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The dance hall is claustrophobic with energy.
Tables and chairs are shoved aside; and the floor trembles from a strange syncopated beat of piano and drums. The melody rises up like a wave to crash over the young men and women as they twirl and shuffle across the scratched, wooden flooring.
Outside, snow falls to dust the empty Paris streets. However, inside the hall, which smells of spilt wine and women’s perfume, it is uncomfortably warm.
From the corner of the room, Vanitas watches, arms folded, as a tall, blue eyed American spins Jeanne.
He hates this.
The music, the atmosphere, Jeanne’s partner, everything about the dance hall is aggravating. He came out on behest of Noé to celebrate the World's Fair but the bouncing, syncopated rhythm from the Americas isn’t what he is used to.
“Vanitas?" Noé’s voice rises in question. It’s the typical cadence his tone takes when inquiring about something strange.
Vanitas hums in acknowledgement but doesn't look away as the American’s hand slips over Jeanne’s hip.
She's in a marine blue dress — probably borrowed from Dominique de Sade. The rich material compliments her golden eyes and hugs every curve of her body in a way that can make a man’s imagination run wild. And it’s obvious her partner is taking full advantage of that fact as he gazes down at Jeanne’s bust with poorly concealed lust.
"Are you… jealous?”
It takes Vanitas several seconds to process Noé’s question. He stares at Jeanne and her partner a moment longer before Vanitas’ head jerks up, bewildered, to meet Noé’s curious stare. “Huhn?!”
Noé looks down at him. “Did you not want to dance with Jeanne?”
Vanitas blinks owlishly then bursts into laughter. “Noé,” he says, drawling out the vowels of the taller man’s name. “What are you talking about?” His lips twist into a thin smile, and his blue eyes slide back towards Jeanne and the American. “I told you before — I’d feel bad for Jeanne’s feet if she had to partner with me.”
“Really?" Noé tilts his head thoughtfully. "You didn’t seem that bad to me...”
Vanitas rolls his eyes and unfolds his arms. “That was because we were dancing to the waltz. I know the basics of a sophisticated dance like that, but this new music,” he gestures futilely towards the pianist, “this ragged beat — is foreign to me. I wouldn't know how to dance to it.” His stomach twists, “Besides… Jeanne looks like she’s having fun already. I wouldn’t want to interrupt her on her first night off in months.”
Noé glances across the room at Jeanne and the American. “Is that so…Then –”
“Noé!” An enthusiastic female voice calls out from the crowd.
Vanitas looks up as Dominique de Sade strides towards them, a smug smile on her face. Despite being off duty, she is dressed in her usual white uniform. “I got it!”
“Domi?” Noé asks, his eyes widening in perplexity as Dominique presses up to his side and laces her arm around his. “What did you get?”
“The dance, of course!” she says with a roll of her eyes. Then her smile returns. Her yellow eyes crinkle in the corners with laughter, and she tugs Noé towards the dance floor. “Let’s go! You better not fall behind.”
"What about Vanitas?" Noé asks flustered, looking back over his shoulder.
Vanitas blinks as Dominique de Sade follows Noé’s gaze to land on him.
Her smile fades. “You don’t mind if I borrow Noé, right?”
Dominique’s yellow eyes glitter threateningly. She looks as though she'd attack him if he says anything other than yes. For a moment, Vanitas considers teasing her, but the usual mocking attitude he saves for times like these feels oddly troublesome.
“Do what you want,” he says finally.
Dominique's expression instantly brightens. "See!" she says, her gaze darting back towards Noé. Her hands tighten around his arm. "Vanitas said he’s fine. So let’s go," she cheers, pulling a confused Noé after her towards the dancers.
Vanitas waves half-heartedly after the two until they disappear into the crowd, then his hand falls limply to his side. He sighs and leans back against the counter.
What should he do now?
Unintentionally, his gaze slides back towards the couple, and Vanitas watches as the tall American pulls Jeanne into a dip. A burning sensation spreads through his chest like heart pain.
His jaw tightens. Vanitas snatches his scarf from the table and slides out of the dance hall and into the night.
Snow is falling from an ashen gray sky, coating the streets in a thin layer of white. Vanitas shivers and hastily wraps the scarf around his neck before trudging back towards Hôtel Chouchou.
