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...The thing is, in the Phylogeny storyline, Panic-as-a-band doesn't last much longer than it has in real life, honestly...

( This is how the story goes. )

I always know more about my stories than ever gets committed to text; there's always the what-happened-next in my head. Most of what's under the cut will never actually get written - so I thought I'd share it with you here. Maybe it's still "too soon" for a lot of you to even want to deal with a fictional world so blithely separate from the trufax - but then, I thought, maybe the blithe fantasy of it will be helpful to some, the presentation of a universe in which the happily-ever-afters are exactly what we might hope for them to be.

Cheers.

( * )

( More: an anecdote about Charlie )

Strangely enough, it seems that I am now going to the Chicago Blink/FOB/Panic show.

Maybe it's just because I came to bandom via media fandom, where I'm used to weaving fantasies and fanfic around someone else's idea of what canon should be, but after the initial shock wore off some, I've come to find that I'm not half as upset by today's news as perhaps I ought to be.

Don't get me wrong, I'm upset. I had tickets to see Panic last fall for what would've been my first show, and they were GOOD seats, and I didn't go because I wasn't feeling well - and it will be a long, long time before I forgive myself for that, now that there's no second chance for me to see them that way, and I'll always feel bitter about what I've missed. But - on the plus side - it sounds like maybe it's a reasonably amicable breakup, and something about the 50-50 split makes me feel better than if the band had shattered to dust with nothing left. There will still be a Panic (though not the same Panic) and maybe there'll be another band too, and maybe in the end it'll be even better than it was to start with. Maybe.

But regardless of what happens in real life... there's still fanfic. And fanfic has NEVER had anything to do with real life, except in the most peripheral degree (look! they're hugging! it must be looooove!) and there's no reason on god's green earth why a little tiny bobble in reality should make the damn bit of difference in the fanfic we read and write. Hell, people 'ship guys who've barely even met, why the hell should reality make any difference now?

...Well, because it hurts. We've lost something that we counted on to be a point of stability in our lives, and no matter what kind of positive spin one puts on it, it still hurts. As Zack put it in his tweets, it's like a divorce - and maybe it will mean two christmases and two sets of presents, as Zack said, but in the meantime, people are moving out and the house feels empty, and there are bound to be tears. I plan to shed a few myself, just because.

And then I'm going to get back to writing fic. I have a story to write, of four wounded boys healing each other in a universe all their own, and I'm not going to neglect them just because another set of boys has other plans for their futures. Those four wounded boys are mine, and I haven't stopped loving them, and I'm going to give them the happiest happy endings I can, for as many stories as I can write before my muse wanders off to do other things.

Reality can go fuck itself. Fantasy worlds are always more fun anyway, far as I'm concerned.

Hang in there, guys.

-RE

Ryan leans back against the sofa pillows, legs spread wide to accommodate Brendon, who's settled comfortably into the V, nuzzling lightly at the fabric covering his rising hard-on. He feels Spencer's hand come to rest on his thigh, moments before Spencer's lips seize his own in a passionate kiss, and his fingers tangle into curly hair as Jon leans in to take his place, as Brendon begins, slowly and tantalizingly, to ease his zipper down.

He's aware that somewhere beyond the confines of this room, the Internet is going batshit crazy over the text of the latest band announcement, but he can't bring himself to really care. The truest things between them have always been the secret things, the ones left publicly unspoken - and let the fans lament the end of an era; Ryan is certain, as he opens his mouth to yet another kiss, that the best is yet to be.

Fuck real life. Phylogeny will continue.

He giggles a little bit - he can't help it - and, "Don't move," Brendon says absently, as his fingers smudge colors together, blending the glittery powdered pigment spread across Ryan's chest and belly. Ryan can't remember what exactly had sparked Brendon's bright idea to start drawing on Ryan with eyeshadow, or what had persuaded him to go along with it, but now there's a seascape taking shape on his torso, impressionistic swaths of color swirling together in surprisingly artistic form, and, "Hold still," Brendon admonishes, leaning in to do something delicate against Ryan's ribcage with the tip of one pinky.

