norcumi | Demon of Justice fanfic: Pr0n edition

I cannot seem to get over Chapter 32 of Demon of Justice (admittedly some of that comes from rereading That Scene over and over and frikkin' OVER again to get the right tone for this bit o' smut). Now, I'm going to be honest. I get brotherly vibes from Bahzell and Brandark, not smutty ones at all. The slashy sentiments in the comments of DoJ confuse me, and that of course led me to wonder under what circumstances could smut happen.

Many thanks to

hime_no_nishi for the plot prompt that finally made the plot here work for me. Also, a tip of the hat to

joisbishmyoga for being the first one (er, that I saw) to propose... well, a spoilery concept that I totally snagged for the purposes of this fic. Lastly, huge thank yous to

dogmatix_san for her assistance with some of the, er, technical bits!

HOWEVER. I cannot emphasize enough This is not DoJ canon compliant! I am not Mel, I am not Christy, I am not even a sock puppet! The following fic is SPECULATION, and totally speculation on my part as to how this fantastic, wonderful saga could go. Ya know, down another trouser leg over thattaway.

I haven't asked, but I doubt this is how things will go. And I'm ok with that. I had a creativity daemon gnawing on my ankle, so I wrote it. So with those caveats in mind, I present to you Brandark/Bahzell smut, with a nice dish of angst and plot on the side.

The Native Hue of Resolution*

Victory has a rather hollow feel to it. Brandark Brandarkson, honorary Horse Stealer and friend of demons-turned-gods, sighed and turned away from the window. All of Hurgrum was celebrating – hells, with the somewhat reluctant but definite unification of hradani under Bahnak, it was possible half the continent was celebrating.

And Brandark simply felt... alone. Aye, he'd become friends with the Gundam pilots, and Toframos' men had managed to make cautious more-than-allies. But the gods and their champions were off doing the work of Gods and Champions, and Bahzell's family was properly caught up in the business of making the hradani alliances official.

One lonely former Bloody Sword didn't really have a place in all that.

=*I'd be thinking twice afore I'd be thinking that.*=

Brandark jumped and whirled around, cursing under his breath even as his hand closed tight around his dagger hilt. One would think that with as many different gods charging about, dropping in and out of any conversation one happened to have, that having yet another voice rumble through his head would not be a surprising experience.

But this voice rumbled strangely – familiarly – even though Brandark couldn't place it. Toragan? Tolomos? I don't think I've met Sorbus yet.... "And what can I do for you, your deity-ship?" he drawled, forcibly releasing his dagger. The voice... it echoed strangely, the way any of the god touched voices did, but the cavernous bass rocked through his ears in a way that was unsettlingly almost familiar.

=*Not a god, a Champion. Duo's up to making some of us what passed on that, ah, FIT him well into being His.*= A shape started to solidify in the middle of his room, but Brandark was a little busy reeling from what this unknown... being?... was saying. Passed on? What-?

His breath caught as a giant humanoid figure came into being. At almost eight feet tall, it was actually smaller than most deific manifestations the Bloody Sword had seen. Broad shoulders were for once not covered in the familiar scale mail. Massive muscles flexed as the figure rocked back on its heels and planted his fists on his hips. An almost sheepish smile flickered across his face, and fox-like ears waggled impudently at him. "It's good to be seeing you in person again, my lad."

"...Bahzell?" Brandark managed to stammer out. The voice was unmistakable once it was heard with the ears and not rattling around in the brain, and the hradani before him didn't show any signs of anything supernatural, but – "You're not real," he declared stupidly.

"Oh really, now?" The phantasm crossed his arms and gave Brandark a look that was so... Bahzell, right down to the skeptical tilt of brows and ears, that it hurt. "So you're saying Duo didn't go and ask some of us to help him out with the right mess he's got to deal with now that there's a god for the dead."

"I mean that you're – Bahzell's dead, so whatever you are, he can't be here."

"It's nowt that I'm after being dead, but I'm not exactly alive either." Bahzell shrugged and rolled his eyes skyward with an exaggerated twitch of the ears. "Himself and his sense of humor," he sighed so dryly that Brandark couldn't take it anymore. The Bloody Sword turned away, shaking his head and closing his eyes in a desperate attempt to not shed tears.

