Where Shitty Fics Go To Die
I've decided to post the WIPs that are dead to me as some kind of cleansing exercise. This is like an exorcism.
A New Home
The first night in his new place the bed is warm and soft and empty. He makes a point of stretching out in the middle, celebrating his newfound independence. At home, he has to worry about Brian’s light sleeping, the cranky morning attitude if he moves around in bed too much. Here, he can toss and turn when he can’t sleep. He can huff and sigh and stare at the ceiling.
He does toss and turn. Huff and sigh and stare at the ceiling.
He always knew he’d miss Brian.
--
The first few nights at Michael’s, he hadn’t cried. Michael’s new house is nice, but the walls are paper thin. Justin still has his pride, even though he’s starting everything else over from scratch. That and he didn’t want Michael telling Debbie and Debbie telling everyone, and it all getting back to Brian in the form of their disapproving lectures. He’s heard Brian’s name on irritated lips all week, he’s sick of it. It’s not fair.
Because now I understand what it is you want of me, he remembers. And I know what I can expect from you.
It seemed so honest at the time.
He jerks off in bed the second night on his own and starts crying when he comes, aching and empty and unsatisfied. He feels like a fucking lesbian, crying over orgasms, nestled in his clean flannel-sheeted bed. He’s not sure what Brian would be more appalled by, the sobbing or the flannel. Probably this whole fucking apartment. Justin’s whole new life.
His second night of real independence and he’s lying snotty and soaking in his bed. His throat gurgles a little when he breathes, and he tries to think about how this is good for him. About how he’s finally making it on his own.
He wishes that he could make it on his own without being on his own.
--
He writes Brian an email to let him know about the new place. It says:
Hey,
Renting a studio uptown. I don’t have a phone, just use my cell if you need anything.
His fingers hover over the keys to type I miss you, but in the end he just clicks send.
--
It gets easier surprisingly quickly. He covers every surface of this new empty place with paintings and sketches until it feels like home, and he loves it even if everyone else seems to think it’s barely a step up from a cardboard box.
Justin wonders how Brian is doing every day.
(It was going to be this whole thing where they became broken-up-friends, because I love fics where they pretend to be friends. I feel like the writing in general there sucks though, so I abandoned it in the cold alone to die.)
--
Brian's Home for Wayward Youth
Gus gets a chest infection, a screaming all-night all-day coughing chest infection, and it seems like Emmett has nowhere to go. He can’t stay at the lesbians’ anymore. Ted is in rehab, and he and Emmett are estranged. Michael has moved a rent boy into his old bedroom. His life is suddenly a bad Spanish soap opera, and Emmett has nowhere to live.
Shelter comes from an unexpected source.
Sure, Brian is past drunk and sliding off a bar stool when he makes the offer, but he seems sincere enough. Emmett looks uncertainly at Michael, who shrugs and pours himself a shot of Brian’s whiskey.
“I don’t exactly have a couch, persay,” Brian says, hunching over his glass and tapping Emmett on the chest. “But you can sleep at the foot of the bed.”
“You could sleep on the floor,” Michael says dryly.
Emmett smiles tightly and swallows the rest of his daiquiri.
--
He’s not sure what he expected, though this is certainly not far from it. Brian answers the door rumpled and grumpy at two in the afternoon and glowers at Emmett’s embroidered suitcase.
“What the fuck is that?”
Emmett has never really been afraid of Brian, but there are moments like this when he knows he really should be. He nearly says please. He knows how not to play things with Brian, though. He knows not to cower like some nelly queen.
For Brian, Emmett has to be fabulous, even if he doesn’t particularly feel it lately. He breezes past Brian’s dark scowl and settles his suitcase at the bottom stair.
“I’ve arrived!” Emmett says, spreading his arms wide.
“I don’t think we ordered you,” Brian says and slides the loft door closed with some effort. He must see the exhaustion in Emmett’s eyes, though, because he waves vaguely into one corner of the empty loft, where a pile of futons have formed a haphazard mountain. Emmett wonders how many men Brian has fucked up that mountain. It’s probably best not to think about it.
Justin wanders out of the bedroom looking sleepy and tousled. He looks between Emmett and Brian, the suitcase. Emmett. Brian. The suitcase.
He looks like he wants to ask questions. Instead he just shrugs and waves hello, passing them on the way to the kitchen where the coffee machine sits gurgling patiently.
