Title: Shuffle
Rating: M, for implied and explicit sexual content (Ha. I surprise myself). And a teensy-weensy bit of language.
Disclaimer: Not mine. This FF is for non-profit entertainment purposes only.
Genre: Romance, and...well, you tell me.
Summary: Love: the coals of Life's flame; the key to Madness' door. DaemonxElena; physical Daemon(Julie)xAdelheid & DaemonxChrome. Heavily based on chapter 345.
Notes: KHR fic! It's been a while. I'm not too fond of chapter 345, so I wrote this. It was like torture! –weeps- It's downright horrid, but I couldn't care less.
Also: call out "OoC!" and I shall kindly direct you to the page where Mr. Psychopath blushes like a virgin high school girl.
—let them burn bright and true, Love's eternal flame—
~Ş ђ џ Ғ ғ ł ε~
The one to his left puffs out his chest, gold buttons threatening to burst from the seams and clatter onto the ballroom floor, as he boasts of reaping in the profits from opium sales. To his right is another nobleman, a bony middle-aged man who listens with the barest shadow of politeness as he studies the way light reflects off of thick rings wrapped around gnarled fingers; he is the head of Italy's largest jewelry company, and had spent the previous hour gloating over the success of their latest cutting technology.
There is a chuckle from his left, and Daemon laughs—throws his head back—at a joke he did not hear.
Because Daemon Spade is an aristocrat, raised under the shimmering lights of crystal chandeliers and between walls of marble polished so fine they can double as mirrors, and he knows everything there is to know about how to act as one of his social class.
He's out on the balcony, away from the frivolous dancing, the idle social prattle, the ladies that hang off the arms of their men. He takes a small sip of ruby red wine as he cosigns bitter thoughts of their corruption and filth to the sea of inky darkness...
And that is when he meets her.
She is beautiful. Gorgeous. Stunning. Wavy long locks of flaxen hair cascade over rounded shoulders, and the moonlight adorns her head with a halo of gold and silver. Her every movement is grace personified: the small steps of her heeled feet, the subtle sway of her hips, the way she lifts her arm and tilts the small glass to her rosy lips.
But Daemon is an aristocrat, a man who has grown up amidst twirling skirts, sparkling gemstones, and painted faces. For him, the charms of noblewomen are commonplace and ordinary; mundane, like the vases of fresh flowers the servants prepare at the start of every new day. That is not enough to be enticing or enrapturing. Far from enough.
No. What captures him, sucks the breath out of his lungs and turns his stomach to fluid, is her eyes. Blue eyes, sapphire eyes, eyes that glimmer with more knowledge and empathy and purity and clarity than he has ever seen in his entire life, barring no one.
She makes her way beside him at the banister. Drapes a delicate hand atop the stone, then—
—she smiles—
—and on a moonlit balcony, Daemon knows his soul is lost.
"Alone, I know not of how to change things," Daemon murmurs, peering into the depths of sapphire eyes. "But I know that the degeneracy of aristocracy disgusts me."
Silence drapes over them briefly, smooth and gentle like the rustling of silken curtains. Then, a minute later: "My father is a duke, and he does nothing but hold balls day after day."
Elena turns to face him directly, clasping his hand in her own satin-gloved ones. She takes one step, then another, until they are only a breath apart from one another. Her face softens into a fond smile, her grip on his hand tightens momentarily, and she says with soft conviction, "I agree with you."
In that moment, Daemon knows with absolute certainty that he is in the right.
He made a mistake.
Primo went mad, and he waited too long to curb Primo's pacific ways, and the result was Elena's death.
He was late, too late, too late; but that foolishness is no more. Clutching his pocket watch in one hand and his scythe in the other, he crushes the degenerate remains of what used to be Elena's Vongola and maneuvers Secondio in Primo's place.
After all, he only needs to focus on one thing: the realization of Elena's dream; Elena, the only person that ever mattered and would matter to the world. It was—is—shall always be—his duty to her to ensure that the Don shares their ideal, and that Elena's precious Vongola remains everlasting.
In that moment, Daemon knows with absolute certainty that he is in the right.
The problem is, Daemon thinks as his hands caress empty air, he isn't sure if he knows anything anymore.
He will do anything and everything, everything, to recreate it, to recreate the Vongola so that its very name makes the people tremble.
It happens like this:
They were set up.
Daemon Spade, masquerading as Sawada Iemitsu, head of the Vongola's CEDEF, steps into the homely walls of a humble abode and paints it in grand strokes of crimson (amidst a shrill scream of "Big brother, big brother Enma!" that he is all too happy to silence).
Her entire body is crushed by ancient rubble and castle bricks. He scurries over to free her, but it's already too late—too damn late—and he can only watch, stare in stunned horror at her beautiful face marred by blood and scratches, the way her pale-pale-waytoopale lips tremble as they attempt to move.
Kneeling on the floor is a red-haired little boy. His shoulders quake madly, and small fingers dip into pools of blood to gouge the ground with broken nails. He trembles like a frightened rabbit, shudders like a dog whose entrails were ripped out.
"Daemon...I'm...dying."
"M-mom, D-d-dad," he whimpers weakly, "you can't die, you can't die...please...don't leave me—us—alone..."
She forces out a weak smile, and it hurts, hurts, because her brows are furrowed in such agonizing pain—"Protect the weak...together with the Vongola..."
"M-m-m...Mami." The boy's lungs rattle, and he chokes on a sob. "Mami. Mami. MAMI—"
"Daemon...if it's you..."