"Duo wouldn't be cruel," he drawled. Since getting confrontational with a hallucination would not do him any good, he settled into old habits instead. He pulled the old fop persona out and draped it on like an outworn, too-small cloak. "And none of the dark gods would be foolish enough to risk irking Orfressa into another snit fit, considering all that's happened this last time." He crossed his arms, all the better to hide the way his hands wanted to tremble. "So I stand by my original statement. You're not real."

The hallucinatory Bahzell sighed and rubbed a knuckle against his brow. "I told him if he wanted to do this, he should be making certain sure to explain his own damn self." Strange, how his memory even got the frustrated angle of the ears so right, the way the Horse Stealer had hooked his thumbs in his belt when exasperated. "Well, little man, wha-"

"Do not!" The Rage almost exploded behind Brandark's eyes and he found himself acting nearly without thought – all he knew was this hallucination, this mockery had better shut the hells up. He lunged, grabbing an imaginary shirt and throwing all his weight into one of those tosses Wufei had demonstrated, and even with over a foot of greater height the imaginary Bahzell went down like a felled tree. Damned imitation had the gall to looked stunned as Brandark slammed him down to the floor, pinning him with an arm across the throat and teeth barred as if to bite, rend, destroy.

Only my imagination, not real! he chanted in the sanest corner of his mind, struggling to leash the Rage with difficulty he'd never had. Any man could be pushed too far, and apparently his own mind was seeking to destroy itself. "Do not call me that," he hissed with as much control as he could, giving up on the old persona in favor of mastering himself. "Only one man ever got away with calling me that, and he's dead."

And the Krahrana damned forgery just looked at him, Bahzell's brown eyes deep with sorrow. He started to shake his head and Brandark snarled, shoving his arm down hard enough to make his imaginary opponent cough and lift his chin.

Throat bared, easy enough to – NO! Brandark snapped his eyes shut and breathed deeply through his nose, struggling to find sanity. His second breath caught midway at the scent of his delusion – leather and weapon oils, musk and something that was simply Bahzell – he recognized this scent.

Recognized, not remembered. Brandark started to tremble, pulling his arm back from false Bahzell's throat to rest against the collarbone, his eyes still closed in a desperate attempt to find something real. He didn't remember the scent of the Horse Stealer, something that had bothered him to no end in the course of long, lonely weeks in Hurgrum surrounded by the family of his dead friend. It had been over two years since Bahzell had set foot in his home; any traces of his presence had long been erased save for possessions stored neatly in his rooms.

And somehow, impossibly, this bit of madness had broken past even the barrier of time and memory. His trembling grew worse.

It didn't help that his hallucination moved slowly, reaching long arms around him in an awkward hug. "It's sorry I am, Brandark." The cavernous bass voice, rumbling through the long ribcage beneath him – they'd never been this close before, he should have no idea what it sounded or felt like but this seemed so real-!

The tears finally started to fall. He couldn't stand it, couldn't take the cruel possibility that there might be something real here. Yes, Duo was capricious, and would perhaps believe that his presence would "put a damper on things" – but. "You can't be real," he managed to choke out.

"I'm real enough, my lad." The hallucination chuckled, a little thick-throated himself, but when the arms tightened Brandark pushed away.

"I saw you die!" Brandark shook his head almost frantically, his now wide eyes caught by -

Well hells, this was his fucking hallucination. He moved quickly, reaching out to catch imaginary Bahzell's shirt and ripping down. "Here now!"

Brandark ignored him, staring at the scars criss-crossing the imaginary hradani's chest. No young buck in hradani society got through puberty without a fine collection of scars, and given Bahzell and Brandark's proclivity for bathing that was unnatural at best in Navahk, they'd done their share of comparing marks. He couldn't swear that all the traces on this Bahzell's chest matched his memories, but the most significant were missing. The slice from a sword stabbing up amongst the ribs and nicking a lung, causing bloody froth to burble up amongst his friend's last words. A vicious slice down to the ivory collarbone from some overhanded strike meant to smash down any opponent smaller than a damned impossible Horse Stealer. Countless smaller but deep gashes and gouges that had made it through armor, one way or another. All the Bloody Sword could do was shake his head, tears streaming steadily now, and reach out with a strangely trembling hand. His left hand, not his weapon hand – the one missing the last two fingers from the same fatal battle.