He pours three mugs, and returns to gazing suspiciously at Emmett’s suitcase.
“So,” he says when no explanation is forthcoming. “What the fuck is going on?”
--
The first night, they eat dinner in front of the archaic television Brian seems to have dug up from some pensioner’s grave. Dinner consists of fresh salad sandwiches and a bottle of wine, served on Brian’s designer dishes elegantly arranged on the hardwood floor.
Emmett was unaware that Brian had auctioned off quite this much of his furniture. It seems a tragedy of almost epic proportions, especially when those beautiful hardwood floors begin to leave a dull ache in his prized behind.
They’re watching some documentary about owls that Brian seems oddly fascinated by; every time Justin changes the channel Brian somehow manages to bring it back. In the end Justin abandons his mission in favor of stretching out on his stomach with a sketch pad, roughly scratching out a new villain for Rage. Emmett watches, fascinated; he’s never really seen Justin at work before, especially not since the bashing. The frenetic slide of Justin’s hand pleases him; Justin always has made him proud.
In the moody, quiet moments as the owl sits and hoots onscreen, Emmett wonders if Teddy will ever bounce back the way Justin has. Emmett wishes he was sure he wanted Ted to. Instead there’s just a rumbling angriness inside; rearranging his organs and making him into someone he doesn’t quite recognize.
He imagines himself as one of Justin’s drawings, starkly lined in black and white, the frown lines around his eyes and mouth making him look dried up and bitter like some farmer’s frustrated wife. Emmett promised himself he’d never be a farmer’s wife, that’s why he left that tired little town for bigger and brighter things. And got stuck in Pittsburgh on the way.
Since Ted checked into rehab, the thought that Emmett was supposed to end up in New York keeps him awake nights. If he didn’t have Michael and Brian and Justin and Deb, this family he loves, he might relocate there now. Planning parties for the rich and famous, for broadway stars that would fall for his looks and charm and serenade him in the wee hours of the night. Some handsome man who would tell him he was loved, who would really love him. Who would stay.
Emmett misses George.
Intermittently, Emmett sees Brian sliding his hand over the back of Justin’s calf, folding and refolding the fabric of his jeans, sliding his fingers underneath to touch what Emmett imagines is the warm, soft flesh of Justin’s leg. Over and over, and then he’ll stop, and then he’ll start again. Justin seems to mostly be ignoring him, but Emmett sees him drop his head and exhale sharply when Brian’s blunt fingernails scrape against his ankle.
(erinface's idea. There were going to be, I don't know, shenanigans. I think it was for snowinandblowin, that's how old this is.)
--
A Disclaimer
It starts going wrong the day Brian finds Rage fanfiction.
Justin’s life as a movie mogul has up until this point been relatively uncomplicated, devoid of the stupidity which plagues the industry. Justin had gone to California, done his work, made his movie, partied with a few hot, closeted stars, and then come the fuck home. Apart from a flurry of interest around the same time that the movie is released, he’s been left pretty much alone.
Apparently, they can’t say the same for their beloved characters.
“Justin,” Brian says one afternoon. “Come check this out.”
It’s Rage fansites. Dozens of them.
(Brian was going to find a bunch of Zephyr/JT sites and be really annoyed for my amusement.)
--
What Doesn't Happen
Brian doesn’t help Justin move into the dorm.
Emmett does, and Debbie and Jennifer. Brian thinks even Ted might have stopped by, but who the fuck does Justin think Brian is, that he might actually show up for something like that? Justin’s fucking father?
Craig didn’t help either. Brian is tempted to show up and offer his services just to disassociate himself from that motherfucker.
He doesn’t, though. When Justin moves into the dorm, Brian doesn’t see him or speak to him for a week.
--
Justin shows up at Babylon the first Friday of semester and gives Brian a blowjob in the backroom. He’s in an extraordinarily good mood, grinning that stupid, beautiful grin and pressing flush against Brian when they dance. He kisses Brian and hums along to the music.
On the way back to the loft, he’ll tell Brian. His roommate is a gay guy named Steve. Justin doesn’t plan to fuck him, ever. His classes are amazing. He gets to draw all day, or learn about art. His classes are full of amazing people.
Just inside the front door, Brian will stop the Picasso and Hannah Höch that tumbles from Justin’s mouth by shoving his tongue inside it.