He's not running. This is a strategic exit. There's no reason for him to loiter in the hall by himself while the others are having fun. And besides, Dante mentioned a new case that he's been meaning to look into.
However, despite his best efforts, Vanitas finds his mind shifting back to Jeanne and her dance partner. He shoves his hands into his pockets.
He’s not jealous.
Jealousy is the psychological sentiment which is born in love and which is produced by the fear that the loved person prefers someone else. And although Vanitas may have dreamed about Jeanne every night since Gévaudan, he is not foolish enough to imagine there can ever be anything between them. Their relationship is based on the promise of blood and death. Nothing more. Nothing less.
His gloved fingers curl into fists within his coat. He should know better than anyone that no one could ever love him.
‘But… Vincent, from what you’ve said, the woman likes you as well…’
Vanitas stops short as Roland’s words slip through his memories like weeds through concrete. Their roots entwine around his heart, until Vanitas can barely breathe. He reaches up and grasps at his chest.
No.
He mustn’t wish.
He mustn’t hope.
Jeanne has never been and never will be his. Not to touch. Not to love. Anyone who suggests otherwise is a fool.
Vanitas squeezes his eyes shut. His body trembles. Poets and philosophers wax words claiming love is the cure for all pain, but the constricting emotions coiling around Vanitas' heart, suffocating him, can't be anything but a maladie. A cancerous infection threatening to rewrite his whole being.
“Vanitas, wait!”
He snaps his head up at the voice he’s been dreaming of, and finds Jeanne hurrying towards him. She picks up her skirt; her marine blue dress splays behind her like butterfly wings.
His heart leaps in his chest. “Jeanne?”
“I'll go with you!” She stumbles to a stop before him, panting.
Vanitas eyebrows furrow. “What do you mean?” He glances over Jeanne’s head. The street is empty. “Where's Noé?”
“With Lady Dominique," Jeanne says, pressing a hand to her chest as she continues to catch her breath. "They're still at the dance hall."
“Then, why are you here?” He looks back down at her. Her cheeks are flushed from the cold, and her bosom pushes against the top of her corset, threatening to spill out. Vanitas’ mouth goes dry. He averts his gaze again. “Was the blood I gave you earlier not enough?” he asks, reaching up to the scarf at his neck.
Jeanne shakes her head quickly. “No. No, I'm fine. Are you alright?”
Vanitas arches an eyebrow. “What do you mean?” He steps back and holds out his arms as if on display. “As you can see I'm perfectly fine.”
Jeanne tilts her head, studying him. “Then, why'd you leave?”
Vanitas drops his arms back down to his side. “No particular reason…” An image of Jeanne in the arms of the American flickers through his memory. His stomach twists; he looks away. “I was just tired of that ragged beat the Americans call music.” He shoves his hands back into his pockets and turns towards the hotel. “There was no need for you to be worried.”
The wooden door sign of the hotel flaps in the wind. Behind him there is the sound of light footsteps against cobblestone.
“Go back, Jeanne.” His voice is hollow. ”That American surely is missing you.”
Vanitas opens the hotel’s door, dusting the snow off his coat. Jeanne follows close behind him.
“Are you angry?” Jeanne asks, her voice hesitant.
The hotel parlor is warm. A fire has been lit in the main lobby and candles and garland dress the room for the holidays.
Vanitas scoffs. “Why would I be angry?” he asks, not slowing his steps.
“I’m not sure. You just seem upset.”
Annoyance spikes within his chest. Vanitas brushes past a maid hanging a wreath and makes his way up the stairs to the second floor. He grits his teeth. “You’re reading too much into it. Go back, Jeanne.”
“No.”
Something catches the edge of his sleeve. Vanitas stops and glances down to find Jeanne’s delicate hand twisted into the fabric. She looks up at him and her eyes shine like crystallized amber under the dim hallway light.
"Vanitas, tell me what’s wrong. What can I do to help?”
She stares at him, her eyes wide and pleading. It causes a painful tugging sensation to occur in his chest. Vanitas averts his gaze and forces himself not to react. Not to waver. Not to read into her concern.
He mustn’t wish.
He mustn’t desire.
He mustn’t hope.
“It’s nothing,” he says finally in a tight voice.