Bahzell's eyes tracked it down as it tremblingly settled on his chest, over the place where the most grievous wound had landed; that damned slice to the lungs. There was a flash of something steel hard in the dead hradani's eyes before he looked up, catching and holding Brandark's gaze with emotions that defied explanation. "I did," he agreed softly, the rumble of his voice all the more imposing for its gentleness. He reached up slowly, resting a hand atop Brandark's. "And I'm something approaching alive again, thanks to Duo. I'm here, little man, and real as you are."

He shook his head anyways, not able to give in, believe in the impossible. "I. saw. you. Die." He was surprised, really, that the harsh words were coherent through the tears he was shedding. Brandark shook his head again, denying the warmth trapping his hand, the slow beat of blood under skin, the scent and feel of the hradani he was straddling like some deranged lover.

It had to be – not a dream, not a nightmare, it still had to be a hallucination. Out of sheer desperation, Brandark turned to something he knew, logic that could be relied upon. When dreaming, if one recognized the absurdities of the state then it was easy enough to shock the mind awake – all it took was getting too absurd for the dream.

And if it is real, I need to KNOW, I want to REMEMBER, I never want to forget any of the details again! It was a quiet, slightly mad voice in the back of his mind, and he never could say how much the Rage trickled in to warp his logic past any reason, but Brandark gave in to it. He leaned in close and fast, pressing up against the strangely warm figment of his imagination, and kissed a dead man.

The shape and size of him made it different from any woman he'd kissed, but the sensation wasn't too strange. There was a moment of hesitation while Bahzell stared at him in shock, then his eyes closed for just a moment in acknowledgment of... something. His ears were tilted at a bemused angle, and Brandark could feel what had to be a wry, perhaps exasperated smile under his lips. And then Bahzell kissed back.

The taste of him was rich and dark like the coffee Heero favored, rolling around his tongue and catching him in the growing spiral of unreason. Bahzell responded slowly, reaching out with massive hands to keep Brandark steady as the Bloody Sword gave in and started peeling clothes off.

It was an exploration; not slow but steady despite hitched breaths and long, sweeping brushes of hands. He wanted to memorize every damn line, trace all the paths of Bahzell's muscles so that even if his eyes failed him his hands would remember. Hands, body, everything – Bahzell had a sympathetic expression on his face even as he was helping Brandark out of his clothes.

Madness, too much, too much guilt and too much pain and gods help me, I want it to be real! And that was why Brandark pushed himself, acting as if it were not real, as if his actions would have no consequences. If he paused and asked himself what he was doing – truly, with honest answers – then he would stop, and never fully own the details that might make up Bahzell Bahnakson, so the only way was forward.

He traced every scar he could find, first with hands, then with tongue, eyes half closed the better to grasp the salty-musky scent and taste. He knew and remembered the sight of Bahzell, at least, and far better it be the warm solid memories of Navahk or the road away from it, not the horrible end in the Purple Lords' back yard. He ended up sprawled across Bahzell, both of them naked save for the Horse Stealer's boots and thus his pants, caught down just below the knees. Not that Brandark minded; for it was easier to pin the giant hradani that way, wrapping his legs around Bahzell's and digging his toes into the fabric for better purchase.

And the purchase was needed; both of them were harder than the Bloody Sword expected given they both preferred women! It was a strangely electric feel, sliding against a muscle-toned stomach and feeling his shaft rubbing against another's. He pressed close and the figment Bahzell pulled him even closer, hands roving around his body with only a bit of hesitation.

When Brandark thought he had the shape of the man, the way broad shoulders curled around his and strong hips rocked together just so, he pulled back enough to see the face, the expression this madness-born ghost was wearing.

It was startling; the care and rough affection that Bahnak's son showed him. Bahzell had always tried to keep his emotions close and well hidden, and to find them shining from the man's eyes was like stumbling over a direcat snoozing in a library. Not only did it shake him, he stilled under that strange gaze. This was strange, this was foreign, and the threat from this direcat was not of death or dismemberment but that this could be in truth a ghost given flesh.

