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kyngsnake · 7 days

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I would like to know about ‘What Ifs’ please

It's a little "alternate ending" piece I wrote as an off-shoot of West of Eden, which is Avery and Wes's full narrative. Specifically it's a scene in which Avery and Wes are 21 and just recently started talking again after long period of religiously avoiding one another. Avery invited Wes to attend a rodeo in which he's competing as a sort of olive branch-- Hey, wanna come watch me risk my life riding bulls? Totally not because I missed you and don't know how to up and say that. Nah man I just totally wanted some bro time.

Anyway.

The two of them are sharing a motel room. They're both drunk and have a particularly intimate moment but ultimately nothing happens between them, Wes sleeps on the couch and Avery sleeps in the only bed. What Ifs was me indulging the "yeah but what if they did act on their impulses?"

Here's a snippet. Nsfw warning.

“Sit yer ass down,” Wes tells him. Avery looks up to see him pointing at the edge of his bed.

“Why?” Avery spits back without a second thought.

Wes’s eyelids shutter in a few irritable blinks, he grimaces like he’s about to spit. “Cause you’re too damn drunk to get yer boots off!”

There’s a pause between them during which Avery ponders just how much his dignity means to him. He grabs the scuffed wood heel of his boot and tries to wrench it off with a touch more force than necessary. The graceless motion stunts his balance, he has to take his hand off his boot and brace it against the wall lest he hit the floor entirely.

Avery’s nostrils flare in a huff, his cheeks prickle with warmth. He looks back up at Wes. “You’re drunk too!”

“Not as drunk as you are,” Wes snips right back.

With a low groan, Avery relents. He isn’t sure if he’s too tired to keep fighting or just too drunk. He’d rather die than admit it but the longer he stands still the more the nausea sets in. Whatever the case, he moves over to the bed and drops his ass down on the mattress. Wes meets him there and kneels in front of him, brows knit low and lips pursed like he’s never been more frustrated.

Avery can say with confidence this isn’t the most frustrated he’s made Wes in their many years tangled up in each other’s lives. It’s been a while since Avery last got a good, long taste of what it’s like to get under this cowboy’s skin. Truth be told, he missed it. Avery holds himself still, hands placed flat against the bed beneath him to hold his posture steady as Wes grabs ahold of a boot heel and pulls it free.

He sets the boot down on the floor, positioned upright all polite-like. Avery would’ve just kicked them off in the corner of the room were he sober— Wes is kind to the things he anticipates staying in his life a good long while. A nice pair of boots ought to last a man quite a few years.

And it’s there with Wes knelt below him at the edge of the bed, hands gripped around his remaining boot, that the fire swelling in his chest starts to dampen. It’s not a flame dying cold but a flame slowing to a gentle warm glow. Molten metal cools and takes shape, hot-blooded emotions give way for something tender, Avery is sorely reminded how much he missed stupid Wesley fucking Baker.

A sense of longing is a dangerous feeling if left unattended. Avery’s felt it for months, years now, he refuses to remind himself just how long he’s been tied to his own heartache. Has it really been years? Avery remembers the last time they shared a hotel room so vividly. Unspoken words and cold weather and the hot steam of a shared shower. If he opens that bottle, dares to peek inside and see his own reflection in bittersweet memories, he runs the risk of admitting wholeheartedly that he is still just as in love with Wes as he’s always been.

Just as it is impossible to be unaware of the contents of a clear bottle, Avery knows what he hides in his own heart. To be blissfully unaware would be to blatantly lie and he’s never been a very good liar.

He has to wonder– just has to entertain the thought– if Wes still harbors the same affection but the bottle is painted over in the colors of a good Catholic man. The patient lover that begets the loyal husband, stained glass reflection of a family structure Wes has only ever seen broken. Does he really want to model himself after his father? Bottlemaker’s son, he would be better at making a vessel to hide innermost thoughts anyway.

Avery’s face still feels flushed and hot from the liquor, his heartbeat hasn’t wanted to slow since his fist made contact with a stranger’s cheek. He feels his pulse in his throat as he watches Wes set the second boot beside its matching counterpart. Hazel eyes look up from the floor and the rush of every emotion he’s ever felt for Wesley Baker hits him, he swears he feels nauseous.

This is the part where Wes sheepishly looks away. This is the part where Avery still doesn’t know what to say, if he should say anything at all. This is the part where Wes sleeps on the couch fully clothed, boots and all, and Avery stares at the ceiling in his bed. This is the terrible yearning that never wanes, this is the past, present and future, this is what their lives have come to.

And yet Wes defies the will of God and all his teachings when he doesn’t look away. Avery only realizes he’s holding his breath when a hand wrapping around his calf forces a shaky exhale. Staring dumbly in the low light of a single orange-gold lamp, Avery tries to grasp the simple act of Wes staying on his knees because it strikes through his every expectation.

He struggles to even ask the only burning question there is to ask.

“What are you doing?”

Wes responds in motion before he responds in words. He inches his body closer, hand creeping up Avery’s leg until it cradles the underside of a thigh. Lips graze the seam of Avery’s jeans like they are a path meant to be followed, Wes’s eyes are closed as he makes his slow advance. He pauses to press his cheek against Avery’s inner thigh, eyes open half-lidded and sick with desire.

“Stayin’.”