“It’s not nothing!” She reaches out to touch his face, and he snatches her hand before she can touch him.
His eyes narrow coldly. “I told you — nothing.”
Jeanne’s eyes flash. “You wouldn’t have left if everything was alright. Now tell me.” Her expression is earnest as she studies him. “What is it? I’ll do anything to help.”
She’s so close Vanitas can smell the sweet hints of vanilla and plume from her perfume. His fingers tighten around her hand.
He hates this.
He hates that she won’t leave him alone. He hates that she is acting as though she cares, and, most of all, he hates that he wants to read into her words and believe — if only a bit, that Jeanne actually does care for him as more than an acquaintance or source of substance.
This malnomen is making him delusional.
A surge of anger swells within Vanitas. She’s going to go back to the dance hall and stick to that tall American. Press her lithe body against his. Kiss the American as Vanitas dreams she’ll kiss him. Maybe even wrap her legs around the man’s waist. But that’s where she belongs, not here with someone unlovable.
He mustn’t wish.
He mustn’t desire.
He mustn’t hope.
His heart pounds as he tries to think of something to chase her away, something that even the stubborn Hellfire Witch will baulk at. His gaze drops to the tight fitting bust of her dress, and Vanitas gives a dry laugh as an idea forms.
“Anything, Jeanne?” he asks, his voice dropping lower. He backs her up to the wall and pins her wrist above her head.
Jeanne doesn’t flinch. “Yes.” Her golden eyes fasten upon his face.
It is a horrible plan, even through the haze of his anger and frustration, Vanitas realizes how unreasonable he is being, but the cold fury spawned by his malnomen bites into him, disrupting his reasoning.
He leans down, until his face is inches away from Jeanne’s. His nose brushes hers. And he watches as Jeanne's expression flickers with uncertainty. He can taste the wine from her breath on his tongue, and a mocking smirk spreads across Vanitas’ expression. “Then — I want you to ride my cock.”
Jeanne inhales sharply.
He's won.
“What’s this Jeanne? Didn’t you say anything?" he asks, staring down at her through a cold expression. "You could be my personal mistress.”
As he expects, Jeanne doesn’t answer. She continues to stare at him with an expression of shock. Vanitas wonders what she'd do if he leans down and kisses her. If he runs his hands over her hips like that American did. The thought makes him angrier.
"Be careful of what you say," he hisses. "Others won't be as understanding."
Vanitas releases her hand and steps back. He thinks this is farewell and is about to take his leave when Jeanne’s voice stops him.
“I’ll do it.”
Vanitas stills. It’s as though ice has been poured over his head. He jerks his head up and stares at Jeanne uncomprehending.
However, before he can process her words, Jeanne moves forward and grasps both of his hands between her own. “I’ll be your personal mistress.”
Her eyes glint and a look of intense determination flickers over her expression. She pushes up on her toes as if intending to kiss him, and it’s as if warning bells sound within Vanitas’ head overwriting his anger.
He flinches back. “Je-Jeanne! What are you doing?” he chokes out.
Jeanne pauses. She pulls back and studies him. Downstairs, the front door opens with the ringing of tiny bells. Jeanne's eyes widen; she glances up and down the hall.
“Oh, right. I guess we shouldn’t do this here,” Jeanne mutters under her breath, like that is the crux of the matter. Then her hand tightens around his fingers. “This way.”
Vanitas yelps as she turns and drags him down the hallway and into the room opposite of his and Noé’s.
The door has barely clicked shut, before Vanitas finds himself pressed up against the wood, trapped between Jeanne’s hands.
The room is almost pitch black except for a single lamp casting a soft glow, unveiling a double bed and a simple chestnut table. A large coffin-like case rests against the wall. The hair on the back of Vanitas’ neck stands up.
“This is my room,” Jeanne says in answer to his unasked question. “We should be safe here.”
Vanitas’ eyes dart down to meet her gaze, and his breath catches. Jeanne’s eyes are dark, almost a burnt orange, and predatory.
His heart feels as if it jumps into his throat. He shrinks back against the door. “Jeanne, what are you doing?”
She smiles. “I'm going to be your mistress.” her voice is proud like she thinks this is some sort of accomplishment.
Vanitas' mouth drops open. “You're joking,” he says incredulously. “It was only a joke. You should’ve known that.”
