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!
@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.
Snippet for a DC event hosted in Aug. Current word count is 1,604
Tim looks up from his notebook, messy handwriting with red ink circling important information, the margins having Jason’s comments to keep into consideration when reading. “What? No, I…” he pauses, tilting his head. His eyes squint as he re-analyzes the interaction. “I thought you were in theater.”
Jason sputters. “What gives that impression?”
Tim gives him a blank stare, the type that screams I know more than you. “Well for starters,” he begins as if he has a list, which knowing Tim, there probably is. “You and Dick are always singing musicals whenever you drop me off. Out of all the Waynes, you're the only one genuinely excited to see a performance. You actually like reading Shakespeare with the class, and despair wherever someone reads their lines in a flat voice. Which reminds me, why are you doing character voices during this?”
Jason is surprised Tim didn’t start counting on his fingers, just to drive the point more home. “Fine,” Jason huffs. “Maybe I am a theater kid. Can you blame me though? The voices are fun.”
“The voices sound like torture.”
Jason rolls his eyes. The sass this kid has could run circles around Dick. “Equis. We’re getting off track.”
My WIP closest to completion is about 70% done at 4k+ words. It’s an Ender Lilies fic focusing on a character with one line of lore and no coherent dialogue aka Free Fanfiction Real Estate(tm). Ever since writing Requiem for the Lesser Spirits, I’ve been taking the snippets of lore found in the game and trying to put together the full story of this fallen kingdom. (Ask me about my conspiracy theory on Fretia’s parentage!)
Fandom: Ender Lilies: Quietus of the Knights (Verboten Champion PoV)
Ships: None mentioned
Content Warnings: Fictional bigotry I guess?
Word Count: 342
Additional Notes: Written in 2nd Person Perspective
The Twin Spires are filled to capacity. Aside from your fellow knights of the Bastion, there are legions of soldiers from warmer parts of Land’s End, sitting around the fires and huddling together for warmth. (The damn cowards of the Royal Aegis are, of course, away in the castle protecting the King should the Spires fall.)
You feel your stomach twist in disgust when you see the Sinners with their metal collars, shackled to the posts away from the decent folk, their chains clanking continuously as they shiver in the cold. No doubt they’ve been brought out to serve as canon fodder, giving the executioners a break from having to do the job themselves. However, they’re not going to fulfill that role if they freeze to death before the battle even begins.
Then there are the sorcerers of the Coven with their staves and silly hats, although they look somewhat different compared to the two mages who’d distributed the elixir. They give you a wide berth and you do the same, hoping they’ll be more of a help than a hindrance when the Blighted arrive. Your son would watch the sorcerers who passed through town in rapt fascination, but you’d never let him go anywhere near them.
In the center of it all is the White Priestess of the Fount herself, a speck of pure white amidst a sea of black as she is surrounded by guardians of the White Parish at all sides. You don’t get the opportunity to speak to her; you’re not sure what you’d even say, but your daughter would be cross with you if she learned that you had a chance to meet the White Priestess in person but didn’t.
The last preparations of the defenders are just wrapping up when the first wave of Blighted pours down the mountainside, changing toward the keep at full speed. Quickly grabbing your sword, you head up to the high wall just as the first volley of arrows rains down upon the approaching fiends.
The Battle of the Bastion begins.
The lovely feedback I've received on The People You Meet on Vacation has really got me excited to write more about Chris absolutely missing every possible clue-by-four. (One of my friends said "So this is golden retriever and absolute dumbass shipping" and then "Chris is channeling a lot of your natural energy," which, hey, wait a minute. ☹️) So have this excerpt (which I actually think will be from part three instead of part two, so otherwise it will not see the light of day for some time!) I love writing Shane torturing Chris; I really, really do.
Maybe it’s not true for other hockey players, but Chris gets déjà vu a lot. Like, today Chris is eating breakfast with Jeff and Finny and Koala and Horse, listening to them talk about what they did on the break, and, okay, it’s a Hilton this time, not a Marriott, but it’s pretty much exactly like their last breakfast before All-Stars, all it needs is—
“What UP, losers!” Shane shouts in his ear. “How was Cabo?” He throws himself into the chair next to Chris, leaning so far in he threatens Chris’s oatmeal. Chris was a little afraid he’d get soft about the Shane Milligan experience, give himself away to the team, but it turns out this fear was unfounded. If anything, he shoves Shane harder than usual.