(I still vaguely like the idea of this but not enough to finish. It didn't really have any forward momentum, because they just continued their s1 fuck buddy relationship and possibly drifted apart a bit. Justin still ended up with Ethan, and then got back with Brian when they joined forces over the whole Stockwell thing.)
--
Justin dies #1
Michael gives the eulogy.
It’s funny because half the time Mikey still tried to pretend that he hated Justin, that Justin was just that immature fucking brat that hung around and wouldn’t let Brian go. It’s funny now to hear him say, love him and miss him and secretly my hero. Michael’s tears make tracks on his face.
Justin wouldn’t have wanted Brian to do the eulogy. He’d have wanted Brian to be so devastated he could barely speak, and that’s pretty much what he is. Brian thinks absently of getting up, beating his chest, making a scene. Once upon a time, Justin would have loved that. Maybe not so much by the time he died.
Brian sits and traces the curves of his knuckles beneath the skin. The last time he saw Justin,
(I had this whole phase where I wanted to write Justin death fic, and Brian having necrophilic nightmares. This is the first of the attempts.)
--
Justin dies #2
Justin dies.
They say the first stage of grief is denial, but Brian doesn’t have any of that. He knows the moment they tell him, knows with perfect, nauseating clarity: Justin is dead. Dead. Justin is never coming home to him.
Brian grieves.
--
On Tuesday, Brian was supposed to have a meeting with Sunsoft Cosmetics. Instead he stays home and watches tv. His ads droning endlessly between soap operas and sitcoms. Every time he sees a car, he changes the channel. When he sees blood, he throws up. He throws up a lot, actually, any time he tries to eat or drink or take a fucking pill. He suddenly has the constitution of a seven year old girl.
The funeral is set for Thursday. They won’t let him help with the arrangements. They won’t let him do anything at all.
--
He doesn’t really remember the funeral. Other people told him it was beautiful. He remembers shaking with rage, Jennifer’s hysterical presence at his side. The priest was a woman. Mikey gave the eulogy. What seemed like hundreds of people crowded at his bag. The sudden, unearthly hush. The pulse of sobs through the crowd. Brian’s own silence.
Justin’s absence. That’s the thing Brian really remembers. The only thing he knows.
--
In skipping denial, Brian seems to go straight to anger. Slow, burning, righteous fucking anger towards everyone and everything. He goes about his life from day to day fueled by this rage, this fucking rage. At the office. At home. He hasn’t been to Babylon in months, hasn’t been hard since before Justin died.
(I really hated this attempt.)
--
One Thing That Never Happened in New York
(I'll explain this one beforehand, it's basically set before Brian and Justin start sleeping together again in my fic Subject to Change, and Justin reveals that while Brian was living in New York and Justin in Pittsburgh, he slept with Michael. It was part of a fic I was going to do, Five Things That Never Happened in New York. I didn't have five ideas though, and I've lost the motivation.)
The way Justin tells it, it only happened a couple of times. Brian knows, though, the second he sees them in the room together, he knows it was a lot more than that. Justin hangs back behind Brian’s shoulder, stares at Michael, and there’s this look that passes between them. This knowledge.
Brian knows what they know. About the twist and thrust of Justin’s hips, the beautiful long line of his cock, his fat, warm lips. His breath, spilling moist over your skin. Brian knows it, but hasn’t felt it for years. He wonders how long it has been for Michael.
The way Justin tells it, the first time was in back at Babylon. Fucking through Michael’s loneliness and Justin’s anger, against the pounding, driving beat of the music. Brian can imagine it. The blue lights. The men’s stares. Justin’s pale fingers sliding Mikey’s t-shirt up his body. Justin taking charge.
If it were anyone but Michael, the image would really turn Brian on. As it is, it makes him vaguely sick, and he has to inhale sharply on his cigarette as Justin tells the story. His voice hangs thick in this new world, away from the stench and tedium of the Pitts. Brian imagines that voice in Michael’s ear. He wonders if they liked it.
“Don’t freak out, Brian.”
Justin’s hand pushes against Brian’s knee, trying to coax him out of his sudden stupor. It’s not like Brian didn’t know, that first second he saw them together, but hearing it. He needs to get up and move.
He does. Right out of the apartment. He doesn’t speak to Justin for days.
