#sloancre

[opaleyedprince]

remember (you are dust)

aka a little dacre drabble bc i was inspired <3 warning for his backstory which does. involve hunters. there is murderin' in here

the church had stood for longer than anyone in the town could remember.

or that was the story, according to every elder in the pack. even those who viewed dacre as more of a helpful nuisance wouldn't tell him exactly when it had been built, only that many years had passed since then; far too many for them to number.

all dacre knew was that the stained glass windows looked far too pristine to be original - and yet somehow he believed his great-grandmother when she insisted the only part of the building to ever be replaced were a few floorboards.

the windows were his favorite part of the church, not counting the piano. the placement of the church itself allowed both sun and moonlight to catch in the colored glass and filter in, illuminating the inside without need for other methods of lighting. still, they used candles, though it was more for decoration than anything.

"a marvel of engineerin'," his great uncle grunted, but that seemed a rather boring explanation to dacre's young mind.

"'s magic," he would say to the others, the ones just his junior and younger, tapping a finger to his own nose, "this whole place is. it'll never burn, never rot, nothin' bad can touch it."

that seemed more of a fitting story, one he spun with ease; weaving threads of tales his cousin had told him when they were both younger into something shining and warm, like the sun that came through those windows.

"we're warriors," their words lingered in his mind, "holy warriors mind, all a' us- even tha ones's not born with the gift. outsiders don't know a lick."

"'s a special place for us," dacre murmured, brushing messy hair out of one listener's eyes and smiling when the kid stuck out their tongue and reached up to undo his efforts. "it'll keep us safe."

reputation among the pack, between the families, was how you got places. his cousin was a crack shot, often sent off with the hunters and hailed on their return as an exemplary individual. dacre, on the other hand, was... soft.

he loathed hard work and would complain the whole time. a poor lookout when assigned to flock or herd duty, he shirked his responsibilities at every opportunity and protested when he couldn't wriggle out of them entirely.

so he was given other tasks: pup watching. babysitting, his cousin called it, but he didn't mind. he liked making faces at the little ones, telling stories and pitching his voice higher or lower and striking pose after pose until they finally broke down in laughter.

immature he may have been, a fool and a burden far beyond what his age should have allowed. but he knew all of their names, from the boy with the golden curls to the girl whose breaths wheezed in her chest, a sign of her slow recovery from pneumonia that past winter.

his other duty, which was also intended as punishment at first, was to assist in church functions.

dusting, tidying the pews, and tuning the piano were among his given chores. the first two he didn't mind, the last he enjoyed far more. the task of tuning, and then later playing, eased the restless energy that dogged his every step.

dacre would never tell a soul, but he liked the hymns they sang; liked the way his voice echoed off the high ceiling when he was alone and took the chance to practice. he'd never been particularly good at anything, gangly and freckled with his gap-toothed grin that always seemed to put adults on edge.

it wasn't his fault most of them assumed his smile hid mischief - even if they were usually right.

dacre never felt the need to better himself. his teeth were sharp enough regardless of form, tongue capable of inflicting far more harm than his claws, and he'd be the first to admit that his pride extended to very few of his physical aspects.

his hazel-brown eyes, his hair of burnished copper, and his voice. the rest of him he paid very little mind.

why did it matter that his teeth weren't the sharpest when all he did was mind the younger members of the pack, carefully swatting them apart when they tussled a bit too roughly? why would he need sharp claws when his dull fingers are more suited to playing the piano, words of song fitting better in his mouth than any growl or snarl?

even if he didn't believe all the words said in their church, he still took pride in his work; in every laugh he coaxed from the others; in each murmur of praise at his steady hand when he lit or extinguished a row of candles.

he was not superstitious, but as he stood outside and carefully arranged palms in a metal bucket for burning, he felt the weight of eyes on him. yet even when he turned to look around, he found nothing. the only other eyes to be found were portrayed in the glass window overhead, an angel wreathed in golden light looking down at him, and he relaxed.

it was not that he put any stock in it- at least, not in a way he'd ever admit. in one smooth motion, he pulled a pack of matches from his pocket, struck, and watched the faded green of dried plants blacken.

his hands still smelled of the oils he'd mixed into the ashes for use when that coming wednesday arrived, and dacre found he didn't mind.

"remember, you are dust." the words calmed the prickle of doubt beneath his skin, even as he felt the press of a thumb on his forehead, a messy cross painted there for all to see. "and to dust you shall return."

dacre crouched low to the ground, his shoulders pulled inward to make his frame seem smaller.

"shh, shh," he tried to soothe the child in his arms, even as his own heart seized in on itself like a rabbit caught in a trap. "it's okay, we'll be okay."

a tiny part of his brain knew he was lying, knew there was no point in this, begged for him to fight.

the visitors, who had hid behind words of peace and easy offers of aid, were not what they seemed. not mere priests, but hunters - dacre had heard his great aunt mutter under her breath. rats. shame and regret bit at dacre's heels. why hadn't he told the others that they seemed suspicious?

would anyone have believed him if he did?

it doesn't matter anymore, nothing mattered except making sure they stayed alive.

dacre knew the hunting party would be back soon, he just had to make sure they hold out until then.

even as he knew they were imprisoned, trapped; him, the younger members of the pack, and the elders who'd decided to remain behind while the strongest among them ventured out to gather food and other things they needed to stockpile before winter. perhaps he could run, could change, find the party and his cousin and warn them-

the little one in his arms shuddered, and dacre's sharp ears caught the wheeze in her panicked breaths. still not healed, not all the way. regardless of if she could shift or not, she would be unable to flee with the rest if they attempted escape.

he wouldn't abandon them, not a single soul.

