Disclaimers: This is not my beautiful house. These are not my beautiful boys.

Rating: NC-17. Slash, natch. Um... consensuality issues, I guess.

Pairing: O'Reily/Beecher

Acknowledgements: Dedicated with gratitude to Kady and Amy, who blessed me with tapes. Also big extra-effusive thanks to Kady for insightful and brilliant beta in the blink of an eye, and for the loan of her KellerMuse during a challenging weekend.

Author's Notes: Just a little toe-in-the-water thing. My first OZ. Somehow, it seemed kind of inevitable, you know?

Feedback: is welcome at mtriste@hotmail.com.

Choirboy

By Mairead Triste

Sometimes you can still see it in the vague outlines of his face. Ryan O'Reily, Choirboy.

Bet he was one, once. I can't think of anything besides a heavy dose of Church and family that could make a guy into the kind of thing that he is.

I don't know what he is. Not really. But I think I know more than he does.

I got him high. That was just a mercy thing-- I mean, if ever there was someone who needed to get high, Beecher was it. My good deed for the day, you know, giving him something to do besides taking Nazi dick up his ass. If I was ever in the same position, I'd hope that someone would do as much for me.

Not that I ever would be. I'm no man's prag.

I don't really know why he gave me drugs. Not that I really cared about why, just when and how often and how much. It was enough. For a while.

It made me his prag as much as I was Vern's-- not that he understood that at all, the control he had over me. Not consciously.

Control. He was in control. I was out of control. Not that I knew that, not then.

Control and chaos, it's like... it's like the best of both worlds. Like having two different women in your life-- one sweet angel who looks at you with big eyes, wants to hear about what you did today and touches you like you're some kind of God; and one hellraiser who bites your tongue every time you stick it in her mouth and makes you fight her every inch and makes you come so hard you think you'll pass out. And while you can pull it off, while you've got both of those women on a string, it's just the best thing ever.

Of course, when they cross paths, well... things get sticky. You have to step damn quick to keep your nuts attached. Fortunately, I'm fast on my feet.

He's pretty. That's a problem for me. Before, I wouldn't have thought twice about it-- he's a man, for Christ's sake. But the truth of it is that this isn't 'before'. This is now. Hellishly now. And now it appears that Vern's done worse to me than even he knows.

It was bad when Vern raped me, worse when he raped me and made me come while he did it. He knew that, he knew all about it; he counted on it. But the final part, the worst part, I don't think he knew about. He forced something into existence, forced me over some final, terrible line without even deliberately trying. He would've been pleased with himself if he'd known, so I didn't tell him. It was hard enough to tell myself-- I'm still choking on it.

Men are different for me now. That's the thing. They are predators and they're sexual, and I'm a predator and I'm sexual-- at least, I can feel myself wanting, wanting to be. Something inside is restless, shifting; spiking high whenever there's sudden violence. I've chewed the inside of my bottom lip bloody. Sometimes it feels good. Sometimes it's the only thing I can feel.

Vern, with his rough hands and blunt cock and mockery and lust, has changed the whole world. And now Ryan O'Reily is pretty, and I touch him like an affectionate brother and wonder how long I can possibly get away with it, and that's a problem for me.

In a weird kind of way, it's almost like having my brother around again. Same fucked-up, dopey smile, same high-pitched giggles when the shit starts to hit hard and everything's funny.

He's got my back, I can tell. That's funny, just all by itself-- like, what's King Prag gonna do if things get nasty, whip out his Maybelline and mascara the fucker to death?

I don't know what he'd do. But I bet he'd do something.

I know he would.

On angel dust his eyes were wild, pinpoints of intensity that dared me. Too much tension right then, too much red hot buzz fury something like something clawing its way out of me, tearing itself a place in existence. The cage door was hanging by one rotten hinge-- something's out, something's out--

I left because I didn't want to hurt him. I didn't want to touch him.

I left because I wanted to touch him. Touch-taste-smell-ravage and dig in, suck it up, feast and blood sacrifice all at the same time... Sacrifice... I'm so fucking, fucking hungry...