--
And that's pretty much it. This isn't all the WIPs, of course, just the really dead ones that I can barely remember starting.
A New Home
The first night in his new place the bed is warm and soft and empty. He makes a point of stretching out in the middle, celebrating his newfound independence. At home, he has to worry about Brian’s light sleeping, the cranky morning attitude if he moves around in bed too much. Here, he can toss and turn when he can’t sleep. He can huff and sigh and stare at the ceiling.
He does toss and turn. Huff and sigh and stare at the ceiling.
He always knew he’d miss Brian.
--
The first few nights at Michael’s, he hadn’t cried. Michael’s new house is nice, but the walls are paper thin. Justin still has his pride, even though he’s starting everything else over from scratch. That and he didn’t want Michael telling Debbie and Debbie telling everyone, and it all getting back to Brian in the form of their disapproving lectures. He’s heard Brian’s name on irritated lips all week, he’s sick of it. It’s not fair.
Because now I understand what it is you want of me, he remembers. And I know what I can expect from you.
It seemed so honest at the time.
He jerks off in bed the second night on his own and starts crying when he comes, aching and empty and unsatisfied. He feels like a fucking lesbian, crying over orgasms, nestled in his clean flannel-sheeted bed. He’s not sure what Brian would be more appalled by, the sobbing or the flannel. Probably this whole fucking apartment. Justin’s whole new life.
His second night of real independence and he’s lying snotty and soaking in his bed. His throat gurgles a little when he breathes, and he tries to think about how this is good for him. About how he’s finally making it on his own.
He wishes that he could make it on his own without being on his own.
--
He writes Brian an email to let him know about the new place. It says:
Hey,
Renting a studio uptown. I don’t have a phone, just use my cell if you need anything.
His fingers hover over the keys to type I miss you, but in the end he just clicks send.
--
It gets easier surprisingly quickly. He covers every surface of this new empty place with paintings and sketches until it feels like home, and he loves it even if everyone else seems to think it’s barely a step up from a cardboard box.
Justin wonders how Brian is doing every day.
(It was going to be this whole thing where they became broken-up-friends, because I love fics where they pretend to be friends. I feel like the writing in general there sucks though, so I abandoned it in the cold alone to die.)
--
Brian's Home for Wayward Youth
Gus gets a chest infection, a screaming all-night all-day coughing chest infection, and it seems like Emmett has nowhere to go. He can’t stay at the lesbians’ anymore. Ted is in rehab, and he and Emmett are estranged. Michael has moved a rent boy into his old bedroom. His life is suddenly a bad Spanish soap opera, and Emmett has nowhere to live.
Shelter comes from an unexpected source.
Sure, Brian is past drunk and sliding off a bar stool when he makes the offer, but he seems sincere enough. Emmett looks uncertainly at Michael, who shrugs and pours himself a shot of Brian’s whiskey.
“I don’t exactly have a couch, persay,” Brian says, hunching over his glass and tapping Emmett on the chest. “But you can sleep at the foot of the bed.”
“You could sleep on the floor,” Michael says dryly.
Emmett smiles tightly and swallows the rest of his daiquiri.
--
He’s not sure what he expected, though this is certainly not far from it. Brian answers the door rumpled and grumpy at two in the afternoon and glowers at Emmett’s embroidered suitcase.
“What the fuck is that?”
Emmett has never really been afraid of Brian, but there are moments like this when he knows he really should be. He nearly says please. He knows how not to play things with Brian, though. He knows not to cower like some nelly queen.
For Brian, Emmett has to be fabulous, even if he doesn’t particularly feel it lately. He breezes past Brian’s dark scowl and settles his suitcase at the bottom stair.
“I’ve arrived!” Emmett says, spreading his arms wide.
“I don’t think we ordered you,” Brian says and slides the loft door closed with some effort. He must see the exhaustion in Emmett’s eyes, though, because he waves vaguely into one corner of the empty loft, where a pile of futons have formed a haphazard mountain. Emmett wonders how many men Brian has fucked up that mountain. It’s probably best not to think about it.
Justin wanders out of the bedroom looking sleepy and tousled. He looks between Emmett and Brian, the suitcase. Emmett. Brian. The suitcase.
He looks like he wants to ask questions. Instead he just shrugs and waves hello, passing them on the way to the kitchen where the coffee machine sits gurgling patiently.
