Collection of One Shots (Male Reader x Various)

The Cat and The Devil

It was a little past midnight when Y/n let himself into his flat, nudging the door shut behind him with his foot. His body was on autopilot, instinctively flicking the light switch to the "On" position, even though he couldn't see it. No one could guess, just from looking, that he was anything out of the ordinary—a bit rough around the edges, perhaps, but just another bloke coming home after a long night. Shoulders were slightly hunched, heads angled down as if weary from the city's constant hum.

He slipped his keys onto the kitchen counter, sliding his hand along its edge, feeling for the familiar spots that anchored him to the space: the rough patch in the wood where he'd dropped his mug too many times, the edge where his flatmates—back when he'd had any—had once nicked it with a knife. Honestly, he missed visiting this apartment when he wasn't working.

Shoes off, socks padding against the floor, he moved to his little sitting area, kicking his trainers into a heap under the table. He sat for a moment, letting out a long, heavy breath. The quiet was nice, settling into his bones, though he could still hear the faint hum of a car rolling past, the lightest scrape of a pigeon ruffling its feathers on the window ledge. That was the thing about quiet; it never quite arrived in a place like this, where the city never truly slept.

But it was nice enough, he thought, letting the stillness settle before his attention shifted to the walking stick at his side. After a beat, Y/n picked up his walking stick, running his thumb along its handle. He tapped it against the floor twice, lightly, out of habit more than necessity, then set about unscrewing it. Each segment came apart easily—one, two, three—and he laid them neatly in a row on the counter, his fingers swift, certain, despite what some might assume. It was a habit to him now, this familiar routine that always came with a hint of irony.

Most people who crossed him in the street wouldn't think twice about it, just seeing another blind man with a cane. But he'd long ago realised that the cane was like his own form of misdirection; it told people he was vulnerable, easy to underestimate, and most did.

Y/n felt the briefcase that was resting next to the table and with a hum and a sharp exhale, Y/n hefted the case onto the table and unclasped it. Inside, neatly folded, was his kit—the black suit, mask, and gloves that transformed him from Y/n, the blind bloke down the hall, into something else entirely. His fingers traced over the cool fabric, noting every crease, every corner. To the world, he might have seemed like any other man, but the truth was something far sharper, far darker, and it was time for that truth to come out.

As he suited up, he felt the weight of the night ahead settle on his shoulders, but it was a familiar feeling, something he welcomed like an old friend. He gave the mask one last tug, letting it settle perfectly in place before pulling the hood up, tucking away anything that might give him away.

And with the quiet city sounds humming in his ears, he closed the case, his senses sharpening, mind slipping from one version of himself into the other. The time for patience had passed because now it was time for him to find this thief... Fast...

The night air clung damp and cold as Daredevil moved through the rooftops, every step seemed more urgent than the last. For most, New York was just noise and shadows, but for him, it was sharper—the noise bouncing off everything and giving him a better few of the city than most of its inhabitants.

This wasn't Hell's Kitchen and he honestly could get used to this, if it wasn't for the fact that he was here because of one person. A person which he had to track down unbelievably fast since he didn't have much time to do so.

He found her on a rooftop near the centre of the city, perched on the ledge with her back to him, her focus entirely on a small object cradled in her hands. She looked smaller from afar, almost delicate, as she studied the artefact with a quiet intensity. But he knew better; she was anything but fragile.