And Bahzell was, of course, not going to sit around and wait for Brandark, even when the Bloody Sword was taking them down the road to this madness. Bahzell's hips still rocked in a steady rhythm, angling to glide their erections together even as those massive hands sketched over the body atop him.

There was something strangely tentative about the way Bahzell reached up and ran his fingers along Brandark's ear – ah, towards the missing tip of the right one. Maybe... maybe if this is real he wants to cement memories of his own? A strange thought and easy enough to brush away with another long kiss, tangling tongues and rocking bodies in an increasingly fevered rhythm. It was a strange desire driving Brandark; not for physical contact but to imprint the sensations. The thrust of hips, the feel of tongue, the scent of sex, and the taste of his skin – this was more than insane enough to remember vividly, and if this was some delusion, at least it was a thorough one.

It had been awhile since Brandark's last dalliance, so he wasn't surprised that the feel of another body against his was having a far greater effect than his own hands. He pulled back enough to see not-Bahzell's face, the way his queue curled on the floor behind him, the sweaty strands of brown framing the face and expected quirk of a grin. The ghost was looking back at him; patience, good humor, and affection in the steady brown eyes until the phantasm's ears snapped upright and his pupils widened. There was one last convulsive jerk of his hips before the hands clamped down on Brandark's ass, pulling the Bloody Sword closer to the erection pumping out underneath him.

Too much, too strange, too real! Brandark's head tilted back as he came, and he couldn't tell through the strange pleasure if it was tears or sweat or possibly both streaming down his face. He tried to collapse as gently as he could onto Bahzell, but reality and pleasure were distracting him just a mite.

That... felt real. The Bloody Sword lay across the illusion's chest, listening to the rapid patter of a heartbeat slowing and feeling the sweat cool against his cheek. Other things were cooling against his stomach, and there was that damned almost-itch as it was starting to harden in the air.

Sweet gods, that was real? What did I just – Brankdark's bemusement snapped into astonishment as he sat up as quickly and gracefully as he could, Bahzell propping himself up on the elbows. "By the Harp, Bahzell! You're real!?"

The Horse Stealer chuckled and flicked his ears forward. "I've only been saying that the entire time, little man."

All he could do was stare – gape, really. Bahzell... was real. He was really here, and they really had – "Phrobus," he breathed, going red round the ear tips. That, of course, did nothing about the tears that were leaking again. "Oh, Phrobus, Bahzell, only you could take this that calmly!"

He chuckled and leaned forward, ears waggling gently as he gave Brandark a wry grin. "I was thinking you had some issues to be working out, my lad. So I figured I'd best be sitting back and just letting you be working on them."

His startled laughter was rather watery, but he didn't really give a damn. "If that's what you call just sitting back, I'd hate to see what you'd do when you get enthusiastic!" Strangely enough, his fingers were trembling again as he dared to settle a hand on Bahzell's solid shoulder. His hand almost convulsed at the certainty of rock-solid muscle underneath with the urge to pull the man closer, into an embrace that couldn't possibly convey how much he'd missed his brother.

Never mind how damned awkward that'd be given... everything else.

But the Horse Stealer accommodated by reaching out and gently settling a hand on the nape of his neck, drawing Brandark near so their foreheads rested together. "I'm real and close enough to alive, my lad. I can't be staying about forever, mind; Himself has too much for his Champions to be doing." There were times in Navahk when he almost wondered if Bahzell had a touch of magery in him, the ability to discern his thoughts without words. Oh, he'd seen enough comrades-in-arms do the same thing, a communication without words, but it was always a little eerie to experience it himself.

"I should hope not, you lunkhead," he chuckled, pulling back and swiping at his eyes. His voice was a little husky still, but they could both ignore that. Indeed, the smirk was back as the larger hradani raised a brow and politely cocked his ears towards Brandark.

"Lunkhead, is it? And what sort of way would that to be talking about the dearly departed?"

His heart stuttered a little at that, but he was grinning at the same time. "The sane way to talk about a stone-headed Horse Stealer who went and became the Death God's Champion - and only after he died!"