“No.” Jeanne’s eyes flash in irritation. “That's what you asked.”
“And I didn't mean it,” Vanitas snaps, straightening himself away from the door.
Jeanne stares at him for a moment, and her eyes narrow. She growls at him in a low voice, “You expect me to believe that?”
Vanitas presses his lips into a hard line and leers down at her. “Yes.”
“Well, I won't!” She drops her hands from either side of him to curl by her sides. Red dances across her irises. “You’ve saved me and others countless times and yet, you’ve never asked for anything in return. Not with Chloe or with Ms. Amelia. Even with me — when we made our deal, all you requested was for me to call you by your name. I may not be the smartest, but even someone like me can tell that isn’t a fair exchange.”
"I'm a doctor. I was just doing what I was supposed to," Vanitas says in a tense voice, trying to stay calm. "And that's completely different from this."
“No it's not!” Jeanne breathes in through her nose and then continues in a lower tone. "All you do is give. You never ask for anything for yourself. Why is that?”
Vanitas scowls. "Because I know what's feasible and what's not. I'm not going to ask for something that I know can't be given."
"I don’t think that’s it."
Vanitas stills.
Jeanne’s expression flickers. She tilts her head, and Vanitas has to remind himself to breathe as she considers him. “It's not whether you ask for things that are or are not feasible, it's that you don't ask for anything at all. Like you don't think you’re worthy of receiving anything for yourself…”
Jeanne steps forward and cups his cheeks. Her fingers are cold. Vanitas shivers. Her amber eyes seem to be piecing his soul, as if Jeanne is reading his very formula.
“In Gévaudan, you taught me that even a lowly bourreau such as myself can wish and have desires.”
Vanitas swallows hard, unable to speak, as though his body has been frozen with Jeanne shifting closer. Her soft curves press against him, and Vanitas inhales sharply. Unlike her fingers her body is warm, and he has to force himself from noticing the way she fits against him.
“So this time, let me be the one to ask you.” Her gaze flickers up to meet his. The gold in her eyes seems to glow as though they were a twin pair of suns. “What is it that you want?”
He jerks as she leans closer until her nose brushes against his. Her breath fills his mouth, heavy with the taste of alcohol and something uniquely Jeanne.
He can’t move.
Her lips brush against his. “Spit it out.”
He can’t speak.
Her calloused thumbs brush against his cheeks. “Whether it’s an ugly emotion, or even a curse, I’ll accept it for you.”
Vanitas’ heart jumps. Then she presses her lips against his in a soft, butterfly kiss.
It’s like fireworks explode in Vanitas’ mind.
In the dark of the nights, he’s dreamed of being with Jeanne. Imagined iterations of holding her again and again until he wanted to scream in agony, but he never had the audacity to think that Jeanne would ever want him. He wasn’t delusional.
But Jeanne is here. And she’s kissing him. He wants to believe it’s of her own will, but knows better. There must be another reason for why she is acting like this.
He curls his hands into fists at his side and breaks the kiss, forcing himself to ignore the way Jeanne gasps as he pulls his mouth away.
His lips tingle, and he looks away from her to glare at the wall. “Jeanne, you don’t have to force yourself to do this kind of thing with me.”
“What?” her voice is breathy.
His jaw tightens. “I don’t need your gratitude for saving Chloe or keeping your secret. I was just doing what I wanted,” Vanitas says in a tight voice. “It had nothing to do with you.”
He needs to stop his malnomen from spreading and making him think he is capable of being loved.
Vanitas closes his eyes and inhales deeply before opening them again. He straightens his jacket and turns towards the door. “We can pretend this never happened." Vanitas reaches out, and his fingers slide over the door handle.
"Is that really what you want?”
Vanitas stiffens at the sound of Jeanne’s voice. He lifts his head and turns slowly to stare at her.
Jeanne raises her chin. Her jaw set. "Do you really think I’m doing this out of gratitude?”
He starts to open his mouth and then snaps it shut and inhales deeply.
“You…” he finally grinds out. He drops his gaze. “Shouldn’t you do this type of thing with the person you love? Not someone like me.”
Jeanne is silent for a moment. “Isn’t that for me to decide?” she asks finally.
Vanitas doesn't answer.
