no fate awaits me.

yancy becket. 30. i am not a ranger anymore. indie | selective | oc friendly

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son lux // no fate awaits me (feat. faux fix)

[dustyflannel]

It’s been way too long and it’s time Yancy got a reboot. 

[dustyflannel]

watermark // closed rp @ thequietestofsongs

[thequietestofsongs]

“God help whatever comes between Yancy Becket and his sleep cycle.” Wren comments (semi) jokingly, as he reaches out a hand to crawl blindly over the bedside table in the search for his glasses.  Fingers close around the familiar shape of the frames, and he plucks them up to place them on his face, while cringing at the sound of Yancy’s joints cracking.

[Isn’t that supposed to be terrible for your cartilage? …Must. Resist. Urge. To nag.  Let it slide, Wren.  He could be doing considerably more awful things to his body.  Like heroin.  Or bloodletting.  Or - Okay, stop right there with that train of thought.]

The room swims blessedly in to focus, all the familiar whorls and patterns on the wooden beams above his head, and Wren rolls back over just in time to catch Yancy accidentally “styling” his hair.   He has to duck his head down to hide a fit of snorting laughter. [That’s my man, right there.]

“I think a shower is in order.  Then pancakes.  Then judgment.” 

Wren tugs Yancy up from the bed, fingers curling gently around the other man’s wrist and not letting go, even as they make their way to the bathroom.  He can’t explain it - the need to be physically touching as much as humanly possible.  He only knows that it feels natural and comfortable when he does. [But only with him.]

In the tub, under the hot spray of the water, the younger man goes about happily explaining how peanut butter is whipped directly into the pancake batter, as he works shampoo through Yancy’s hair.  He ponders aloud about substituting almond milk, wonders if they’ve used the last of it as they soap each other’s backs.  He laments about how people often make the mistake of over stirring the ingredients (“Really, you only need to mix until blended.”), as they wash the remaining suds off their bodies. 

The only time Wren stops in his animated litany about cooking is when Yancy’s hands ghost lightly over the darkening finger print shaped bruises on his hips, and even then, it’s just a tiny hitch of breath, before he’s smiling and chattering on.

[dustyflannel]

Yancy's really thankful Wren decided on a shower first instead of food; he wasn't sure how much longer he could stand to feel their tacky, drying fluids between them. And he may or may not, despite their linked fingers, be the first one in the bathroom, first one to turn the shower on and get the water hot for them. Even with the impending doom of having to work, he's not the one to rush through a hot shower with Wren. 

He relaxes into having his hair washed, lets the other man take over with his fingers as he suds the thick soap through Yancy's hair. It cleans away any remaining trace of semen and the tension in his shoulders fades, going slack with relaxation. Wren's fingers are magic no matter what they're doing (preparing food, massaging), and on top of it, Yancy loves to have his hair played with. 

All the while, he listens attentively to Wren talk about how to make pancakes, although when he brings up almond milk Yancy has to scrunch his nose ["You'd better put whole in mine." ]. He joins in washing each other down with soap, mixed scent of something fruity [Wren] and minty [Yancy] invading his senses. Yancy commits the scent to memory (always), fingers finding the bruises he left on Wren's hips while he talks to trace, tease. The hitch in breath is all he needs and he smiles, circling where his thumbs left the most visible prints.

But Wren never falters, not even once, and he has to admire that kind of skill. Yancy would probably trail off distractedly, leave his sentence unfinished. 

[dustyflannel]

[text to: Wren]: So you left Lucy outside after her potty break [text to: Wren]: And now she smells like skunk

[dustyflannel]

watermark // closed rp @ thequietestofsongs

[thequietestofsongs]

Wren looks over his shoulder and graces Yancy with an expression of fond exasperation when the device meets the hardwood with a disconcerting crash, the sound of parts scattering every which way.  From the hallway, Lucy lets out an inquisitive low “woof” before the house is near silent again.

“Poor little alarm clock.” Wren laments in a dead pan, shaking his head. “Just doing it’s job, minding it’s own business, then suddenly it’s in a hundred pieces on the cold, unyielding floor…  Execution by lubricant.”

The younger man manages to keep a serious facade for a couple seconds longer, before the corners of his mouth quirk up and he lets out a snort of laughter.  It’s not the first time that his bedmate has attacked that particular electronic, and he’s quite certain that it’s not going to be the last time.  [You have a love affair with sleeping, Yancy Becket.]