It itches and it tickles and it's making him deeply, profoundly horny, having Brendon bent over him this way, focused and attentive, and Brendon is not getting the hint, dammit, no matter how Ryan arches his hips to call attention to his swelling cock. "I'm almost finished," Brendon murmurs, and Ryan groans at the feel of Brendon's fingertips stroking his abdomen.

Then there are hands smudging glittery streaks of color across the front of his jeans as Brendon paws at him, finally, finally, mouthing at him through the straining fabric before tugging down the zipper to draw him out and suck him down, hot and tight and wet and perfect, and the sea on his stomach ripples as Ryan writhes.

Ryan wakes up to the soft chime of Spencer's cellphone alarm, lies still as he feels the bed shift beneath him, dozing lightly to the susurrant sound of the shower going in the master bath. He only rises when Spencer's done; he knows Spencer likes to shower and dress in his own time, without distraction, knows to give him his space. By the time he comes downstairs, wrapped up in Jon's old bathrobe, Spencer's got coffee going, is sitting by the window sipping from his mug and watching the first rays of sunlight brighten into dawn.

He's dressed for a day at Dad's woodshop: flannel shirt over an old t-shirt, battered and frayed work jeans, heavy work boots. "Spencer's lumberjack look," Bren calls it, but there's no denying that Spencer in his guise of manly man is maybe one of the hottest things ever. Ryan's not ashamed to admit that it's one of his kinks, worth getting up at the asscrack of dawn for. Later, when Spencer comes home smelling like varnish and sawdust mingling with his sweat and aftershave, Ryan will have to share with Brendon and Jon as they ravish him together, but right now Spencer is all his, and Ryan's going to savor every moment of it.

Spencer gets up to refill his coffee cup, and Ryan drops to his knees, pinning Spencer's hips back against the counter as he fumbles his jeans open, desperate for the taste and feel of Spencer's cock in his mouth. There's a low, rumbling groan that fills Ryan's ears as he sucks Spencer down, then the feel of Spencer's hands fastening on his head, clutching, tugging, and Ryan yields willingly, happily, to Spencer's strength, Spencer's need.

He wakes up with the thin sheet tangled in his legs, fights to free himself, winds up finally lying on his back in the narrow bunk. He's wearing nothing but jeans, and the air conditioning is pleasantly cool against his skin; he sweats when he sleeps, and he's always sticky with it when he awakens.

Last night was a hotel night, and also his turn in the middle, so he's feeling wonderfully languorous, all the lingering tension and nervous energy fucked right out of him. He stretches lazily, and as he does, footsteps come down the aisle between rows of bunks, stop beside his. Spencer, Brendon thinks, a moment before Spencer's hand draws back the curtain.

Spencer settles his hip against the edge of the bunk and looks down at Brendon, his expression considering, appreciative. Brendon gazes back up at him, just as silently - until Spencer's hand comes to rest against his chest, thumb and fingers forming a V against the hollow of his throat, lingering there as if to feel his heartbeat, and then a ragged gasp wrenches itself from Brendon's throat, his head falling back as he arches into the warmth and pressure of that hand, to feel it all the more.

Then Spencer's hand begins to move, a slow steady path downward; and by the time it reaches the waistband of his snug jeans, Brendon is fully hard and aching, awaiting that touch, wanting it, focused so sharply on the prospect of Spencer's hand on him that nothing else exists, nothing at all.

They're playing some festival in the Midwest, and there are fireworks, and Brendon loves fireworks. Loves the bright bursts of light, loves the booming noise, loves the spectacle of it all. Maybe might have told a certain Jon Walker one night just how much he loves fireworks, another of an infinite number of secrets they've shared; he's an open book to Jon, likes it that way, doesn't keep track of what he's said.

