatic confessions—it was quieter than that. It was Bucky showing up outside your door at 2 a.m. because he couldn’t sleep, and you letting him sit in silence while you worked. It was you learning how to read the subtle shifts in his voice, the way his breaths evened out when he was finally calm.

It was the moment he trusted you enough to laugh, really laugh, and the sound of it was so rare and unguarded that you thought you might keep it tucked inside your chest forever.

It was slow. It was fragile. It was real.

And when the day came that danger clawed its way back into both your lives—a mission gone wrong, gunfire echoing against metal walls, his body shielding yours without hesitation—you realized something had changed irrevocably.

You weren’t just finding cracks to belong in anymore. You were building something new together, piece by piece, out of all the broken fragments neither of you thought could be whole again.

And maybe—just maybe—that was enough.

[insomniaccorner]

do I need to make a list of fandoms I currently write for? yes, yes I do

will I make that list anytime soon? probably not

are people just gonna keep asking if I write for certain fandoms till this happens? yes, yes they will

where was I going with this? I lost my train of thought-

[insomniaccorner]

Fractures in the Glass

Loki x Reader did anyone ask for this? no. I just wanted to write for the angry magic man

The golden glow of Asgardian torches flickered across the throne room, painting the walls in firelight that couldn’t reach the ice building in your chest. You stood at the far end, unseen, while Loki traded sharp words with Odin.

He was reckless. Angry. Dangerous. At least, that’s what everyone said.

And maybe, for a while, you believed them.

But Loki was also the boy who slipped you poetry written in silver ink, the man who leaned close in shadowed libraries just to whisper a joke only you would understand. The one who always asked if you wanted to be here—on Asgard, in this palace—when no one else cared to ask.

Which is why it hurt so much to hear him spit venom about ruling, about betrayal, about power.

“Do you not see, Father? Thor is a blunt instrument. I am the one who thinks, who sees the cracks in the armor. I could have ruled them all—”

You flinched when Odin’s voice cracked like thunder. “Enough, Loki. Your hunger for power blinds you.”

Loki’s sneer faltered for only a second. You caught it—the flicker of hurt, the way his hands trembled before curling into fists.

No one else noticed.

No one ever did.

That night, you found him not in his chambers, but in the gardens, staring at the fountain as if it mocked him. His shoulders stiffened when he heard your footsteps.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he murmured, his voice edged and hollow. “Unless you’ve come to remind me how far I’ve fallen.”

You swallowed. “I didn’t come to remind you of anything. I came to listen.”

A bitter laugh escaped him. “Listen? To a liar? To a monster?” He turned, his eyes burning green in the moonlight. “Even now, you pity me.”

The words cut deeper than any blade. “I don’t pity you, Loki. I care for you.”

For a heartbeat, silence reigned. His mask cracked, and you saw it—the loneliness, the exhaustion, the desperate need to be seen.

But he shook his head, retreating behind walls of glass. “Care is wasted on me. You’d do better to forget.”

And you almost did.

When Loki vanished into the shadows of war, when whispers reached you of his crimes on Midgard, when every hall of Asgard spoke of his treachery—you tried to forget. You tried to bury the ache of missing someone who never believed he could be loved.

But when Thor returned with him in chains, bloodied and silent, you couldn’t.

He wouldn’t look at you. Shackled, bruised, proud to the very last. But when the guards left, when it was only you outside his cell, he finally spoke.

“You should leave me to rot,” Loki rasped, his lips split and bleeding.

Your hand tightened on the bars. “You want me to believe you don’t care. You want me to walk away so you can say no one ever tried. But I did. I do.”

His gaze flickered, unsteady. “You’re a fool.”

“Maybe.” You forced a trembling smile. “But I’d rather be a fool who loves you than someone who never tried.”

It wasn’t sudden, the way he softened.

It was in stolen moments—the way his hand lingered too long when you passed him water, the way his laugh escaped despite his best efforts when you muttered a sarcastic quip, the way he leaned close against the bars as if drawn to your presence.

And then, one night, the glass finally shattered.

“I don’t deserve this,” Loki whispered, his hand brushing yours through the cold metal. “Your kindness. Your loyalty. Your heart.”

You pressed your forehead to the bars. “Maybe not. But love isn’t about deserving.”

For once, he didn’t argue.

His fingers threaded through yours, hesitant, trembling—but real.

Weeks later, when the shackles were gone and he stood beside you in the gardens again, Loki finally asked:

“Why? Why love me?”

You smiled, softer this time, with no fire or anger between you. “Because even glass can reflect light. And I see yours, Loki—even when you don’t.”

His lips curved, just faintly, into something unguarded. He leaned down, pressing the lightest kiss against your temple, as if afraid you might vanish.

“I don’t know how to be what you think I am,” he confessed.

You tilted your head against him. “Then be what you are. That’s enough for me.”

For the first time in years, Loki let himself believe it might be true.