At the mention of breakfast, Wren hums thoughtfully.  He appreciates the fact that Yancy offers.  He’s a considerate person and it doesn’t go unnoticed by the brunette.   Leaning back, he pecks the other man on the cheek, lips lingering while he considers. 

Food is Wren’s love language, it always has been.  He likes nothing more than to feed the people that he cares about, but he understands that he can get into a certain…headspace…when he’s cooking.  Yancy gets it too, and has never once given him any grief about it, for which the younger man is eternally grateful.

“What’s your opinion on peanut butter pancakes right now?  I tweaked my recipe, and I could use a hand trying it out.”

[dustyflannel]

"The clock deserved it. You know it did, I know it did." Yance stretches, bones cracking and muscles stretching as he contemplates the idea of peanut butter pancakes. Normally, he's used to chocolate chip, blueberry, raspberry... whatever Wren's wanting to experiment with. But peanut butter? Consider him intrigued. The blond twists his hips, back cracking (God, that felt great), much to Wren's displeasure at the noise.  "I think peanut butter pancakes sound like something I have to try before I make a judgment." Running a hand through his hair without a second thought, his hair sticks up from their fluids. Yancy grimaces at the realization, and they're definitely going to need a shower before breakfast. 

"How does one make them, anyways? Chips? Mixed in the batter?" 

[dustyflannel]

watermark // closed rp @ thequietestofsongs

[thequietestofsongs]

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[dustyflannel]

"Not until nine. Just set my alarm early in case I went for a run." Yancy finds the bottle of lubricant from their activities, fingers wrapping around it. Glancing over his shoulder, he aims, draws his hand back, and pitches; it hits its target not even a moment later, alarm clock flying off the bedstand. It doesn't break, no, but the bottom flies off and the batteries roll around the hardwood. 

"But since I already got my exercise this morning--" Yancy grins into Wren's neck when he presses, nuzzles up to him again. He stops the gentle strokes to Wren's sternum, arm going around his middle to hold. "I think I can skip out and help you with breakfast. Or make you breakfast... if you want me to?" He leaves the question open-ended, because even though Yancy was the one to put in all the repairs and time into the kitchen before Wren was in his life? It has turned into Wren's domain. And Yancy's not going to be the one to come between a man and his cooking space (a feeling he knows all too well; the protectiveness of something that soothes the nerves, distracts the mind from daily stressors). 

"Just let me know... I've got all the time in the world for you." 

[dustyflannel]

watermark // closed rp @ thequietestofsongs

[thequietestofsongs]

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[dustyflannel]

They're all sweaty, sticky from their activities, but it doesn't put Yancy off in the slightest. Grabbing Wren's wrist gently, he brings his hand up to his mouth, sucks the release off his fingers. He's in no rush when he does it, takes his time with each digit and traces the lines of Wren's palm with his tongue playfully. He doesn't stop until all of it his gone, shares the taste with Wren. Yancy's very aware of what it does to the other man, how turned on it gets him (despite the fact they just came)--

And Yancy just looks at him, watches Wren's reaction and a pleased smile breaks out across his features at the tiniest tremor that runs through his body. He can also feel the prickle of goosebumps under his fingertips, traces them in indiscernible patterns. 

"I want to explain how happy it makes me to hear you say that, but I don't think I need to... because you know, right?" 

The blonde rolls them with ease, trapping him in a spooning position, kissing just behind his ear. His hands seeks out Wren's, traps their fingers together, linking them, and he smiles against the nape of his neck. His heartbeat is rapid in his chest, breathing labored and he's trying to calm his body down, still, from the after-effects of orgasm. The hand that's holding Wren's settles against his chest, strokes down his sternum affectionately. 

[dustyflannel]

watermark // closed rp @ thequietestofsongs

[thequietestofsongs]

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[dustyflannel]

Yancy tries so hard to keep his eyes open, but they end up slipping shut when Wren says 'now.' And he's not far behind, orgasm making him draw his legs up, feet pressed against the bed as his thighs quake underneath Wren's body. He's vaguely aware of the warm spatter against his stomach, chest from not only himself but Wren, and gasps leave Yancy's mouth (along with Wren's name, a few choice endearments that aren't curses).

