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Wilson Bethel in Daredevil S03E12

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Dan Stevens as David Collins in The Guest (2014)

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Dan Stevens as Charlie in The Rental (2020)

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Dan Stevens as David Collins THE GUEST

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May DWC 2025 Bonus Day - Armor, Snap

Follow-up to this story with @xylaes!

He didn’t even pretend to try to go home. He didn’t stop walking, didn’t care where the path took him, only that it led away from that apartment, from the city, from the heat still clinging to him like shame. Ouro moved past the last gilded spires of Silvermoon without glancing back. The gates were barely manned at this hour, and no one dared question him. He passed under the archway with coat clutched in one hand, bruises settling even deeper into his ribs with every breath.

The air outside was colder, crisper, and less perfumed here. He didn’t follow the road, instead, he slipped through one of the lesser-used trails that wove into the forest beyond the city. It was quieter here where the tall trees bent overhead to form a canopy, shielding the stars in patches. 

There was no destination, just motion until he felt as if he were far enough from whatever those feelings had been. Eventually, he came to a stop near a small rise overlooking the river where he dropped down onto a flat stone at the edge and let the silence take him.

Ouro exhaled roughly through his nose. Everything about tonight had been a mistake. He should’ve stayed away, should’ve kept the pain locked where it belonged, buried under routines and smoke and distance. Instead, he showed up bleeding all over the threshold like some broken thing.

And Xylaes had opened the door.

The problem wasn’t just that he let him in, it was what followed. The words and the weight behind them. The moment when silence stretched too long and Ouro saw something he wasn’t supposed to see, something mirrored. Something a lot like recognition.

He closed his eyes. There were thoughts he couldn’t afford to have, feelings he didn’t trust, a growing pressure under his sternum that didn’t know how to define itself. He wasn’t wired for softness, he never had been. And tonight, whatever that was, it had rattled him. More than the bruises, more than the punch, more than the kiss he hadn’t seen coming, even though he initiated it.

He dragged his fingers over his face. What the fuck was he doing? Ouro didn’t need comfort, and he didn’t believe in healing, it was all a lie that made people soft. At least that was what he had always been taught. People patched themselves up just enough to function and called it recovery, it was bullshit. The world didn’t wait for anyone to get better, it didn’t care if you cracked or snapped in two. All it left you with were brittle repairs and the echo of what used to be whole.

He didn’t know why he'd kissed him, it wasn't a desire or the want for affection. If anything, it was a violent need to feel something that wasn’t the crushing spiral of a negative space, that cavernous pit he walked around every day pretending it wasn’t wide enough to swallow him whole.

Xylaes had just been there. Solid, still, and dangerous in ways Ouro didn’t quite understand. For one flickering moment, Ouro had wanted to demolish the quiet between them, he wanted to tear it down and see what was underneath. Now, all he had was silence again.

He pulled a cigarette from his pocket, lit it, and stared at the smoke until his eyes watered from forgetting to blink. The weight in his chest hadn’t moved, the ache stayed sitting in wait behind his ribs like a thing coiled and ready to strike. Tomorrow he would put the armor back on and go back to work, back to the orders, and the calculated distance.

Tonight, he just sat with the quiet.

@xylaes @daily-writing-challenge

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            That which does not kill me… 

                                WILL NOT  GET  A  SECOND  CHANCE.

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Eternal Return.

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May DWC 2025 Day 5 - Restless, Faith

Story Continued From ----> HERE

Xylaes didn’t move right away. He stood there, jaw clenched, arms tense at his sides like they hadn't realized the fight was already over. Not that there’d been a real fight. A punch, a kiss, and then nothing but silence swallowing the room. He blinked slowly and brushed his lower lip with his knuckles where the sharp taste of Ouro and his own blood still lingered. He hadn’t seen that coming, not from him. Maybe he should have.

He let out a breath, heavy and unsure. The air still smelled faintly of him - gunmetal, sweat, alcohol, blood, and the faintest smell of cologne. For a second, Xylaes imagined it clinging to his sheets. He paced a few steps into the room, then stopped short as he flexed his hands. He wanted a drink, badly, the muscle memory of it hit him like a ton of bricks. Something to ground him and to numb him, to blur out the weight pressing at his temples and tightening within his chest. He didn’t keep whiskey here anymore, and wouldn’t let himself have that kind of faith in old comforts. He already knew what was at the end of that rabbit hole.