He pours three mugs, and returns to gazing suspiciously at Emmett’s suitcase.
“So,” he says when no explanation is forthcoming. “What the fuck is going on?”
--
The first night, they eat dinner in front of the archaic television Brian seems to have dug up from some pensioner’s grave. Dinner consists of fresh salad sandwiches and a bottle of wine, served on Brian’s designer dishes elegantly arranged on the hardwood floor.
Emmett was unaware that Brian had auctioned off quite this much of his furniture. It seems a tragedy of almost epic proportions, especially when those beautiful hardwood floors begin to leave a dull ache in his prized behind.
They’re watching some documentary about owls that Brian seems oddly fascinated by; every time Justin changes the channel Brian somehow manages to bring it back. In the end Justin abandons his mission in favor of stretching out on his stomach with a sketch pad, roughly scratching out a new villain for Rage. Emmett watches, fascinated; he’s never really seen Justin at work before, especially not since the bashing. The frenetic slide of Justin’s hand pleases him; Justin always has made him proud.
In the moody, quiet moments as the owl sits and hoots onscreen, Emmett wonders if Teddy will ever bounce back the way Justin has. Emmett wishes he was sure he wanted Ted to. Instead there’s just a rumbling angriness inside; rearranging his organs and making him into someone he doesn’t quite recognize.
He imagines himself as one of Justin’s drawings, starkly lined in black and white, the frown lines around his eyes and mouth making him look dried up and bitter like some farmer’s frustrated wife. Emmett promised himself he’d never be a farmer’s wife, that’s why he left that tired little town for bigger and brighter things. And got stuck in Pittsburgh on the way.
Since Ted checked into rehab, the thought that Emmett was supposed to end up in New York keeps him awake nights. If he didn’t have Michael and Brian and Justin and Deb, this family he loves, he might relocate there now. Planning parties for the rich and famous, for broadway stars that would fall for his looks and charm and serenade him in the wee hours of the night. Some handsome man who would tell him he was loved, who would really love him. Who would stay.
Emmett misses George.
Intermittently, Emmett sees Brian sliding his hand over the back of Justin’s calf, folding and refolding the fabric of his jeans, sliding his fingers underneath to touch what Emmett imagines is the warm, soft flesh of Justin’s leg. Over and over, and then he’ll stop, and then he’ll start again. Justin seems to mostly be ignoring him, but Emmett sees him drop his head and exhale sharply when Brian’s blunt fingernails scrape against his ankle.
(erinface's idea. There were going to be, I don't know, shenanigans. I think it was for snowinandblowin, that's how old this is.)
--
A Disclaimer
It starts going wrong the day Brian finds Rage fanfiction.
Justin’s life as a movie mogul has up until this point been relatively uncomplicated, devoid of the stupidity which plagues the industry. Justin had gone to California, done his work, made his movie, partied with a few hot, closeted stars, and then come the fuck home. Apart from a flurry of interest around the same time that the movie is released, he’s been left pretty much alone.
Apparently, they can’t say the same for their beloved characters.
“Justin,” Brian says one afternoon. “Come check this out.”
It’s Rage fansites. Dozens of them.
(Brian was going to find a bunch of Zephyr/JT sites and be really annoyed for my amusement.)
--
What Doesn't Happen
Brian doesn’t help Justin move into the dorm.
Emmett does, and Debbie and Jennifer. Brian thinks even Ted might have stopped by, but who the fuck does Justin think Brian is, that he might actually show up for something like that? Justin’s fucking father?
Craig didn’t help either. Brian is tempted to show up and offer his services just to disassociate himself from that motherfucker.
He doesn’t, though. When Justin moves into the dorm, Brian doesn’t see him or speak to him for a week.
--
Justin shows up at Babylon the first Friday of semester and gives Brian a blowjob in the backroom. He’s in an extraordinarily good mood, grinning that stupid, beautiful grin and pressing flush against Brian when they dance. He kisses Brian and hums along to the music.
On the way back to the loft, he’ll tell Brian. His roommate is a gay guy named Steve. Justin doesn’t plan to fuck him, ever. His classes are amazing. He gets to draw all day, or learn about art. His classes are full of amazing people.
Just inside the front door, Brian will stop the Picasso and Hannah Höch that tumbles from Justin’s mouth by shoving his tongue inside it.
