WIP Week is a week dedicated to updating fanfic or other types of fanworks. All fandoms are welcome to participate. Original works are also accepted. Please tag your entries with the #wipweek or #wip week tag. Since multiple fandoms and ships are participating, please clearly list the fandoms, ships, and content warnings in the post so that they can be properly tagged for any potential readers.
The second WIP Week of 2026 will be held June 21-27.
Each day will have a theme, but you do not have to post every day. You are also not obligated to follow these themes. You can work on one fic or fanwork for the entire week if you choose. If you’re not comfortable posting full updates but still want to participate in the week, you can post your daily word count and/or a small snippet from your work. The use of AI is prohibited.
Here are the prompts for WIP Week:
June 21: Your Oldest WIP
June 22: A WIP From Your Smallest Fandom
June 23: Your WIP Closest To Completion
June 24: Your Favorite WIP
June 25: A WIP From Your Largest Fandom
June 26: Your Newest WIP
June 27: Any WIP
You can post completed/updated fanworks to the official WIP Week AO3 Collection!
This has to be my future story that I'm just taking notes on for the moment. I even commissioned art for it from the amazing @savsketches !!!
It's about Monoma and Kaminari in the My Hero Academia universe, in an AU where Monoma is a Support Course student and Kaminari is in Business.
Sav made my vision come to life with these two and I've been adding little ideas of what could happen to my WIP document.
I know that they'll both be in either a newspaper club on campus, or some sort of anthology. Monoma uses his keen eye for graphic direction and Kaminari uses his to take photos and grab interviews. Others will be in the club as well! I'm still deciding who will be moved around in this AU.
The story is going to revolve around Kaminari losing his cool with interviews and needing to become better at on the spot questions. He's easily distracted and is still building his sense about the line of professional to personal.
Dating will be involved to get his confidence back and to practice small talk. This may include fake dating or real dating, I'm still deciding! Either way, Kaminari will indeed get that mojo back and this may end up turning a little spicy. I do like the idea of trying to remain composed, coming up with interview questions, while you are MORE than a little distracted by a extremely cute boy that you're dating.
This is supposed to be a fun filled fic. Fluffy. A good time. I've been in the emotional trenches lately and I need something light hearted that I can goof around with and make these boys super sappy and lovesick.
WIP Week day 2! Or 3, maybe! In any case, here's the WIP I've most recently been poking at, even though it's not the next thing I'm planning to finish. Non-AU, just the normal hockey universe, but Leon can't stop thinking about Connor's bruises.
Leon's not sure what it is about Connor that makes him start noticing it.
How pale he is, maybe, and how it makes the damage stand out. There are lots of pasty guys in hockey, but there's something about Connor's complexion, the way you can see the veins through his skin, the way you can see the bruises just as clearly, spiraling blue and black. Or it could be how good Connor is: how unusual and shocking it is to see someone nail him like that, all that power and speed stopped in its tracks. So strong on the ice and so vulnerable off it, curling into himself in front of the media, bruises like weak spots he can't hide.
Whatever it is, all of that or something else, Leon can't stop his eyes from snagging on the mottled darkness on Connor's skin in a way he promised himself he'd never let happen in a locker room. He thinks about it a lot that first year, before Lauren's in the picture, before there are girlfriend-shaped reasons not to. Thinks about spreading Connor out, bruises on display, and pressing on them. Thinks about the sounds Connor might make if he did, high and sharp and wounded. Thinks about those galaxies of marks spreading out further under his touch, the way Connor would squirm, the way he'd get hard, maybe, cock filling helplessly against his thigh. Leon thinks about it, and puts his hand on his own cock, and comes before the sick guilt can crawl back in.
Then Connor comes back from the summer with a girlfriend Leon hadn't realized was in the picture, a slim athletic blonde just like Connor was always meant to find, and Leon folds the fantasies up and puts them back where they belong. Think of Lauren, he tells himself when his eyes want to catch on a fresh hit on Connor's thigh. Lauren, who Leon quite likes, who he's becoming friends with a little bit. Who Connor has a good, normal relationship with, where they have good, normal sex instead of the twisted things Leon's fantasized about. Leon holds her up like a talisman, a handhold to keep from sliding back down into the depths.