Instead, he scrubbed a hand through his hair and dropped onto the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees. The space was too quiet and he was too restless. Ouro had looked wrong tonight. Not in the usual way, either. Not just tired or guarded, but cracked open under the surface. Like someone had shaken loose the screws holding him together and he barely noticed. Xylaes had seen that look before, usually in a mirror.

He hadn’t asked probing questions because he knew damn well what it felt like to have someone attempt to peel back your layers without permission. He hated it, so he hadn’t done it to Ouro. But all of the pieces were there, the bruises, the look in his eyes, and the silence.

And still...that kiss.

Xylaes’s fingers traced over his jaw, feeling where the hit had landed. He hadn’t meant to say something that sharp. Or maybe he had, maybe he was testing the edge, the way he always did when things got too close. He could still feel the heat of that moment, Ouro’s knuckles slamming into his face, and then, before he could even retaliate, that mouth on his. All fire and fury and something terrifyingly close to need.

He let out a quiet breath, almost a laugh. Ouro hadn’t planned it, that much was clear. Neither of them had, which made it worse. Xylaes leaned back slowly against the wall, one leg still grounded, the other stretched across the bed like he was halfway to getting up, like he couldn’t quite commit to anything, even now.

He thought, fleetingly, about Pollux. About that time in their lives, two soldiers, forced too close by war and chaos and never asking for more than what the moment could give. No one expected permanence in the field whether it be life or romance, that wasn’t what they were looking for. Yet somewhere in the spaces between, something unspoken had bloomed, and later died with changed circumstances.

They never talked about it. Pollux had found someone else now, a woman who made him smile in ways Xylaes never could, and Xylaes was genuinely happy for him. No jealousy, just this strange ache of something that never had a name, now passed on.

So perhaps that was why Ouro's kiss rattled him more than it should have. Not just because it had been violent, but because it had felt familiar in a way that Xylaes couldn’t pin down. Something echoed in it, something familiar but unfinished.

He closed his eyes for a long moment, jaw set tight. No promises, no meanings, that’s what it had to be. He had spent too many years building walls with his own hands to start tearing them down now, especially not for someone like Ouro. Volatile, closed-off, and impossible to read. The man was a ticking bomb with too much pain in his bones to carry anyone else’s.

And yet, Xylaes had let him in.  Even if just for a moment.

He swallowed hard, then rose slowly to his feet and pulled the curtain shut. The light dimmed and the apartment fell still. No answers were waiting in the silence, just the memory of a kiss that still burned within his mouth, and the shape of a man who never should’ve walked through his door, but had. And somewhere, behind it all, the low, simmering truth that neither of them was going to forget this.

@ouroandar @polluxhale @kharrisdawndancer @daily-writing-challenge

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May DWC 2025 Day 4 - Dangerous, Tremendous

He stood outside the door longer than he meant to, and couldn’t recall exactly why his feet led him here. The hour was indecent, and the building uncomfortably silent. The corridor was still, light from a nearby sconce casting a soft blue and gold against the narrow hallway walls. His knuckles throbbed from the last hit he threw, split open again, still fresh. His coat was stiff with blood, sweat, and alcohol, the pistol beneath it pressed hard against his side, a dangerous reminder of how far he was willing to go if provoked. Or if invited.

He knocked three sharp raps, not a request, but a demand. Moments later the door cracked open and Xylaes blinked at him, half-dressed, runes on his arm faintly pulsing in the low light. He was always alert, always composed, but this time, Ouro saw just a flicker of surprise. 

Xylaes stepped aside and Ouro passed him without a word, heavy boots landing with purpose. The place was small and sparse, but functional. He could smell old books, smoke, and a faint bitter scent of what he assumed to be tea. It fit the man who lived here, too much past, not enough room to escape it.

He didn’t take off the coat nor did he explain himself. He stayed standing in the middle of the room with fists clenched at his sides. Every inch of him buzzed like a machine winding down after a long day of being overworked. Bruises were blooming along his cheekbone and his eye was beginning to swell. It would probably hurt more if he felt it, but a cocktail of drugs and alcohol took care of that.

Xylaes shut the door behind him. “You look like shit.”

“Fought someone, multiple someones who look worse.”

“You win?”

Ouro’s mouth twitched. “Didn’t lose.”