"it's okay," he breathed, trying to keep his voice steady even as the bodies around him cower when the shadows pressed in around them. "remember- we're safe here. they can't hurt us."

the shatter of old wood was loud in the silence, and his lies were laid bare in seconds.

what followed was quick and methodical, and dacre ordered his young charges to keep their eyes closed when he saw the glint of moonlight on metal.

a pale finger curled around the trigger, and tears burned his cheeks. but he refused to lower himself any further, body folded like a mother vixen crouched over her young. he bared his teeth.

there was a sound of thunder.

all dacre tasted was ash. ash and blood. smoke in the air, filling his lungs and stinging his eyes when he finally blinked them open. the chill of incoming winter nipped at his face, and for a moment he stared up at the night sky and could not place where or when he was.

young again, pulling his aching body from the still-smouldering wreckage of the church? no, that didn't seem right.

his head hurt- but not where the bullet had pierced him. when he lifted his hand, he felt nothing on his forehead, no sign of soot on his skin.

"are you an idiot, or do you simply have a death wish?"

the familiar voice was an anchor in the sea of dacre's thoughts.

he was not in ruins, surrounded by blackened limbs and shivering in the bright morning sun. many years had passed since then.

the last thing he recalled was meeting a contact in a run-down bar, the abandoned establishment a perfect place for them to discuss the heist his current employer intended to carry out. what he had not been counting on was for his sharp tongue to get him into trouble - again. he'd barely had the chance to insult local law enforcement for being so easily swayed before there was a flash of metal, a loud crack, and white hot-cold agony giving way to nothing, a wetness on his face as the ground rushed up to meet him.

"naw," dacre said, voice scratchy, and clearing his throat, "jus' a flesh wound, don't worry your pretty head."

from his place sat beside him on the cold ground, sloan huffed in barely-concealed annoyance. his sharp features were illuminated by the light of a nearby campfire, and dacre allowed himself to stare.

pale skin, curls of black framing his jaw, and for a moment dacre pictured the vampire rendered resplendent in stained glass, looking down at him like a disappointed guardian angel as his mouth twisted in something dacre couldn't quite name.

blasphemous, but he'd be far more inclined to pray again if it were to such an angel. if the spike of hunger he felt showed in dacre's eyes, sloan's expression betrayed nothing.

"whatever you said, it made our contact mad enough to put this in your skull." a weight hit dacre's shirt, and he looked down to see a dirty lump of metal on his chest. "you coughed it up yesterday."

"yesterday?" dacre hummed, plucking the bullet between two fingers and watching as dried blood flaked off. how long was i out?

"a few of the others started digging a hole to dump you in." sloan's eyes narrowed, gold catching the moonlight and flashing when he turned his head away. too long.

"mmm." dacre hummed again, gloved palm closing around the bullet. "'s not my first rodeo. i'll be fine." sorry.

he slipped the bullet into his pocket - it would make a nice addition to the cord around his neck - and pushed himself into a sitting position, licking his dry lips.

"thirsty," he rasped, and when sloan handed him a flask of water he fell upon it with perhaps more gusto than was warranted, tipping his head back as his throat worked.

he felt the weight of sloan's gaze on his exposed flesh, following several drops of water that escaped his lips and trailed down his neck. for an instant, he caught a glint of red in those eyes, and bared his teeth at the other man in a crooked grin once he'd had his fill.

"well, i'll tell ya what," he said, getting to his feet and shaking the last bits of tiredness from his limbs, "got the intel we need. gonna come with me to tell the others?"

"no," sloan said flatly, which suited dacre just fine.

"alrighty then. jus' don't go nowhere, yeah, fangs?"

he straightened and tipped his hat before turning on his heel and making for the camp. the moon overhead seemed to sing, her light sinking into his skin and replenishing his strength in the way she did for all of her children, chasing the chill of momentary death from his bones. all were dust, would return to dust, but not him.

after passing on his information, he also intended to eat his fill of the meat he could smell being roasted over one of their group's fires. the rarer, the better he imagined the blood in his veins would taste.

a brief laugh, clipped as a coyote's cackle, rose up from deep in his chest. he'd never tell a soul, but he looked forward to it.

[opaleyedprince]

📝🔮🍓 sloancre vibes pleaaaasse

THREE emojis so you get THREE aus

📝 - the lads get ahold of a pair of notebooks that are linked, so whatever they each write appears in the others' notebook too, but they have no idea. queue dacre's drawings of sloan appearing in the back of sloan's notebook >:3

🔮 - purveyor of antiquities (magical and not) sloan and dacre who has been cursed into one specific object - perhaps a tome or a portrait or even a creature - and sloan cannot for the life of him figure out why this specific piece of merchandise keeps making its way back to him, not to mention why it's so familiar...

🍓 - ok i know this is a bit of a reach but fey au where sloan is a fae and dacre keeps stealing + eating the fae food bc he doesn't want to leave the forest no thanks he would prefer to stay