Jeanne steps closer. “I'm going to decide what and with whom I want to give myself. So, if you really don't want this, tell me truthfully.” She cups his face, forcing him to look at her. “I'll give you three chances to say no,” she says, staring deep into his eyes as though she is looking for something.
Vanitas stares at her in astonishment. “Jea-“ His throat is so thick he can hardly speak, and then her mouth is on his and he doesn’t want to.
The kiss is nothing like the first. It’s hot and demanding as though Jeanne intends to take everything from him.
Vanitas trembles. He knows he should stop her. He really should. But he can’t. Instead, Vanitas finds himself reaching out to grasp her waist.
Jeanne lets out a pleased sound against his mouth and angles her head. Her tongue swipes across his lips; Vanitas gasps, and she pushes inside to caress his mouth until his lungs begin to burn.
He trembles and pulls her close and kisses her back. Her body arches into him, and Vanitas wraps his arms around her, crushing Jeanne to himself. His hands run up and down her spine, gripping her, kneading her, touching her wherever her clothes allow him to.
She pulls back until her mouth hovers over his. "Do you want me to stop?"
Her fingers trail to the back of his neck and tangle into his hair, sending shivers down Vanitas' spine. Jeanne kisses him again.
The scarf falls from his neck, and then Jeanne’s fingers snake back around to spread his shirt open. The fabric slides away and cold air hits his skin. Vanitas shivers, but then Jeanne’s mouth draws away from his to press slow, hot kisses down his neck and across his jaw line.
Vanitas moans low in his throat. His fingers tighten around her waist, scrunching the fabric as he holds her against him. He tilts his head back to give her better access.
He thinks she will bite him. She doesn’t. Instead she moves up to his ear. “Do you not like this?” she purrs against his ear. Rationale thought disappears as the mere sensation of her breath against his ear makes Vanitas tense and his cock tremble.
“Jeanne…” His voice is raw, and it trails off into a breathy gasp as she nips the delicate flesh.
She tilts her head, and her lips move to find a sensitive patch of skin behind his ear. It’s like electricity runs down his spine. Vanitas moans and trembles as her lips move over his skin, licking and kissing his neck and jaw.
Then her hands are pushing his shirt off his shoulders and Jeanne is moving from his ear down his neck and to his chest. Her eyes flicker up to meet his gaze as she presses a kiss to the middle of his sternum. “Do you want me to stop?” she asks slowly, drawing out the words in a way that sends heat flooding through his body.
Vanitas watches through half-hooded eyes as Jeanne’s pink tongue flicks out and wraps around one of his nipples. His mind goes white. Vanitas claps a hand over his mouth as his body jerks and shudders. Little electric sparks shoot down his spine as her tongue curls around his nipple.
Her free hand slides down his chest over his stomach to the waistband of his pants. She skims a finger along the band, before she slips her hand under the fabric to grasp him.
A deep moan is torn from Vanitas as her fingers curl around him, and she gives a gentle tug. His eyes squeeze closed as she slides her hand up and down his rigid cock. It feels good. His spine tingles as she strokes him. And he gives a breathy gasp as her thumb rubs over the tip of his penis.
“Do you want me to stop?” Jeanne asks again as she continues to press wet, open mouth kisses against his chest and neck.
He can feel pleasure building in his stomach. His body shakes. And then – her hand is gone.
“What?” He opens his eyes slowly.
“That was three times,” Jeanne says. He can hear the smile in her voice.
Then she is pulling out of his arm, and Vanitas’ eyes snap wide in surprise as he suddenly is lifted into the air. “Jeanne!”
“I gave you three chances,” Jeanne says as she carries him over to the bed and drops him down onto the mattress. She steps back and reaches behind her. Vanitas is afraid to breathe as her dress falls away.
Vanitas tries not to notice every detail. The way she looks down at him with dark, sultry amber eyes or the way her nipples are peaked and hardened.
She steps closer, and places a hand against his bare chest. “Now lie down.” She commands; her eyes are glittering and taunting in the low light. She pushes against his chest, and Vanitas falls back against the mattress.
Then she is shimmying down his body; Vanitas quivers as her fingers hook into the waistband of his pants and pull them down. She crawls back onto the bed and on top of him, straddling his waist. He can feel the heat of her core against his stomach.