(I still vaguely like the idea of this but not enough to finish. It didn't really have any forward momentum, because they just continued their s1 fuck buddy relationship and possibly drifted apart a bit. Justin still ended up with Ethan, and then got back with Brian when they joined forces over the whole Stockwell thing.)
--
Justin dies #1
Michael gives the eulogy.
It’s funny because half the time Mikey still tried to pretend that he hated Justin, that Justin was just that immature fucking brat that hung around and wouldn’t let Brian go. It’s funny now to hear him say, love him and miss him and secretly my hero. Michael’s tears make tracks on his face.
Justin wouldn’t have wanted Brian to do the eulogy. He’d have wanted Brian to be so devastated he could barely speak, and that’s pretty much what he is. Brian thinks absently of getting up, beating his chest, making a scene. Once upon a time, Justin would have loved that. Maybe not so much by the time he died.
Brian sits and traces the curves of his knuckles beneath the skin. The last time he saw Justin,
(I had this whole phase where I wanted to write Justin death fic, and Brian having necrophilic nightmares. This is the first of the attempts.)
--
Justin dies #2
Justin dies.
They say the first stage of grief is denial, but Brian doesn’t have any of that. He knows the moment they tell him, knows with perfect, nauseating clarity: Justin is dead. Dead. Justin is never coming home to him.
Brian grieves.
--
On Tuesday, Brian was supposed to have a meeting with Sunsoft Cosmetics. Instead he stays home and watches tv. His ads droning endlessly between soap operas and sitcoms. Every time he sees a car, he changes the channel. When he sees blood, he throws up. He throws up a lot, actually, any time he tries to eat or drink or take a fucking pill. He suddenly has the constitution of a seven year old girl.
The funeral is set for Thursday. They won’t let him help with the arrangements. They won’t let him do anything at all.
--
He doesn’t really remember the funeral. Other people told him it was beautiful. He remembers shaking with rage, Jennifer’s hysterical presence at his side. The priest was a woman. Mikey gave the eulogy. What seemed like hundreds of people crowded at his bag. The sudden, unearthly hush. The pulse of sobs through the crowd. Brian’s own silence.
Justin’s absence. That’s the thing Brian really remembers. The only thing he knows.
--
In skipping denial, Brian seems to go straight to anger. Slow, burning, righteous fucking anger towards everyone and everything. He goes about his life from day to day fueled by this rage, this fucking rage. At the office. At home. He hasn’t been to Babylon in months, hasn’t been hard since before Justin died.
(I really hated this attempt.)
--
One Thing That Never Happened in New York
(I'll explain this one beforehand, it's basically set before Brian and Justin start sleeping together again in my fic Subject to Change, and Justin reveals that while Brian was living in New York and Justin in Pittsburgh, he slept with Michael. It was part of a fic I was going to do, Five Things That Never Happened in New York. I didn't have five ideas though, and I've lost the motivation.)
The way Justin tells it, it only happened a couple of times. Brian knows, though, the second he sees them in the room together, he knows it was a lot more than that. Justin hangs back behind Brian’s shoulder, stares at Michael, and there’s this look that passes between them. This knowledge.
Brian knows what they know. About the twist and thrust of Justin’s hips, the beautiful long line of his cock, his fat, warm lips. His breath, spilling moist over your skin. Brian knows it, but hasn’t felt it for years. He wonders how long it has been for Michael.
The way Justin tells it, the first time was in back at Babylon. Fucking through Michael’s loneliness and Justin’s anger, against the pounding, driving beat of the music. Brian can imagine it. The blue lights. The men’s stares. Justin’s pale fingers sliding Mikey’s t-shirt up his body. Justin taking charge.
If it were anyone but Michael, the image would really turn Brian on. As it is, it makes him vaguely sick, and he has to inhale sharply on his cigarette as Justin tells the story. His voice hangs thick in this new world, away from the stench and tedium of the Pitts. Brian imagines that voice in Michael’s ear. He wonders if they liked it.
“Don’t freak out, Brian.”
Justin’s hand pushes against Brian’s knee, trying to coax him out of his sudden stupor. It’s not like Brian didn’t know, that first second he saw them together, but hearing it. He needs to get up and move.
He does. Right out of the apartment. He doesn’t speak to Justin for days.
--
And that's pretty much it. This isn't all the WIPs, of course, just the really dead ones that I can barely remember starting.