That's one reason he says yes when Lauren and Connor offer to set him up with Celeste. He wants that handhold further cemented in his life. That, and Celeste is hot as fuck. Leon takes her home the first night, and she tells him immediately when he grips her hips too hard during sex, and he holds her afterwards and feels like he might cry from gratitude. Someone to keep his head above water.
And that's how it is for the next six years, until a different kind of bruise starts showing up on Connor.
***
Leon recognizes it as soon as he sees it. He's watched enough porn over the years, porn he had to wipe from his history after, stomach churning with guilt at having done it again. He doesn't look at Connor's hockey bruises anymore, but he's always aware of them, the way you're aware of a girl in the room with an awesome rack even if you're not staring at her tits. Leon indexes: eyes skating over—yup there's a bruise—the one on his ribs from the game Tuesday—yellower now, not so dark—eyes back where they're supposed to be. All done. He doesn't think about them beyond that, except for what helps him be a good teammate, aware when his best friend and captain is hurt and not letting him hide anything serious.
Today, though. Today, that's not a hockey bruise poking its way above Connor's briefs.
Leon turns his eyes away, face and neck flashing hot. He can't see the bruise now, but he doesn't need to. It's burned into his mind's eye: the long stripe of it, arcing above Connor's waistband, thin and unbroken. A dark angry purple. Like someone hit him with a strap.
Leon feels his cock thicken at the image, the shameful arousal pulling at his balls. He doesn't know that's what caused it. Connor probably fell against the edge of a piece of furniture; that's more likely than someone putting it there deliberately. Lauren wouldn't—Connor wouldn't—
He lets himself look over again. The stripe curves around Connor's hip, just barely visible where Connor's waistband has slipped down. It looks like a bruise from something straight-edged and flexible. A belt, maybe, curling around Connor's hip. Making him cry out with pain. Making him beg for it to stop.
Leon looks down at his knees and tries to breathe out the arousal that's lighting him up. Fire is licking at him, a painful burn. He wants to put his hand on his cock almost as bad as he wants to touch that bruise.
It's not real, he reminds himself. There's no way Connor and Lauren have been getting up to what Leon's imagining. It's just part of what's wrong with him, seeing this places it isn't. He thought he was doing so much better—he hasn't watched that kind of porn in months, hasn't so much as thought about it for more than a moment while getting off—but he must have been kidding himself. He's halfway to busting a nut un the fucking locker room over what's probably just a shadow.
"Hey." Connor's standing over him, looking normal. His bruises, if there are any, are covered by a shirt and pants. "Lauren's trying some new cookbook recipes tonight. You guys want to come over?"
New cookbook recipes. The four of them, Connor and Lauren and Leon and Celeste, having a meal together. That sounds normal. A nice antidote to wherever Leon's mind has been wandering. "We'd love to," he says.
@makeit-takeit honored me with a tag for #wipweek2026. I'm not following the actual prompts, but I will try to post a few wips this week! beginning with...
butch lesbian contractor jamie and bored housewife trevor-! inspired by @mmmytelephone 's dbtz fic everything's in order in a black hole, plus conversations about how good girl!jamie would look with a shaggy mullet. enjoy!
Jamie sets off for work, four sets of pristine hardwood cabinets safely tucked into the cab of her Tacoma, and tells herself, like she does every Monday, that she’s going to be smart this week.
“I’m going to be smart this week,” she’d said aloud to TK when she ambled out of her bedroom running hands through her greasy hair, having spent the rare night away from Nolan.
TK didn’t pause en route to the bathroom. “Sure you are, bud.”
But Jamie doesn’t need her roommate to believe her. She will be smart this week. She can feel it.
The conviction stays strong for most of the drive. But as soon as she signals onto Highland Avenue and the median home value rockets to the higher-end of seven figures, she can feel something in her wavering. By the time she pulls up to the sprawling stone center-hall colonial in Berwyn with a four car garage, immaculate landscaping, and a vintage cherry-red Bronco in the circular driveway, she feels she’s hanging on by a thread.