She drags a finger down his chest and across one of the multitude of scars painted over his torso, before their gazes intertwine once again..
Vanitas quivers, suddenly aware of what is about to happen. He wets his lips. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, I want you.”
There is a fluttering within Vanitas’ chest. A smile spreads across his face. He surges up and flips Jeanne under him.
“Vanitas?!” Jeanne yelps as her back hits the mattress.
“I can't be the only one getting pleased,” Vanitas rasps.
Jeanne’s amber eyes widen. “What?”
Vanitas doesn’t answer. He leans down and curls the tip of his tongue around a pert nipple, before sucking it into his mouth.
Jeanne gasps and her hips buck beneath him. Vanitas doesn't stop. His left hand reaches up and grasps her right breast, gently kneading and twisting the nipple until it's hard.
Jeanne's head tilts back, her eyes flutter close and she lets out a low moan that makes his cock tighten. His hands run up and down her body, until she is wiggling and arching against him with tiny, pleading whimpers. Vanitas releases her breasts, so he can lay kisses down her chest, over her stomach and towards her hip.
“Vanitas…” Jeanne mewls. Her fingers tangle in his hair, trying to pull him back up, but he only moves lower.
“Not yet.” His voice is husky.
He kisses the bone of her hip. Jeanne quivers, and she gives a raspy gasp as his teeth graze the skin. Vanitas smirks and flicks his tongue out to sooth the mark before moving down and kissing across her inner thigh to her slit.
He looks up to find her staring intensely at him. He smirks and holds her gaze as he glides his tongue in a long, slow stroke along her swollen flesh.
Jeanne’s eyes flutter closed as she lets out a long helpless moan. Her hips buck underneath him. Vanitas presses a gloved hand against her abdomen to hold her in place as his tongue licks and flicks against her clit, until Jeanne is mewling and crying.
Her fluids slip out and coat his chin. The heady smell of her arousal makes his cock ache. He wonders what she will feel like around him.
He kisses her slit softly and then delves his tongue in deeper; sliding into her core and feeling her muscles flutter and clench in response. He can feel her grow taut, and then she makes a guttural choking sound as her frame shatters under him, bucking and writhing and sobbing out her orgasm until finally she lays limp and he withdraws his tongue from inside her.
“It seems as though you enjoyed that.” Vanitas smirks against her damp skin, kissing her inner thigh once more before dragging his way back up her body.
“Vanitas,” Jeanne rasps. Her gaze is hazy as she reaches down to guide him back up towards her. “Please.”
He kisses her. And she reaches down between their bodies and slides her hand from base to tip and guides him toward her.
Vanitas swallows thickly. His lips quiver into a smile as heleans down. His hand slides up into her hair to cradle her neck and he kisses her deeply, nipping at her lips. “I’m not the kind of man who can say no to a woman who asks like that.”
He aligns his hips, his cock thick and hard. He brushes against her slick, swollen folds and slowly sinks inside of her.
She is so tight.
So perfect.
Their hips lock, and Jeanne gasps, eyes widening as a few tear drops accumulate and slip down her face.
Vanitas brushes them away and then leans down to kiss her forehead. “Are you alright?” he asks, pulling back slightly to stare down at her.
Jeanne gives him a small smile. “I’m fine. It’s not that bad. You can move as you like.”
Vanitas nods. He pulls out slowly and pushes back in with a deep moan that almost makes him lose himself. She is so wet and warm. Everything within him wants to keep going, keep driving into her.
A deep shudder runs through her and Jeanne arches under him. Her short sweet pants shudder over the sweat on his skin as she clings onto him.
He kisses her, dragging her tightly against his body as he moves his hips.
Vanitas feels himself start to grow inside her; he drops his head down and takes her nipple into his mouth. Jeanne lets out a high pitched cry, fingers tangling into his hair. She holds him to her chest as her body jerks and shudders around his cock.
Her insides are burning and so incredibly tight. Vanitas’ jaw clenches. He buries his nose into the side of Jeanne’s neck as pleasure surges through his body. He feels his balls tighten and tension spreading across his lower back.
In that moment, Vanitas knows that he’ll never be rid of his malnomen. But with Jeanne's fingers tangling in his hair and her mouth pressed against his, Vanitas isn’t sure he wants his malnomen to fade.