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Flynn might be one of the smartest guys in the world, but even he can’t make something out of nothing - well, not without the philosopher’s stone, but he left that in his other pants - and after thirty minutes of scouring the Pride, he’s forced to come to the conclusion that there is absolutely capital-N Nothing in this boat that’ll allow him and Simone to escape in time before Dracula is resurrected. He relays this as he slumps down onto the ground next to her, both of them tired and defeated and soaking wet.
“There’s nothing you can do? You’re sure?” Simone asks, brow knit, fangs peaking ever so slightly out. It’s cute. She’s cute. If things weren’t so hopeless, he’d kiss her just because he could, but as it stands, he just shakes his head.
Flynn raps his knuckles against the hull of the ship. “Unfortunately, this is solid 19th century craftsmanship. Maybe if we had a cannon…,” he trails off. No point going into Newton’s third law without a way to apply it; he gets the feeling that Simone is a visual learner anyway.
Simone sighs and lays her head on his shoulder. He feels the weight of her pressed against his side. She’s cold, freezing really. Not just in the way he is, either. She’s cold as a corpse. He hadn’t noticed that before, not even when the two of them had, you know. Did it. Fornicated. Made the beast with two backs. Willful ignorance on his part or some sort of biological function on hers? It was possible that the ingestion of blood allowed her to temporarily maintain normal human bodily functions… he made a mental note to ask her about it when this whole Dracula debacle was over and done with. Of course, to do that, they would have to GET OUT OF THIS SHIP, but he was getting to that. Eventually.
See, the thing is, it’s not like they have zero options. They have one option, actually, and they both know what it is even if neither of them wants to say it out loud. If Flynn’s brain can’t get them out of this, then it’s up to Simone’s brawn. Except without sustenance, Simone’s brawn is roughly equivalent to Flynn’s and as many, many people have pointed out, Flynn’s brawn is pretty much an oxymoron. So, Simone needs blood, but unless they want to chance waiting around for a rat or two that she can drain dry - unsanitary and, Flynn is afraid, probably unattractive - then the only source of blood available is Flynn.
Simple, right? It probably should be, except that Flynn is pretty attached to his blood. He’s spent a lot of time with it. And on top of that, he doesn’t even like needles! It’s hard to volunteer as an afternoon snack.
Still, he’s the Librarian, and the world is at stake - hah, stake! He can hem and haw about it for as long as he wants, right up until Dracula… takes over the world? He’s still not very clear on the plan, but he knows it can’t end well. So better to do it now and do it fast, before he has time to overthink it even more.
How bad can it be, anyway? Flynn pushes down the nausea and tries to be brave. Come on, Carsen, Darrington Dare would do it.
“Simone-,” he starts.
At the same time, Simone says, “Flynn-”, all big eyes and bigger canines. There’s genuine apprehension in her eyes; she doesn’t want to hurt him either. Maybe it says something about his messed up priorities that he’s touched by that, warm feelings bubbling up in his chest. Her reticence more than anything is what gives him the strength to tell her what he says next.
“It’s okay, Simone. Really, it’s okay.” He wraps around her shoulders, ignoring the chill. “If we- it’s not going to turn me into a vampire, right?”
“No. The fangs, they circulate the blood. It can’t be passed on unless you drink my blood,” she replies. Huh, more vampire biology. Another thing to ask about later.
Flynn can’t help the childishness that slips into his tone when he asks next, “Will it hurt?”
“At first,” Simone tells him frankly, “but not for long. It can be- good. Really good, actually.”
Flynn raises an eyebrow, momentarily caught off guard, and she simply shrugs in response. Really good. Okay, he can work with that. Fate of the world and all. “All right. All right! Let’s do it!”
He tilts his head, exposing as much of his neck as possible and closes his eyes tight.
Through whatever residual prey senses have stuck it out through the messy, inexact science of evolution, Flynn is as attuned to Simone’s movements as he is to the blood sliding along his veins. He can hear the creaking of the floor as she shifts her weight, feel the lightest touch of her fingers as she positions his head just so, the ghost of lips skimming his neck. For a second he thinks that, like him, she’s holding her breath until he realizes she doesn’t have to breathe at all. That sudden reality check is almost enough to pitch him into full blown hysteria, but he calms himself by naming the elements of the periodic table in alphabetical order. Actinium, Aluminum, Americium, come on, come on.
Finally, there comes the fangs, two points of pressure on his jugular just softly enough that they don’t break skin. Flynn scrunches his face up harder in anticipation. This is it, he thinks.
Except it isn’t. Suddenly, Simone pulls away, turning away and covering her face. Visions of vampires flit through his mind, classic Universal and Buffy alike. Is she afraid of hurting him in her bloodlust? Is their attraction too strong? Is he too irresistible? His mother always warned him this would happen.
As it turns out, he has nothing to worry about. He recognizes the shaking of her shoulders: she’s laughing. Adorably laughing, granted, but certainly at him. Believe him, he’s familiar with the sensation.