Bahzell laughed right along with him before shaking his head in mock sorrow. "Ah, listen to the religious awe in the man! But that takes me back to the reason I had for visiting in the first place." He shuffled a little before meeting Brandark's eyes. "Himself is planning on sending me all over Norfressa doing His work, and I was wondering if you'd be wanting to see what sort of trouble we could be chasing up together."

He knew his grin was more than wry as he tilted his head to the side. "I don't think I've quite got Duo's style when it comes to championing, but I doubt he'd object to me assisting your... "style." I suppose I ought to be glad you're not Wufei's champion!" Bahzell pulled a face at him, but they both sobered quickly. "Your family is welcoming enough, but I think it wouldn't hurt to keep an eye out for you. Though why bother walking the length and breadth of the land when you can just sparkle your way anywhere you want to be...."

He blushed a bit sheepishly and shrugged. "That was a single use gift from Himself. I'll be walking again from here on, though I suppose with your legs you'll be wanting some horses again, little man." He stood smoothly and grinned wickedly at the Bloody Sword. "Though you're owing me a new shirt for all of this."

Phrobus, but he'd be getting years of blackmail out of this crazed little incident. Then again, years of teasing? Now there's an acceptable trade! Brandark laughed and lounged back across the floor as if he was perfectly comfortable there. "Well, I suppose I could exchange the value of a shirt for some say in the revisions of our exploits – you do know your father's bards have been quite busy painting you as -"

"Enough, little man! There'll be no more bardic exploits about anything if I've anything to say about it at all, at all!" He was, however, grinning as he held a hand out to the Blood Sword. "And the shirt's worth at least a little more than all that!"

He laughed, then winced a little as he took Bahzell's hand and stood. Habit had him reaching down to knead at the ugly scar on his right leg that still caught him by surprise sometimes by being just a shade stiff – though that was far better than the alternative!

Bahzell let go of his hand to frown down at the leg in question. "I thought Krashnark was after fixing that."

"Yes, but – wait." Brandark blinked and looked at the Horse Stealer suspiciously. "You were dead when that happened and Duo wasn't a god yet – how did you know? For that matter, what did you mean by that crack about seeing me in person?" Pieces of the insane puzzle were still missing – just enough to make him truly wonder how much was real.

The fact that Bahzell didn't meet his eyes was strangely reassuring. "I, ah, might've been having some help watching interesting events that have been going on."

Oh, this is going to be good. "…. which god did you pester?"

"I wasn't after pestering anyone at all, at all!" Brandark crossed his arms, raised a brow, and brought his ears to half mast. After a few moments of this, Bahzell began to squirm like a small child. "Well, mayhap Orr was happening to be looking in on -"

"The All-father?!" Brandark squawked, gaping in astonishment. "You pestered Orr All-father into wasting his time spying on us like a pair of gossipy old matrons across the fence?"

It was Bahzell's turn to cross his arms and glare back. "I wasn't after pestering him," he repeated staunchly. "I might've been lucky enough to be having a little chat - " He broke off to glare up at the ceiling. "Oh come on now, there's no need to be putting it like that at all, at all! You've nowt reason to be calling me that!"

It could've been him talking to Duo, it could've been Orr Himself, or any other god, not that it mattered much. Brandark nearly collapsed onto the floor laughing at the sight of Bahzell Bahnakson standing arms akimbo, pants down about his knees, and telling off a god. It was such a quintessential Bahzell thing to do, that any shreds of doubt that remained flew away. Even as Bahzell was turning to pretend to berate him, face barely straight and ears waggling outrageously, Brandark didn't, couldn't stop laughing.

This was so far beyond absurd, it had to be real. And Brandark laughed until he cried, only these were different tears, and for the first time in quite awhile all felt right with his world.

~end

Current Music: Linkin Park, "Waiting for the End"

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

joisbishmyoga.livejournal.com

BWAHAHAHA. I LOVE IT.

Brandark nearly collapsed onto the floor laughing at the sight of Bahzell Bahnakson standing arms akimbo, pants down about his knees, and telling off a god. <-- *falls with Brandark and howls with laughter*

From:

"I'm not crazy, I'm just a little unwell"

Demon of Justice fanfic: Pr0n edition

I feel compelled to point out that the initial comment has me comtemplating Wufei/Krashy slash... o.0;

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