She cuts the engine and inhales. Takes a sip of tea from her tumbler. Then she unbuckles, lets her work boots hit the stone driveway.
“Hi Jim,” Trevor says brightly, bouncing down the front steps in a chartreuse workout set. She’s got a bunch of identical ones, some brand Jamie’s not online and/or rich enough to have heard of, and Jamie knows from tapping Trevor’s hip out of her way after her pilates class one time that the fabric is buttery soft, luxurious. “How was your weekend?”
Jamie’s fingers flex at her side. “Not bad. How about you?”
“Oh, it was great!” Trevor gushes. “Mostly just hung by the pool, so nice to finally get some real summer weather, right?”
“For sure.”
“I didn’t exercise at all, though, just, like, a total laze all weekend. I’m heading to pilates now, but I’m glad I caught you—gonna hit Mercado on the way back, what can I get you?”
Jamie felt like a bit of a worm the first time she intentionally didn’t pack a lunch for her work on the Tocchet house. But there were only so many times a beautiful woman could insist on feeding her before Jamie had to give in.
She doesn’t bother with the You don’t have to that wants so badly to come out of her mouth. Trevor trained that out of her weeks ago. “That sandwich you got for me last week was perfect,” she says instead.
Trevor beams, her sparkly blue eyes going all crescent moon, lower lip pulling between her teeth like she can hold in her smile. Her hair is gathered in a claw clip on the back of her head; Jamie knows when she gets back in a few hours, sweaty curls will frame her face, spring out at the nape of her neck.
She kind of–stares at Jamie, the way she tends to sometimes. Despite seeing it for over a month now, Jamie still feels herself go a little hot about it.
Because like. Trevor is straight. She’s married to a dude. But the way she looks at Jamie sometimes has the potential to put ideas in Jamie’s head. Ideas she spends every weekend trying to forget by fucking girls who actually want her.
Ideas that rear up with a vengeance when Trevor lays a perfectly manicured hand on her forearm and gives a little squeeze before looking down at her Apple Watch and saying, “Fuck me, I’m gonna be late. Okay, Jim, see you soon! Be safe!”
She always says that when she leaves Jamie alone in the house. Jamie thought it was a sexism thing—no way she’d say that to a male contractor—but by now she realizes she means it, just wants to make sure Jamie’s safe. It makes Jamie feel some type of way.
“Thanks, Z,” Jamie says, and Trevor lifts a shoulder and blinks before traipsing off to her vintage cherry-red Bronco. She waves as she drives down the road, and she should really keep her eyes on the road, with the fact that there are no sidewalks in this fancy private community.
Inside, Jamie leans against the drywall she installed yesterday, exhales a long, slow breath.
okay, you all have to promise to be cool about this. and not report me to the perv authorities, or whatever. this is the fic I have had 95% written for a couple of months now, but I'm not content with like, the mechanics of the... physical activity. I don't enjoy how it reads and progresses, and I want to edit it majorly. but I fear I have not the stamina to do it! there's 10k words of it and here's a small part of that, for wip week!
this is meant to be a total non-nhl au. in the 2000s, Nolan living in ontario post-college, knowing he'll need to move back home to winnipeg soon and get real, and spending a lot of time self-experimenting. Travis working some fancy schmancy job in toronto, being a perv in his spare time, I guess. and they meet online. okay now don't crucify me! for being a loser!
Jesus Christ 2005 God Bless Fisting ₊˚⊹ ᰔ
What he really needs to do is find a guy, he decides, once he’s gotten bored of his routine of bouncing on the big blue toy on the washroom floor and then crawling on his hands and knees back to the bedroom and trying to stick his hand inside himself on the bed. But the problem with that is that he doesn’t know any guys.
Well, no. That’s a lie. He knows like, so many guys. Hundreds of them, probably. But they’re all hockey guys, teammates, buddies.
Not the kind of guys Nolan could ever even admit being gay to, let alone dislcose that the kind of man he’s seeking is one willing to shove their whole hand inside his ass.
He remembers hearing, in passing, once, about people who hook up on Craigslist. Under M4M.