But when Jon's fingers fumble at the waist of his jeans during the display, Brendon knows that he's remembered; and he leans back against Jon and lets the dazzle overhead fill his eyes and his mind as Jon's cock nudges its way inside him to fill his body. The immediacy of the moment is stunning, the sharp intensity of physical sensation combines with the frenzy of light and sound to set him on fire from the inside out, and Brendon knows that he has never felt so unbearably *alive* as he does right now.

As the roar of fireworks builds to a crescendo, Brendon cries out and shudders hard and comes, and amidst all the thunder of the explosions, it's Jon's moan in his ear that resonates inside him as he turns his face up to the skies to catch the last bright flares of red and gold.

After about a thousand false starts, I've finally got the next part of Phylogeny on track. There's about 5,800 words written so far; it is not going to be about the purchase of their house, but takes place before that; and it is kid-fic... sort of. And that's all I'm going to say.

Meanwhile: here, have a cookie. It's not from the next story, or from any story - just a little snippet of something that came into my head as I was cooking breakfast this morning. Enjoy.

---

Spencer shuffles into the kitchen in search of coffee, and is greeted by the sight of Brendon, stark naked, spatula in hand, standing over a frying pan at the stove, while Jon sits nearby, clad in sweatpants, sipping his morning coffee and watching Brendon cook with bright, eager eyes. Spencer stands there for a moment, taking in the tableau, then shakes his head slightly and moves to the coffeemaker; it's not the weirdest thing he's seen in this apartment, not by a long shot, and he wants caffeine, dammit.

Brendon flips something with the spatula, turns it; there's a spatter of melted butter as it falls back into the pan, and, "Ow!" Brendon yelps, as tiny droplets of hot oil hit his chest. "You okay, baby?" Jon asks, concerned, and, "Yeah, yeah, it's nothing," Brendon assures him, going back to his cooking.

Spencer sighs. "Brendon," he begins, then on second thought, abandons the line of questioning. "Jon," he says instead, "why do you have Brendon cooking," Spencer glances into the pan, "french toast for you in the nude?"

"Hey," Jon protests, working hard to summon his best injured look - it's still early, and he's not fully caffeinated yet, so he doesn't quite pull it off - "it's not like I made him do it or anything."

"You should know that Brendon is incapable of refusing you anything," Spencer says sternly, while, "Ow!" comes from Brendon again, presumably as a result of another spatter of oil.

"Brendon likes being naked," Jon insists, "don't you, Bren?"

"I do," Brendon agrees. "Clothing is an unnecessary encumbrance, and a symbol of the oppression of society by the patriarchal theocracy."

Spencer stares at him for a moment in disbelief. Finally, he turns on his heel and strides out of the kitchen purposefully. "Ryan!" his voice can be heard calling stridently.

Jon watches him go, then turns back to Brendon curiously. "Did Ryan really say that?" he queries.

Brendon's head half-turns toward him, revealing a wicked gleam in his eyes. "It's not my fault people think I don't have a vocabulary," he mentions casually. "Two slices, or three?"

Jon laughs merrily. "Three," he says, and Brendon grins at him before turning back to the stove, giving his ass an extra little wiggle for the benefit of his appreciative audience as he transfers french toast from pan to plate.

PatD, gen, not!Phylogeny. Rated G. Content Advisory: May make you go "awww". 4,224 words.

Summary: It's good to be Pack.

Notes: Thanks and <3 to penceyprepster for the encouragement and beta.

Disclaimer: The worlds I build exist entirely inside my head, and any similarity to real life is wholly a figment of your fevered imagination.

This is a work of pure fiction, centering on the public personas of people who are probably completely different in real life; neither infringement nor offense is intended.


( Meow. )

Today, I sat down with the next sequel to Phylogeny - the one that hasn't been flowing right for me - and mercilessly hacked and slashed scenes that didn't need to be there, that went off on odd tangents and things. It's more tightly focused now, and I feel more inspired to actually work on it. Still nowhere close to done, but it's still progress, I think.