Beecher concentrate-- that's what he looked like. Tight and tense, boiled down and under pressure.

Pressure changes things. I remember that much from school. One of the only things that ever stuck with me. It stuck with me because somehow, I already knew that.

Afterwards, when he got out of the hole, the thought of him watching my back wasn't such a joke anymore. That control thing, that chaos thing, it was like he could slide now from one to the other, like all of a sudden his world had gotten one hell of a lot wider.

I watched him a lot more. I know that-- but hey, he was a lot more interesting, so that made sense.

Sometimes I thought about cranking him up on dust and then just aiming him at somebody. Whichever somebody needed that kind of lesson at that particular time. I held off-- tricks like that are too good to waste on trivial shit.

And so I'm free of Vern. The fuck. And now I'm jittering and jiving all the time-- all this energy, constant low-grade buzz of 'stuck here, stuck here, stuck here'. Trapped, in a way I wasn't before.

Before, I was a prisoner. Now I'm caged. I can't even believe how much of a difference there is between them. I had myself under sentence, held fast by the secure walls of retribution. Now those walls are gone. Now I rattle inside my skin my cell my confinement with no padding between me and the edges, nothing at all except this crazy ricochet.

Ryan smells alive to me, like deals and action and cigarette smoke and furtive things that move the plan forward. He smells exciting.

That makes the jitters worse, but in the moment it's not so bad-- he's caged too. And he's alive.

And I'm right behind him.

He's nuts. He's totally fucking nuts.

But it's pretty fucking cool to watch, after all. Chaos won that round, I guess.

When you're crazy, people don't understand that you can still think. I've seen him considering. Considering me.

The surface is all shine and flash, and every once in a while a mellow gleam of something deeper-- like candlelight, Church candlelight, high sweet voices singing about redemption.

He can't make up his mind about me-- whether I'm a good idea or not. Whether it means that he's slipping, somehow, or slipped.

Faithful pet psycho. Of course he would think that he's got it all under control.

But I know more than he does.

And I'm still right behind him.

[And, while the world was busy ending...]

Beecher screamed, one last howl of defiance. He still felt the pull of outside, the urge to get down on his belly like a snake and glide his way through the smoke and shrieking ricocheting destruction, just to see what he might come across. Vern, maybe.

But instead he turned, that tight smell of excitement clearer in the enclosed space, stronger because of the hours of tension without respite.

Ryan had jammed himself into a corner and pulled a mattress over him.

That's where the smell was coming from.

Beecher dropped to the floor, and the stick he'd been holding clattered away, no longer needed. There was something sharp and sour on his tongue, some hunger or thirst that was as strange as it was compelling. The last of the dim light faded away as he slithered forward, scenting.

"Beecher, you crazy fuck-- they're using tear gas. Get under cover!" Even from behind the mattress he could hear this, even over the screeching whine of some kind of machinery tearing through metal.

"Motherfucker..." he whispered quietly. The ground under his chest shook like it was about to split apart. The end of the world. Under his hands the mattress seemed oddly distinct, as if he could discern every thread in the canvas fabric. He pulled up, ignoring Ryan's surprised gasp, and ducked underneath.

Instinct had led him true. He had surfaced on the other side directly into the tight, viselike press of Ryan's legs. "Jesus! Shit, Beecher, what the--"

He covered Ryan's mouth by feel, and leaned forward until his own lips touched the back of his hand. "Shh. End of the world. Everybody out of the pool. God is coming and He is pissed. I want to touch you."

Ryan didn't seem to be too happy about that. Beecher held his mouth and used his weight as leverage while he scratched and fought and slammed his head forward, over and over until things quieted down a little. When Ryan only shuddered under him he reached down, cupping the soft bulge there. "In my mouth, O'Riley. Right down my throat. What do you think?"

Not much, apparently. Ryan fought again, slippery now under his hand as he tried to bite. Beecher held on, gasping and twisting to avoid flailing blows as he unbuttoned, unzipped, fumbled one-handed to pull Ryan's flaccid cock out of his pants. A hand squeezed his throat, choking, and he pulled away from the hard slickness of teeth to free himself.