“Hey! What?” Flynn protests, mildly offended.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Flynn. It’s not you, it’s me.”
“I’ve heard that one before.”
“No,” she says, shoving him lightly. “It’s just… been a while since I’ve done this with a person that wasn’t, you know, trying to kill me. I don’t usually have this much time to think about it.”
“I thought overthinking was my problem.” Flynn jokes. “Would it help if I talked to you? Or threaten you, I guess?”
Simone ponders this briefly. “I guess it couldn’t hurt.”
Maybe not her. Still, Flynn figures he could give it a shot.
Threatening. He could do threatening, right? He did threatened all the time.
Flynn once again scrunches his eyes tight and tilts his neck at the appropriate angle before venturing, “You… uh. Are a vampire. And that’s- that’s bad! So I’m gonna stake you. With a stake. And it’s going to-“
Fangs break skin before Flynn has time to tense. Simone hadn’t lied- it did hurt. Of course it did. Vampire fangs were sharp at the tips, but they were still a lot larger than needles and Flynn feels every extra millimeter very intimately.
Self preservation instincts kick in and he tries to push her away, but their closeness and the way that she was practically positioned on top of him to get the cleanest access to his carotid artery mean that he can’t work up any meaningful traction.
Flynn tries to think rationally. This was the plan. This was fine. And if Simone was being honest - and he had no reason to think she wasn’t - then it would start to feel nice any second now.
Any second.
Anyyyyy second.
He attempts to calm himself using breathing techniques taught to him by the monks of Shangri-La. In and out. Clear your mind, Flynn.
He’d never been any good at that part, but he tried, focusing on the rise and fall of his chest and nothing else.
Though it felt like hours, it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds before Flynn felt his racing heart start to slow in a way he didn’t think could be attributed to the Monkey King’s teachings, if the feeling of euphoria that was slowly bubbling up in his chest was any indicator.
He lets himself sink into Simone a little more.
He thinks- he thinks- nothing. Nothing at all. All of his facts have fled him, his hardwon knowledge lost, his life’s pursuit, the study of everything that ever was and ever will be rendered irrelevant compared to the feeling of Simone beside him, inside him. He should feel scared, but he’s not.
He reaches out blindly and finds the nape of her neck, fingers curling in the short, soft hair, pulling her closer. So similar to the night they shared two days and a million years ago. She responds to his enthusiasm with heightened fervor of her own, pressure increasing, tongue lapping. Flynn’s eyes roll back in his head.
If it were up to Flynn, he’d spend the rest of his life like that. He’d gleefully be turned into a vampire if it meant he could spend eternity like that. Dracula, who? But in addition to being gorgeous and amazing and intelligent, Simone has the presence of mind to pull away. Flynn barely stops himself from letting out a pathetic little moan. Or at least he really hopes he does. It’s probably a turn off.
He slumps against the wall, feeling like a Capri Sun, punctured and drained, but like, good? In a certainly not un-sexual way, at least. He’s resolutely ignoring the half-mast situation happening in his pants and he’s breathing heavily, like he just ran a marathon.
He raises a hand to his neck and feels the two identical wounds, perfectly circular, still oddly numb. And his fingers, they come away bloodless. A joint anesthetic/coagulant in vampire saliva, maybe? He can’t quite bring himself to chase the thought, not with residual euphoria still sending a tingling, boneless feeling all the way down to his toes.
With concerted, painstaking effort, he turns his head to look at Simone. If at all possible, she’s gotten more beautiful, practically glowing, face flushed. That’s Flynn’s blood in her cheeks. He resolutely ignores how that particular revelation results in a three-quarters-mast situation. She’s staring at him wide eyed, like she’d just dropped him and was inspecting him to see if he cracked.
Good thing for her, one of Flynn’s PhD’s was in putting beautiful women at ease. He forces his dry throat - ha! Word play! He was on a roll - to say, “Was it good for you too?” Not his best work as jokes go, and his voice cracks in the middle like a pubescent boy, but it earns a snort in response and Simone untenses.
She brings up a hand to cup his face. “You’re okay?”
“I’m okay. Really.” He covers her hand with his own. She is warmer now, just as he thought. Awesome. “But we really should get out of here.”
“Then come on.” She stands, and offers him a hand up, which he gladly takes. “Let’s go kill Dracula.”
Which is all very good and bad ass until Flynn takes his first step and immediately almost crumbles right back down to the ground, the room tilting and rocking around him like someone had managed to drag the ship out of the Louisiana bayou and onto the open sea without him noticing. Simone casually hauls him up by the scruff of his neck then loops and arm around his waist. Flynn says sheepishly, “I, uh, might need to stop for a juice box and a cookie on the way.”
“Whatever you need,” she says sweetly. Then in one graceful movement, she kicks the door of the Pride off the hinges. It lands with a splash somewhere in the water half a football field away.
God, she’s incredible. Dracula doesn’t stand a chance.