It feels like he's had the wind knocked out of him and rightly so, because while they may do this on a regular basis (intimacy), Wren hasn't taken them both into his hand in ages. And the same goes for Yancy, which, he starts to regret because it's always so perfect, and there's less effort to be taken than actual sex. It's nice, when the both of them are sleepy. 

As the last few pulses recede, Yancy finally opens his eyes. He knows Wren pressed their foreheads together, but orgasm made him forget if he pulled away or not. He hasn't, the blonde is more than pleased to find, and leaning in he kisses Wren. It's no longer needy, or desperate, but soft, Yancy coaxing him into it. The two of them are heaving and trying to catch their breaths, so he won't keep him distracted for too long (he'll always be considerate, that's just his nature). 

"I love you."

It's quiet, like it usually is, but Yancy means it all the same. He nudges his nose against Wren's, takes in all that he is (sweat-damp hair, eyes bright, happily wrecked) and that little tingle that goes down his spine? He's falling in love all over again. He brushes a few strands of the brunette's hair away from his forehead, dragging the sheet up with his other to drape over their rapidly cooling bodies. [Come here, let me hold you...]

[dustyflannel]

watermark // closed rp @ thequietestofsongs

[thequietestofsongs]

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[dustyflannel]

"You have to tell me when..." [Because I'm going to lose it soon and I'm trying to hold back for you]. Skimming his thumb along the thin trail of hair just below Wren's navel, Yancy grips his hips harder as he thrusts.

(He'll kiss the bruises from his fingers later, touch them while the two of them shower together, eye them over his morning coffee...)

And even though he'll be sorry about it, about possibly making Wren ache, it'll please him deep down he's left a mark on that smooth skin. Yancy's not the type to claim for the sake of posession, but there's something about seeing those small bruises  drives him wild, sates a more primal side of him. 

He lets his left hand drift a little further back from Wren's hip, fingers nudging their way between the cleft of his cheeks. Two brush over his hole teasingly, the touch feather light; he wants to encourage Wren's imagination without having to say anything. 

"C'mon Wren..." 

[dustyflannel]

+sciencesavestheday started following you

[sciencesavestheday]

      Jazmine stopped the work she was doing and stiffened at the familiar voice. She turned her head and looked at her brother—her brother thought lost, but proven not entirely so a few years back.

                            “—Yancy.”

        “…yes. I suppose it has been awhile.” Mostly her fault, due to the fact she’s taken to avoiding her brothers for quite some time. A selfish habit she couldn’t seem to shake off.

[dustyflannel]

       Yancy resists the urge to pull her into an embrace, because as much as he wants to... he knows the kind of relationship he's had with her -- Raleigh too. And though it's not good to reminisce on the past, he's missed her.

         He just doesn't know how to say it. 

       "If it's a bad time, Jaz, I can always come back later." 

[dustyflannel]

watermark // closed rp @ thequietestofsongs

[thequietestofsongs]

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[dustyflannel]

"I know you are." Yancy tells him, turning his head to kiss the corner of his mouth. It's something he's all too familiar with, because Wren gets louder, strains against the bed with even more eagerness than before Grip tightening on his legs, his thrusts get short, quick into Wren's hand. After the initial slow build, he's there, the pleasure is settling in his lower stomach [always an addictive itch you can't scratch]. Yancy feels out of control, he can't stand this, and letting go of one of Wren's legs he grasps his chin, turning his face to look at him. 

"So am I. You gonna make the both of us come, babe?" He kisses at Wren's parted lips, then his temple (damp with sweat) and tastes salt.

And that's when Yancy gets the idea, as much as he doesn't want to ruin their current position (but he secretly does), the idea pushes and nudges at his mind. Grasping Wren's backside, he ignores the soft noises of protest he gets as he rolls them, letting Wren straddle him [he doesn't even let go, fuck--].

Yancy just encourages, hands going to Wren's hips, eyes fixated on how the body above him arches, tenses anew with the shift of position. 