The pieces stack slow and fall in an instant, once that pin is pulled there is no going back. Avery arcs his hips up off the bed when Wes undoes his belt buckle, grabs him by the beltloops and pulls his jeans down around his knees. All it takes is bare skin to bare skin for Avery’s cunt to ache, Wes’s wide hands pushing his thighs apart. He’s sure he’s already wet because he’s been wet every time he’s sat alone thinking about Wes touching him just like this.

Wes grabs the cuff of one pant leg to yank it down off Avery’s foot as he makes the first slow draw of his tongue. Even the smallest taste is electric, Avery gasps and bites his lip lest he let the neighboring hotel room know he’s got another man between his legs. More desire than Avery knows what to do with gets the better of him and he bucks up into Wes’s warm mouth, opens his legs further now that Wes’s freed them from the burden of dusty blue jeans.

It occurs to him that Wes hasn’t done this before. He knows because Wes’s mouth has never known the taste of Avery’s cunt and he knows because Wes wasn’t lying when he said he’s never touched Monica. Avery decides he couldn’t fucking care less, it wouldn’t be the first time they shared a first– Avery almost wishes it was a first for both of them again, just like it was in that abandoned house.

That doesn’t matter. It only matters that it’s him.

Avery weaves his hand into Wes’s sandy blond hair and pulls. “Higher,” he breathes, “Just a little– just a little bit higher.”

Wes tilts his chin up and opens his eyes just long enough to look at him. Expectant verdant irises watch and wait for approval as he presses the flat of his tongue to Avery’s clit. Avery jolts, again his hips try helplessly to rut into Wes’s mouth, insatiable need is just so hard to quell. The whimper that rolls off his tongue tells its own tale; Wes is a quick learner. Eyes flutter shut again and a contented murmur rumbles in Wes’s chest as he rocks his head from side to side, mirroring the motion Avery’s hand might make, Avery wonders just how often Wes has fantasized about this too.

“Fuck,” Avery curses through a shuddering exhale, “Keep– J-just– Fuck,” his voice strains and snaps, forming whole sentences against the tide of a velvet-soft mouth is nigh on impossible. Avery can feel himself blushing when he steels himself and growls, “Just keep doing that.”

Avery swears he knows Wes is smiling despite having his face buried in his pussy. Those hazel eyes blink open only briefly; Wes’s gaze feels like it aims to admire just as much as it aims to tease. Avery could never admit to feeling butterflies in his stomach from a look alone.

Steady rhythm makes the fire in Avery burn hotter, desire is gasoline and the flames can do nothing but rise. His thighs tremble, hands clench around Wes’s hair and yank, trying to stop himself from grinding his clit against Wes’s tongue is entirely a lost cause. Each breath is an audible sound, by now he’s too lost in unanswered needs, carnal and pure. Whimpers, whines, breathless moans, if God is out there he’s welcome to listen too for all Avery cares.

His heart races at a hummingbird’s pace, the headrush strikes him dizzy. Wes breathes slow through his nose, stillwater calm as he indulges in the divine act of service. No one makes Avery fall apart so quickly and so absolutely like Wes can. Many have tried, Avery has sought tirelessly after a balm for his own aching desire. None can match that measure, none can embody the bread and wine while the flesh and blood still lives.

Sometimes it feels as though God made them for each other. It’s easier to rationalize just why Avery cannot settle for anyone else that way. Avery is not often a religious man but Wes on knees as though he’s praying at the altar can bring him back to faith.

Avery’s chest rises and falls as he pants through an open mouth, hazy eyes dripping amber honeyed affection while he watches Wes. Every stroke of his tongue is a prayer answered, doesn’t matter if Avery has to adjust his angle by the hand woven into Wes’s hair every now and again. Avery wonders how Wes is going to justify this to himself come morning, if sharing a bed with Avery once again is another damning sin or the inevitable culmination of bound fates. Things were always going to end up this way, weren’t they?

Wes stops dead. Avery groans under his breath and inches himself closer to the edge of the bed. He urges Wes to put his mouth back where it belongs with language only bodies can speak, impatience is a trait Wes has learned to expect. He just looks up and grins as he grabs each of Avery’s thighs and hoists them over his shoulders.

Arms looped around muscle-dense thighs, fingertips pressed into his freckled skin, Avery’s head throws back as Wes’s tongue draws up through his soaked cunt ‘til his mouth fits around his clit. A shiver rattles Avery down to his core, he grips handfuls of the bedsheets beneath him. Hard to tell if Wes is technically any good at this, a warm mouth is enough in its own right and watching Wesley Baker eat like Avery’s cunt offers ambrosial salvation already has Avery nothing short of a mess.

A soft hum resonates in the back of Wes’s throat, he squeezes Avery’s body in his hands hard enough to bruise. He’s already speckled black and blue from riding bulls, what’s a few more marks? No one but Avery will know who they came from, what they mean.

“Oh my God, Wes,” Avery exclaims through a straining whimper, “Don’t stop, fuck, please don’t st– Your mouth feels so–”

A shameless display of carnal hunger breaks something in Wes just as it broke something in Avery.

“God dammit,” Wes growls, pulling his head up with teeth gritted as he tries to swallow his mounting frustration, “I can’t— Fuck it, Avery, I can’t stand waitin’ any longer.”

#they make me crazy your honor #wes eating him out while kneeling at the edge of a bed is soooooooo #yknow #avery #wesley #ty for the ask wish!#asks #my writing

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