It was mentioned, like—as a joke, obviously. Some loud assholes in the gym talking about how funny the listings are on there, laughing about the kinds of things people will post when they’re desperate enough, horny enough. Nolan would obviously rather not be laughed at by loud gym guys, but sometimes needs must. And he really wants this, so. He decides that he’s probably desperate enough, horny enough.
He scrolls through the personals to get the lay of the land, first, and then makes his own listing. He keeps it anonymous, no pictures of his face or any other part of him attached to it. And no, like, details specific enough to trace back to him. Not even his name, just a brief and exact rundown of what he’s looking for.
☆ Looking for a guy to fist me M4M (Toronto)
I am young and in shape college guy looking for someone to fist me. Can take it. If your interested send back pic of your face and dick and hand.
There are a decent amount of replies sitting in his email’s inbox by the next day. He carries his morning OJ and buttered toast over to the computer and sits down to sort through them. It all feels very efficient—it’d be almost business-like if the emails weren’t so lewd—and easy. He can’t believe he’s never thought to do this before. To just advertise himself on the internet like a product, and let the interested buyers form a neat little line in his inbox.
hi one says. send me a pic of u
Nolan scoffs. No way. He’s not gonna start emailing out photos of himself to these guys. Or at least, not right off the bat, he’s not. Not before they’ve even sent one of themselves, when he very specifically and politely instructed them to.
A few have obeyed him and sent in photos, but there’s a disappointing amount of emails that just need to be dragged immediately to the little trash icon in his sidebar. Far too demanding, and offering nothing that looks good in return! Nolan might be auctioning his hole to the highest bidder, here, but he’d still like to feel a little wooed.
Yikes! I gotta catch up on WIP Week! Okay, I’m going to post the first four days’ worth in one go. My oldest WIP: rentboy Sid / oligarch Geno.
Thanks to @makeit-takeit for inventing WIP Week and inviting me <3
“Did you eat at the office?” Sid asks.
“Little bit. Leftover meetings food.”
That makes Sid smile. Meetings food is one of Geno’s particular turns of phrase: he means mini sandwiches, fruit platters, pastries.
“Masha left some stuff in the fridge, if you’re hungry. Varenyky, I think.”
Geno groans happily. “Yes. Two minute, I change.”
He slides Sid’s legs off his lap and heaves himself off the sofa, his suit jacket crumpled and forgotten behind him as he ambles out of the room. That jacket probably cost more than a thousand dollars. Sid picks it up and folds it over the back of the couch. Masha will hang it up tomorrow.
Sid pads through to the kitchen, and Geno reappears a minute later, looking much happier in sweatpants and an ancient hoodie from the hockey club he played for as a teenager.
“We’re match,” he says, plucking at the hoodie Sid’s wearing; a memento from his own high school hockey club.
“Rimouski would have kicked the Foxes’ asses,” says Sid on principle. Geno scoffs but doesn’t argue back, too busy hunting through the fridge.
Sid’s junior hockey career is one of the things Geno shouldn’t know about. When Sid unofficially moved in, he made a token effort to avoid wearing his old merch around Geno; but the Rimouski gear is his favourite lounging clothing, and that resolution only lasted a couple of weeks.
At least Geno doesn’t know about how Sid’s career ended. Although Sid has to accept that Geno might have looked at the scar on his knee and put two and two together.
Geno’s found the varenyky, and makes a borderline pornographic noise as he shoves the first one into his mouth. Sid watches him eat.
It’s odd to think that Geno’s thirty-five, practically the same age as Sid. Often he seems so much older: responsibility for an international steel company resting largely on his shoulders. But sometimes Sid can see with startling ease the kid he was: standing around in a hockey club hoodie, eating leftovers out of a tupperware with his fingers.
“You want?” Geno asks through a mouthful of mince, and holds the tupperware out to Sid. Sid opens his lips and lets Geno hand-feed him.
When they’ve demolished the varenyky Geno suggests, “Bed?”
“Yeah,” Sid agrees, leaning against Geno and stroking his lower back for a moment. He knows they’re not going to have sex.
