Dreamwidth Vamptober writing prompt: @meli_writes — Vampire who isn’t allowed to speak at the werewolf pack-moot unless they’re in an absurd amount of silver chains
“The local pack is…look, I mean, you know how it is. It’s not that thay’re not progressive, but — you know the meme? The thing? Y’know. I’ve been treated better by rural folks in stereotypically conservative areas who didn’t know any of the correct words and used terms that are now-considered Not Okay than by urban lefties who knew all the cutting-edge politically correct ways to refer to me and said them as a slur in spirit, that thing? This is a conservative area, in the…change-hasn’t-arrived-here sense. They’re good people, just....”
“Guessing that not a whole lot of vampires come to their packmoots,” Banksia says dryly.
“I think the nearest vampire out here lives over Wyatt way,” Naomi says, scratching her growing-out buzzcut. “That’s, like, couple of hours drive. Blood supply out in the sticks is a problem.”
“Uh-huh,” Banksia says. “When you say conservative, what are we talking about, my little honey-bird? Conservative like nobody’s gonna talk to me or conservative like I better not wander off alone in case I trip and fall face-first on some coincidental high-velocity buckshot or conservative like the good old boys have a Ye Old iron cage on wheels right out of the Middle Ages that I gotta be brought in?”
“Baby, I am from here?” Naomi says. “Do you think I would come back here, do you think I would for a second bring you here, if anyone would hurt you?”
“I think girls take their girlfriends to conservative families knowing it’s going to be a bad time all the time, because family is a bear trap that everyone has to judge for themselves the relative damage of staying put and prising their leg out,” Banksia says. “I don’t think you’d bring me knowing I’d get hurt. But knowing that I will and knowing that vampire-hatin’ Uncle Jeb is definitely gonna be there but you’ve never seen him actually stake someone yet is two different—”
“It’s not at all like that,” Naomi says. “I promise it’s not. And if I get the shock of my life and someone acts out, they will have to get through me.”
“It is adorable that you think I haven’t worried about exactly that all the way here.” Banksia leans on the porch railing and looks out at — well, Naomi would know, tell you what all the trees are and things, but to Banksia it’s a whole lot of endless grass-covered gnat-haunted nothing.
Naomi scratches at her hair again. “You know how you complain sometimes about, like, old-fashioned high-protocol vampire groups?” she says cautiously.
“Uh-huh,” Banksia says, tone loaded, and Naomi gingerly hands over a book. “Holy mother of big gay fuck. This is an antique leather bound book of packmoot bylaws?”
“Yeah,” Naomi says. “There’s, uh. A protocol for vampires?”
“I was joking about the big iron cage,” Banksia says, opening the book carefully to the table of contents.
Naomi makes an I don’t really want to say anything here, but… noise.
Banksia looks at her, looks at the page, flicks deep into the little old book. Reads.
Gives Naomi a particular, steady kind of look over the book. Goes back and reads.
”…ſhall be brought forth before the Pack bound fast in chains of Silver,” she eventually reads aloud, distinctly and sarcastically.
“Baby,” Naomi says. “I asked about this, okay? I asked and it’s ceremonial. The last anyone remembers it is, like, 1972 or something? It’s ceremonial. Like the British Parliament or something? Once a year they have a guy knock on the door and they tell him to fuck off three times because he’s the Queen’s representative and its a symbolic humbling of the crown before the government’s power, like, we chopped your head off once, Your Majesty, don’t forget?”
“I think you’re confusing something with converting to Judaism,” Banksia says, bone-dry and sardonic.
“No, whatever, the point is, it’s ceremonial. You’re showing willing to acknowledge the packmoot’s authority, and then we just let you right out.”
“So long as I don’t run face-first into Uncle Jeb’s coincidental buckshot first.”
“I have had the this is archaic bullshit argument with my Mom and Dad,” Naomi says. “It’s like telling grandparents that you’re banning them from teaching your kids Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy.”
“How about we adopt them some grandkids first, then come back,” Banksia says. “Dare them to chain up Mommy in front of the kiddies.”
There’s a long pause.
“You can’t distract me by making me imagine having kids with you,” Naomi says eventually.
“Just did.”
“Shut up.”
“This,” Banksia says, hefting the book, “is asking a lot.”
“More than the time I said I thought I wanted to try playing with knives?”
“I said yes to that,” Banksia says. “I got us knives to play with. This? This is a lot.”
“Yeah,” Naomi says glumly. “Yeah. I know. I’m sorry.”
Banksia quietly closes the book.
“I will let you — specifically — chain me in silver,” she says. “On one condition—”
“Oh my god I’m gonna get disinherited,” Naomi mutters, under the Packmoot moon, massaging her temples.
“Nope,” Banksia says cheerily. “Your parents won’t want to miss out on the cute lil kiddies we adopt. But they are absolutely gonna reconsider expecting me to do the whole chains thing ever again.”
Naomi risks a glance at her; at the mesh top, no bra, leather miniskirt. Collar. Piercings. Complicated web of fine silver chain connecting various things.
“I am gonna have to answer questions about shit that I really don’t wanna talk to my family about,” she whines.
“Maybe,” Banksia says, and grins, teeth glittering in the moonlight. “Now help me with the handcuffs, honey-bird, and pray nobody’s brave to ask say, that one chain running straight down under the waist of that skirt at the back…what does that attach to…?”
