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Dan Stevens

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"Death and Ouroboros" - Unknown Artist, 17th Century.

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"Dead Man's Hand"...

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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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