[dustyflannel]

Riloh crouches down in the doorway, dressed in his drive suit and armed with a nerf gun (in case anyone decides to retaliate - because MOTHERFUCKER does it ever hurt to get shot in the ass with a paintball). He fires eight consecutive shots, each of them meeting their mark before yelling a strangled war cry and running away laughing hysterically.“TAAAAAG MOTHERFUCKER!” //share the love Shatterdome! happy valentines day Jess-chan!! ;)

"Harmon!" Yancy barks as soon as the darts hit him, arm flailing out in a futile attempt to protect himself, just in case.   "Consider yourself a dead man as soon as my painkiller sets in!"

[dustyflannel]

watermark // closed rp @ thequietestofsongs

[thequietestofsongs]

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[dustyflannel]

"Promise I won't." 

He wouldn't trade this moment (Wren wanton and noisy beneath him) for anything. There are sounds leaving the man's lips (some old, some he's never heard before) and he doesn't want it to stop. Not only do they fuel Yancy, but his orgasm is a slowly building, and he desperately wants to bring Wren over the edge with him at the same time if he can.

He draws Wren's legs up to hook over his elbows, pressing them closer together. Yancy's thankful their height difference isn't exaggerated, because when he does this he can still kiss Wren, bite at his neck, and do other things that make him go crazy. Like how he nibbles at the skin just below Wren's ear, drag his lips up to nip at the lobe and suck before kissing the shell.  

[He's making me want him, but he'd kill me if I stopped now, even if it was to make this better]

Bucking into his hand, Yancy strains against him and groans when Wren rubs at just a sensitive spot below the underside of his tip, thighs trembling at the touch. It makes him pant, throb and leak out between the two of them, adding to the sticky mess they've already made of lubricant and their own fluids. 

[rangerharmonppdc--archive-blog]

Riloh grins at Yancy, clearly pleased that they’re even having a conversation.  He’s also immensely relieved that they’re no longer talking about Wren.

"Well, with all due respect sir, I’m pretty sure you’re always surrounded by fans.  I mean, even if they don’t outright say that they are.  People know what you and your brother did for this world…  In my opinion, everybody should be a Becket fan."  He says quickly, the words coming out in an excited rush. So much for staying cool.  Fuck. 

There’s a moment of awkward silence, where Riloh just stares at the ground, before clearing his throat.

"…So what are you up to in the Shatterdome?" (I mean, besides Wren, fuckgrossgrossgross) “…We all thought that maybe- that maybe you were gone.  It’s such a fucking relief that you’re alive sir.” His voice goes a little bit wobbly here.

[dustyflannel]

"I don't know about that. I mean, I have to say... I'm kinda a  big fan of Striker Eureka myself. Just don't tell Rals I said that if you ever run into him." Yancy laughs, and wow. The awkward silence sets in faster than Yancy thought it would, and he doesn't know why that is. It shouldn't the other man's just gushing about his piloting career... even if it is a little overkill. "Not that I don't love Gipsy since I piloted her, but everyone's got their favorites." 

"... To be honest with you, I'm not doing anything. I'm here to support my brother. Well, I'm here for your brother now, too. So I guess that's about it." He's still limping, getting used to what physical therapy's taught him. "You can't get rid of me that easily." 

[dustyflannel]

watermark // closed rp @ thequietestofsongs

[thequietestofsongs]

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[dustyflannel]

"Please."

The bed creaks underneath the two of them as Yancy shifts to get comfortable. It feels like he's got fire in his veins; Wren's never hesitated with him, not even their first time, and Yancy had been thankful, because, well... he knows he's not exactly a small man by any means. People were put off by that, more often than not (he never understood why) and it made him a little self-conscious, embarrassed for a while. But it's not like that anymore, and he's happy, so thankful he doesn't have to feel ashamed about anything. 

[I am so glad that I lived to meet you.]

His chest tightens as the thought passes through his head, makes his throat thick [goddamnit, do not cry]. He kisses Wren's jaw as he slicks his hands, and as much as Yancy wants to look down to watch, he can't. Wren wraps his hand (mostly) around them, and it's just as he thought; too much. Yancy doesn't even attempt to stop his mouth, noises, and sliding at just the right angle has him cursing under his breath. 

[Let me do this.Let me take care of you.] Yancy nudges Wren's hand away from his chest to pinch his nipple, rubbing, tugging it gently between his fingers. He doesn't even realize that he's said that out loud, caught up in his feelings, both physical and emotional. 

[lizardbros-deactivated20190210]

"This Means War" press conference, April 2nd 2012