He wants to say something. He has to. He has a thousand things he wants to say, only a few of which he has ever managed to tell her during their days together, and no time to say them. But his lungs are two heaving vacuums, he can't work his voice around the giant rock that settled in his throat, and can't wrap his mind around the incessant chant of no, no, this isn't happening not to her never to her nonono—
"You can do it..."
His breathing comes in increasingly ragged pants. "Give her back," he whispers pathetically between wheezes. Then, louder: "Mami. Mami. Give...her...b-b-back...t-to me. Give Mami back." And then louder still: "I HATE YOU, YOU BASTARD! GIVE HER BACK, GIVE MAMI BACK, HOW COULD YOU, YOU BASTARD, GIVE HER BACK GIVE HER BACK GIVEHERBACK!"
"Elena! ELENA!"
Daemon-Iemitsu-Daemon's eyes glow with a feral light as a satisfied grin rips his face in two.
Because now, there is another soul that embraces a small fragment of the (pitiful) pain and (powerless) suffering that he bears, and that is only right (just).
Daemon-Julie-Daemon's illusionary goatee brushes across peach-toned skin as he pulls down on the zipper with his teeth. Metal teeth unlock to spill a grotesquely large bosom, and Adelheid tosses her head back as she releases a soft moan. He looks into dark—
—bright eyes, blue and open wide; pupils dilated. Daemon revels in the feeling as he stares back, as if they are the only two beings in the universe. He smiles softly after carefully undoing her corset, kneading her delicate breasts with one hand as he trails butterfly kisses down an alabaster swan neck; Elena giggles and buries the side of her face deeper into his pillow, then issues a soft gasp as his tongue swivels over the nipple of her left.
"Oh Julie, Julie," she breathes. Her hands sink and twist into the pillow as he takes in one breast, then the other, before moving further down to trail kisses up Adelheid's thigh—
Carefully, gently, mindful not to mar her porcelain skin with any unsightly bruise, Daemon continues his work as Elena sighs and writhes below him, delighting in the warmth and tightness pooling into his lower abdomen—
With little to no ceremony, he rips off Adelheid's skirt and underwear, clutching bruises into her hips as he sinks deep into her with a single thrust—
Her cheeks are flushed a rosy red, and he is sure his own are dusted a fair pink to match. Almost tentatively, shyly, he lifts up her gown, and the silvery sheen adorning her inner thighs excites him like no other—
Adelheid screams; her nails drag angry red scratches across his back. She wraps her arms around his neck, dragging him back down to kiss over and over again to drown out the sounds emanating from her throat—
Entwined in her soft arms, their grunts and moans and fluttering gasps swirl like a duet of musical voices as they steadily ride to climax. "Daemon, Daemon," she breathes into his ear, "I love you, oh god, I love you so much; I love Vongola, and—oh—you are Vongola's pride and joy—oh Daemon—"
"JULIE!"
They ride out the remaining waves of heat, and then Daemon-Julie-Daemon promptly dislodges himself. He runs a hand through his sweat-matted hair as he picks up his clothes, and once his hat is back on his head, he leaves the bedroom to vomit and grab a drink.
He realizes that it is alright, and laughs.
The revelation hits when Adelheid comes storming out of the bedroom two hours later, cheeks flushed, bottom lip pulled between her teeth, as she tosses him her most venomous and pained glare.
He realizes, because he had never, would have never, fucked Elena so coarsely into the mattress. No; he and her had made love together, and she had—would never look at him in the way that Adelheid was looking at him now.
It is alright, so he doesn't hesitate to tweak a nipple here, or grope some ass there, and laughs to himself in unashamed amusement when everyday, Adelheid exposes more of her cleavage to him.
Two girls pass Daemon-Julie-Daemon by as he saunters on the street, and he turns his head back as he lets out an appreciative whistle.
The one that walked right past him has a slender figure similar to hers, and the one with the giant bow has flowing hair that shimmers like Elena's.
"Strip."
Chrome follows his orders like a mechanical puppet as she pops buttons and lets clothes fall to the ground with abandon. Daemon approaches behind and rests his chin on a slim shoulder as his eyes impassionedly survey inches of exposed ivory flesh.
"The Vongola Famiglia is the ally of the weak...and I think you, Daemon, are their pride and joy."
He smirks, and leans forward to kiss the listless girl full on the lips.
Their faces are inches apart; her eyes are wide and sparkling with trust, and as his face flushes with the thought, he can't bring himself to bend down that final inch to press against cherry lips.
Chrome is, after all, nothing but a key. He can use her however he wants, because it isn't love.
Under the shade of trees, they watch the fight below as Hibari engages in battle with Adelheid's ice clones. Daemon wraps a hand around Chrome, pressing her tightly against his chest. Briefly, he averts his gaze from the lake down to her face, which is—
—alight with happiness; the corners of her glossy lips are curved up in bliss, and the glow of stars settles in sapphire eyes as they twinkle with radiance. Ornate chairs are pulled out, and the guardians file out the mansion's door into the Vongola Gardens. Elena hugs his left arm as she presses up to his side, and her smile is absolutely brilliant as they take a picture below the golden glow of dawn's rising sun—
—empty.
He will make her even happier in death, offer the perfect Vongola and perfect world to her as he prostrates himself at her feet, and he imagines that her smile will light up the universe.
That was all that mattered to him, and as he scatters like dust on a wind, he knows that that is all that will ever matter.
~Ş ђ џ Ғ ғ ł ε~
—Fin.—
Ending notes: Yes, I am that freakin' lazy.