“Better than wherever you went,” says Finny.
“Impossible! Nothing better than sitting on the beach for a week and getting laid, bro!” Chris winces.
“I can’t believe you have any luck picking up outside of Edmonton. Do the ladies in Mexico even know what hockey is? There’s no way they like you for your face, buddy.”
“Lots of tourists go to Mexico,” Jeff points out. “Maybe some of them are Canadian. And near-sighted.”
“Fuck you very much,” says Shane, cheerfully. “Berge can back me up, tell ‘em, Bergs.” Chris winces more deeply.
“Oh, hey, yeah, you were both in—wherever,” says Finny.
“Puerto Vallarta,” says Chris.
“Crazy coincidence,” says Shane. “We were even at the same hotel.”
“Please tell us,” says Koala, “did Millsy get laid?” Shane elbows Chris; Chris elbows him back, harder.
“Millsy got laid.” Answering this question would be torture for Chris under any circumstances, so he tries to channel a typical level of Shane-Milligan-induced awkwardness, and he thinks he’s succeeding. They all think he’s a weirdo anyway.
“Hottest piece I ever had,” says Shane. Chris chokes on his oatmeal.
“Oh, Berge does not agree!” says Koala, looking way too interested, but fortunately he’s drowned out by Finny, whose voice has risen with his excitement: “You only hooked up once? Weak.”
“I don’t think it counts as only once if there were repeats,” Shane says, cramming an entire blueberry muffin into his mouth. It is not a mini-muffin. Disgusting.
“Wait, wait, wait!” says Finny. “Since when does king fuckboy do repeats?”
“Hehkg,” says Shane around the muffin. Finny kicks Chris under the table—lightly, he’s not stupid—and says:
“Confirm or deny, Berge!”
“How would he know?” asks Jeff. Finally, a voice of reason.
“They spent, like, the whole week together; it’s all over Ganner’s Insta. If he was banging the same chick every night Bergs would know.” Chris closes his eyes and wills his voice to be steady. The only way out is through.
“There were repeats.” Shane elbows him again, but it’s not hard, it’s, like, a nice elbow, if that’s a thing that exists. Acknowledgment for Chris having his back.
“Damn, you must really like this girl,” says Finny. “Where’s she from? You get her number? You going to try to hook up again?” Chris stares intently at what’s left of his oatmeal. He’s kind of lost his appetite. Maybe he should add more fruit. Fruit is good for you.
“I sure want to,” Shane says, “but I dunno. It’s hard, during the season. You know.” Everyone at the table nods. They know.
“My girlfriend break up with me when I come to NHL,” volunteers Koala. “She said, it’s too long distance, too hard. You remember, Jeff.”
“Yeah, it sucked,” Jeff says, reaching around Finny to give Koala’s shoulder a pat. He’s kind of the team dad, everybody goes to him with shit like that. “But hey, Millsy, it’s worth it, if you like her that much.”
“And you said she’s hot!” says Finny. “You get pictures?” Despite himself, Chris lets out a small, pained noise. There are so many pictures, if only Finny knew it. Koala’s eyes cut to him, and Chris quickly drops his gaze to his bowl again.
“A gentleman doesn’t kiss and ‘gram,” says Shane, a total lie. Horse, who’s been silent while he demolishes an omelet—because he somehow has much better table manners than Shane Milligan—stabs the air with his fork and says:
“That’s bullshit, you liar, you post every hot chick you meet! Unless, whoa—dude!” His eyes go wide. “Is she, like, famous? Did you hook up with a real, like, celebrity?”
“Was it Tate McRae?” says Finny. “I bet it was Tate McRae.”
“Nah,” says Horse, “she’s still with that asshole from the Devils.”
“No,” says Koala, “she break up with him forever ago; she’s dating Benson Boone.” There’s a short silence. “What,” he says, defensively, “I read it in People.” Jeff snorts.
“Good English practice, Eeli, keep it up. Let’s get going, eh, boys? Puck won’t shoot itself.” That gets everybody moving; they all clear out except Shane, who’s still eating, and Chris, who’s busy dying a thousand deaths.
“Hey,” says Shane, putting one hand on Chris’s shoulder and shoving an entire sausage link in his mouth with the other, “you good?” He isn’t even using a fork.
“I cannot believe you.”
“Relax, dude, those guys are one hundred percent convinced that I hooked up with Tate McRae or her non-union Mexican equivalent on vacation.”
“You what,” says Chris.