"--your faggot hands off me, Beecher! You're dead, you're a fucking dead man--"

"So I've been told," he agreed mildly. "We're all dead now." He closed his eyes and held tight to Ryan's struggling hands, and went down, down; seeking out the source of that scent that had maddened him. It was warm and soft in his mouth, intoxicating and heady like incense, like a heroin rush-- but most of all, more than anything else, it was innocent. So innocent and clean, despite the grime and sweat, that it made his mouth feel polluted. He shivered.

"I'm gonna kill you, you crazy fuck! I'm gonna--"

He opened wide, stomach curling with hunger, and sucked in Ryan's balls along with his cock. Each slide of sweet flesh under his tongue burned him, as fierce and sharp as astringent on a raw wound, purifying him. He throbbed against his own stomach, trapped there, strangling in his pants and chafing against the metal of the zipper. He rocked back and forth in an exaltation of pain and pleasure and frustration, licking, sucking, feeding.

"Crazy bastard... You're... you're... oh Jesus you are so dead..."

Ryan grew in his mouth by slow degrees, a gradual swell of bigger and harder and more until Beecher had to let the smooth roundness of testicles slip free and fall away below. He buried his nose in warm silky pubic fur, dragging in that incense scent as best he could while his mouth filled with satin hardness. Outside, somewhere very far away, crashes and screams and gunshots rose up in a brawl of sound, but here there were only his own muffled sighs, a hum of need and Ryan's words, curses that sounded like blessings in his inflamed ears.

"Ohh, fuck you fucking cocksucker... Cocksucking goddamn faggot... Oh God--"

When Ryan's hands twisted in his own, he let go. He found the floor for leverage and pumped hard up and down, transfixing, crucifying his own throat with passion. His eyes stung.

Then there was no more air, but only a ferocious grip on his throat from above, choking him. Tightness built in his chest and he squirmed, still licking, sucking the smooth-skinned crown of Ryan's erection, his jaw aching. His hands beat ineffectually against the floor and somehow his own dick got even harder, throbbing in time with his pulse as silent explosions bloomed in his unseeing vision.

The grip on his throat pushed him down, down all the way until he thought his nose might break on the hardness of pubic bone. He was being stifled, strangled, suffocated with Ryan's hands and Ryan's big slick cock, and the chances of dying and coming at the same moment looked pretty good. He trembled, shaking on that edge, flicking his numb tongue back and forth with fading eagerness.

Then the hands crushing the life out of him loosened, relaxed long enough for him to suck in one whoop of breath before they tightened again, squeezing. His head was pulled up and then slammed down, no more opportunity for finesse of tongue and palate because this was just direct, brutal fucking, this was having his mouth well and truly used for the hole that it was.

"I'm gonna kill you--" a dark growl that floated down to him gently. "Yeah... oh fuck yeah you're... gonna kill you... crazy motherfucking cocksucking bitch I'm gonna... right fucking now..."

Beecher gagged, and tried to swallow. His mouth and throat filled with fire, a tide of hot salt salvation, and then all his muscles locked up solid as he pulsed his way into rapture, scraping himself against the floor. Above him Ryan was sobbing something, unintelligible as pounding feet and gunshots and righteous thunder from outside came closer, rising up like a tempest of sound. Beecher shivered out the last of it, swallowing now that he could, now that Ryan's grip was fading away.

Everything was fading away-- now that he had air he found it to be unbreathable, a harsh scoring bitterness that stung like acid on the raw tissues of his throat. He pulled back. There was more light now but it was ghostly, everything seen through a murky haze of ruin.

Ryan's eyes were closed. The light coalesced on his skin, pale and perfect. His still face might have been made of marble if it hadn't been for the shining tracks that cut down each cheek.

Beecher reached out and touched there. Ryan didn't flinch. Beecher's finger came away wet.

Outside, the thunder came closer. The ground shook.

Beecher put the finger in his mouth, slowly. Purity exploded on his tongue. He closed his own eyes.

"Choirboy," he whispered.

There was no answer.

~End~

Feedback to: mtriste@hotmail.com