He finally shrugged the coat off and dropped it on a nearby chair, his stained shirt following quickly behind to survey the damage. Beneath, the bruises were worse than they’d felt and tremendous in their sprawl, along ribs and collarbone, a smear of dried blood on his side. He didn’t wince, but he felt the weight of being examined. Xylaes hadn’t moved, but his gaze tracked every inch. Ouro’s voice came out raspy. “Got a medkit, or do you let that arm do all the patching now?”

“I’ve got one, take a seat.”

Obstinate, neither moved and the silence stretched between them, not awkward, just dangerous. Like something poised to uncoil between them if either man gave it life. “Or don’t,” Xylaes continued. “Just stand there, dark and brooding, like some brothel fantasy who forgot the safeword.”

A ghost of a smirk appeared as Ouro moved to the sink, letting cold water rinse over his hands and splashing it onto his face. The cuts stung, but he barely felt it. He caught his reflection in the darkened window; one swollen eye, busted lip, a man shaped by a lifetime of violence. A ghost with a gunmetal stare. Unkillable, unfortunately. He’d seen worse, been worse. 

Xylaes finally spoke again, quieter now after retrieving the medkit. “You looking for something, An’dar? Or just out of places to bleed? Don’t think it’s this.” He held up the kit and gave it a rattling shake.

Ouro didn’t answer, at least not right away. His thoughts were too loud, memories wrapped in the smell of gunpowder and the sound of a child’s laughter he hadn’t heard in years. The date circled his brain like a vulture, a date that should have mattered, but was just any other day now since his son was long buried and unable to celebrate his own birthday. He wanted to find death tonight and had looked for it in every fist, every alley. But it refused him, like always. Too stubborn to let go.

“Didn’t want to be alone,” he said at last. Truth, in its own bitter way. The taste of the phrase scorched his tongue.

Xylaes raised a brow, he wasn’t expecting that. “You think this is better?”

“No. But you don’t ask stupid questions.”

Xylaes almost smiled, that was debatable. “Must be losing your edge, then. Showing up like this.”

“Or maybe I’m just out of fucks.”

“Yeah?” Xylaes stepped closer, careful but casual. Ouro felt it; the shift in the air, the pressure of being seen too clearly by a man just as broken by life. “Or maybe you’re afraid of what happens if you stop swinging.”

That earned him a sharp glance, but Ouro didn’t answer. Not when the room suddenly felt too small and especially not when Xylaes was standing just close enough that he could smell the heat off his skin, electric and grounding all at once. The quiet between them changed again, it turned heavier, charged with something unspoken.

Xylaes’s voice dropped into a whisper. “You sure you came here for nothing?”

Ouro’s jaw twitched. “Don’t start.”

“Or what?” Xylaes leaned in just slightly, eyes never leaving him, taunting. “You’ll run off to get your ass kicked somewhere else? Or wait around long enough to catch a bullet from someone better at it?”

Ouro didn’t think and his fist snapped forward and caught Xylaes across the jaw, not full force, but enough. Enough to break the tension, to shatter the silence, to remind both of them that this wasn’t safe nor soft. Xylaes staggered back a step but didn’t fall. He just looked up, lips parting, blood at the edge of his mouth. And those eyes, gods, those eyes burned with rage and temptation.

“The fuck is wrong with you?”

Ouro surged forward, grabbed the front of his shirt, and kissed him. It landed like another strike; hard, fast, and all violence. There was no hesitation, no question, just a clash of breath and heat. Ouro tasted iron, adrenaline, and something buried too deep to name. Xylaes didn’t hesitate, he grabbed Ouro’s shirt right back, and yanked him closer, mouth meeting his with equal force. It was reckless and messy, not about need, but about something darker and more savage. And it lingered for too long.

Ouro pulled back first, chest rising with labored breath. Xylaes didn’t speak nor move, but he was somewhat flushed and that heat in his gaze had turned molten. A gaze Ouro had no idea what to do with, so he did the only thing he could do and looked away. The silence passed between them like a loaded gun, cocked and ready to fire at a moment’s notice.  He grabbed his coat and shirt, the moment already unraveling behind him. “Don’t follow me.” He didn’t wait for an answer, didn’t need one. He let the door click shut behind him and walked into the dark, jaw clenched, heart thundering like it remembered what it meant to beat.

@xylaes @daily-writing-challenge

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Circe, Madeline Miller

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