“Never mind, just—it’s all cool, okay?” He shakes Chris’s shoulder, gently.
“You lied; you absolutely kiss and ‘gram!”
“Yeah, maybe, but that’s the only lie I’ve told today.”
“I can’t believe you,” he repeats.
“Hey.” Shane shakes Chris again, less gently, until he turns his head to make eye contact. “I meant every word, no cap. Hottest piece I ever had. Ten out of ten would fuck again.” Rather than trying to explain he didn’t mean the belief thing literally, Chris gets up from the table. God, Shane Milligan is the worst.
Late again! Didn't have time to breath yesterday. My unpublished WIP is Perfect Match. The idea struck me back in 2024 and I'm still developing this idea and writing the first chapter. I intend to post as soon as I've at least 5 chapters ready. I'm currently working on chapter 3.
It's a soulmate story that strikes a question. What if someone you already loves isn't your perfect match. Can a test determine who is your perfect match. Thrawn isn't Arihnda Perfect Match, their compatibility is laughable, but he isn't having any of that bullshit.
PERFECT MATCH | A Thrawn x Arihnda Pryce story
Summary: A new matchmaking service becomes a trend in the Core Worlds. It promises to bind anyone to their soulmate combining science and matchmaking. Through them, even the annoying and stuck-up Orson Krennic has met his perfect match. Surely, Governor Pryce can’t be the only one left out. It’s just a pity that the only person she’s interested in is not even remotely close to be her match.
I still haven't gotten around to make a gif of my own or any edits for this story, so I'll use this one from the incredibly talented @myevilmouse because this one is funny and is close related to Ari's feelings in this story.
Here goes a little excerpt of chapter 1 - 32%
“And how did you convince them to give Lothal the budget?” He doesn’t give it much thought, but something tells him she would be in a worse mood if she didn’t get it. “I take it you got the budget.”
She flashes a bright smile at him.
“Well, of course. The data we put together is good.” Smugness doesn’t really sit well with him, but he’s in a good mood and can make little concessions—he’s learned he’s always making concessions when Arihnda is concerned. And they do work well together, after all. “That with my speech convinced them that Lothal is a safe investment. Although…” she seems reticent at first, but then shrugs and adds, “Tarkin seems to favor you, that may have played a part as well.”
He's a… cordial relationship with the Grand Moff. But that’s as far as it goes.
“Tarkin doesn’t play favorites,” he comments. He has to, if he wants the conversation to keep going. She seems to love talking about politics and people involved in those political games. And even though he cares very little for it, he can indulge once in a while.
“He usually doesn’t, but when it does benefit him, he plays favorites just alright.”
She shivers. For a moment, he wonders if the air around them is getting chillier. But she shakes her head and focuses her attention back on him. He can’t help but notice how the lines around her mouth became tenser just a moment ago as she spoke about Tarkin.
Thrawn knows she’s no stranger to dealing with Tarkin. That’s how she managed to get the Grand Moff to give him and Vanto a career boast years ago. To this day, he doesn’t know how she did it.
He files this information for later research and for a future—he hopes—conversation.
“Krennic doesn’t like you, but he doesn’t like Tarkin either. The sentiment is mutual from what I could see today.”
“The enemy of my enemy…” he muses.
“You are learning something, after all.”
He flashes her a sardonic smile. If Ar’alani could see him right now, she’d be proud of him.
“Still, we all work for the Empire. I do not think Tarkin would favor Lothal if our data wasn’t acceptable.”
She chuckles.
“People work for themselves,” she corrects him. “Tarkin especially. Sometimes his interests happen to align with those of the Empire.” There’s a frown on her face as she adds, “I see I still have a lot to teach you, Grand Admiral.”
It gives him some hope. It does seem to bode well to their future. To keep Arihnda on his side, if needed, he doesn’t mind always staying behind on the Empire politics.
He wonders what Ar’alani would say if she saw him now. The man who promised to study and master politics happy to remain oblivious if it kept him close to a human woman.
“I prefer to think that our private interests are not above those of the Empire.”
She shakes her head, as if he’s a lost cause.
“Suit yourself, Grand Admiral.”
For a moment, there’s silence between them. He wonders if she’s going to leave the airspeeder now—leave him. But she looks ahead and asks in a serious tone.
“What about you? Don’t you do anything for yourself?” Her voice is lower, which makes him ask himself if he didn’t make up the last bit, “For pleasure?”