[insomniaccorner]

It was snowing in Central City again — not the charming kind of snow that came with holiday lights and kids throwing snowballs in the park. No, this was the Snart special: the streets iced over in minutes, and the distinct hiss of a cold gun echoing somewhere nearby.

You knew exactly where to find him.

Sure enough, there he was, leaning casually against a lamppost like he hadn’t just frozen the entrance to a bank solid. Leonard Snart, Captain Cold himself, with that lazy smirk and that damn parka hood pulled up like he owned the weather.

“You stalking me again?” he drawled, his breath curling in the frigid air.

“Please,” you scoffed, walking up to him, “you’re about as subtle as a snowstorm in July.”

The corner of his mouth tugged upward. “And yet, here you are.”

This was how it had been for weeks now — the two of you running into each other “by accident,” your jobs overlapping more often than they reasonably should. Sometimes it was a rooftop conversation after a heist, sometimes it was bumping into him at a black-market exchange. Lately, though, you were starting to wonder if Len wasn’t engineering these run-ins on purpose.

Not that you minded.

“Coffee?” he asked suddenly, like he was offering you a secret rather than caffeine.

You raised an eyebrow. “Since when do you ask instead of threaten?”

His smirk deepened. “Since I started caring if you said yes.”

You followed him without another word.

The coffee shop was warm and dimly lit, steam fogging the windows. You watched as Len carefully removed his gloves, long fingers curling around the mug when it arrived. His hands were ice cold when they brushed yours as he slid your cup over, but somehow, it didn’t make you flinch.

“Don’t tell me,” you said after a sip, “this is where you bring all your accomplices to bribe them into working with you.”

He chuckled lowly. “Only the ones I like.”

There was something about the way he said it — quiet, certain — that sent heat crawling up your neck.

You tried to change the subject. “So, what’s your deal, Snart? Big bad thief with a soft spot for small talk?”

He leaned back in his chair, eyes fixed on you. “My deal is, I like control. I like knowing the lay of the land. But… you? You don’t fit in the map, sweetheart. You make me improvise.”

You rolled your eyes to hide the way your pulse jumped. “So I’m a complication?”

“A complication I don’t want to get rid of.”

The conversation flowed easily after that — teasing, trading stories, small jabs that came with easy laughter. At some point, you realized his posture had shifted, that careful guard he always carried loosened around you. And when the coffee was gone and the snow outside had softened to a lazy drift, he didn’t get up to leave.

You ended up walking together through the quiet streets. He kept his pace matched to yours, hands tucked in his pockets, head tilted toward you like he was listening to something only you could say.

At one point, a gust of wind cut through the street, sharp and biting. You shivered before you could stop yourself.

Without a word, Len reached over and pulled his parka half-open, gesturing for you to step in close.

“Don’t read into it,” he said gruffly as you hesitated. “You’re just freezing.”

You stepped closer anyway, pressed against his side under the heavy coat. His body was warm in a way you didn’t expect, his arm settling naturally around your shoulders.

“Mm,” you murmured, letting the comfort sink in, “for someone called Captain Cold, you’re pretty warm.”

You felt his quiet laugh rumble against you. “Don’t tell anyone. I’ve got a reputation to maintain.”

By the time you reached your building, you almost didn’t want the walk to end. You turned to say goodnight, but he surprised you — just leaned down, pressing a light kiss to your temple.

“Stay warm, sweetheart,” he murmured, his breath ghosting over your skin.

And before you could answer, he was already walking away, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the wind. But you caught it — that small, real smile on his face that wasn’t for anyone else.

You’d see him again soon. You knew it.

And maybe, you thought with a grin, you’d “accidentally” run into him first next time.

[insomniaccorner]

Also for B99 the episode are also only like 21 minutes! So you can get through the show pretty fast!!

“-H.S

Even better!!! I was hoping the episodes where 25 minutes or less.

[insomniaccorner]

do u write for Frieren?

I started watching the anime! It's good so far

[insomniaccorner]

There is forshoadowing! The series is good with that and having things that happen in the episodes actually matter in the next ones! Also the have characters/“ villains”come back and they stick with interesting plot lines for the characters! (I can go into more details but it’s my hyper fixation. I’ve watched it around four times now and I know that if I talk too much, I’ll spoil it.)

-H.S

That's good to know! I hate when shows use characters and plots and then forget about them later. It annoys me so much cause they could use the most heartbreaking plot for an episode and then completely change it or forget about it later on. So I'm glad B99 doesn't do that from what you said.

[insomniaccorner]

THE SHOW IS SO GOOD!!! It gets better as the seasons go on kind of like the office but funnier and with more interesting characters! I totally recommend it if you run out of shows

-H.S

I HAVE RUN OUT OF SHOWS! I'm currently rewatching Supernatural cause I never finished it the first time. I stopped somewhere in season 4, I think?

But good to know! Anything I should know about the show?

[insomniaccorner]

Do you write for Brooklyn nine nine?

Unfortunately I haven't seen the show, just a few clips here and there. But if you send an ask, I'll just see it as an excuse to watch the show, I've been meaning to watch it.