I'm very tempted to segue into the future and write the story of Phylogeny!Ryan's post-Panic career, now that I know so much about it. However, it's stuff that takes place a minimum of several years forward from the point where I'm writing now, and I'm afraid that if I drift off into the future too far, it'll affect my ability to write the stuff that's happening "now". So I think that story is going to have to wait awhile, alas.

Today, I really wish I could sit on my back porch and watch the light change all day.

Have been slammed in the side with an AU plotbunny. Panic as colonists on a new world. It'd be vaguely Heinleinesque except for the sex. What am I saying? The only thing not Heinleinesque about it would be the lack of redheads. It's actually one of several plotbunnies I've been herding lately - and Phylogeny doesn't seem to be driving me so hard at the moment, so who knows, maybe one of the bunnies will rise up, grab me by the throat and demand to be written.

For now, though, time for work.

The final set of names picked:

Cartagena, Yoshida, Walsh, Petersen, Olekseyovik, Rollins, Farrell, Munroe, O'Leary, McGuire, Camarillo, Desmarais, Shepherd, Fuller, Reid, Klein, Lowery, Patel, Sanchez.

All, some or none of these might actually make it to the final story, but... now I know who lives in the cul-de-sac with them, and sometimes you just need to know this kind of stuff, y'know?

(If you want to know what that looks like in my world...)

Thanks to paisleybass, irisgirl12000, tehomet, siriusbewitched, mass_hipgnosis, variablez, and one anonymous commenter beatzz for their helpful suggestions. :)

I need fourteen last names representing a reasonable cross-section of ethnicities that might be found in an upper-middle-class neighborhood in America.

C'mon, folks, help me out here.

I'm still interested in hearing your ideas for what kinds of things you'd like to see in the Phylogeny universe. Tell me your thoughts. I've answered the existing comments too, in case you're interested in seeing what's already been talked about.

I'm also still taking Q & A questions for the characters in the Phylogeny universe, here in this post. And have posted a bunch of responses, for your edification and amusement. :)

I've also, after a very long while, set up an Instant Messaging client to receive messages under this identity, so feel free to add me if you wish and send me a message any time you see me online. I love chatting with new people! But do be warned - I'm bad about leaving myself "online" when I'm not actually sitting at the computer, like when I'm at work - so if you message me and I don't respond, it is NOT anything personal, I'm probably just not here right now; try me back at another time. On AIM and Yahoo Messenger, I am randomepiphany7 - on MSN/Windows Live Messenger, I can be reached at me@randomepiphany.com - which is also my email address, just by the way.

On a similar tangent - this is my fic journal, pretty much exclusively devoted to bandom fanfic. I also have a personal journal, where I post relatively infrequently about the stuff that goes on in my so-called Real Life. If you're interested in knowing the person behind the fic, drop me an email and I'll point you toward the other journal. (The problem with separating fanfic from real life is that I don't get to know many new people, which is kind of a shame, since some of you seem really awesome...)

In any event, if you found your way to this journal from a comm post or dotcoms_refresh, and would like to keep up on my work: everyone is ALWAYS free to friend this journal, and I do friend back when I remember to. :)

Finally, if you're the kind of person who likes to print out fanfic for later reading, or save it to your hard drive, or if you just prefer to do your reading in a plainer format than most journals' formatting, please make a note of my website at www.randomepiphany.com ... While the basic website design is similar to my journal, there's also an option for each story to display it as plain black text on a white background, perfect for printing or saving to a file, and I am usually pretty good about keeping the website updated with newly-posted stories, so you should always be able to find my stuff there (as well as on both Dreamwidth and Livejournal at randomepiphany).

Aaaaand that's about it. Thanks!

In case you missed it, I'm taking questions on behalf of the Phylogeny characters, here. If there's something you'd like to ask one of them, please, feel free. :)

Also, for those of you who don't make a point of reading comments, here's some interesting snippets you might have missed, as regards Adonis: ( clicky )

Notes and warnings at Part One.

( part the second... )