WIP Week (Work-In-Progress Week)Â Returns in June!
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.Â
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 youâre 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!
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@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 sheâs going to be smart this week.Â
âIâm going to be smart this week,â sheâd 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 didnât pause en route to the bathroom. âSure you are, bud.â
But Jamie doesnât 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 sheâs 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.
âHi Jim,â Trevor says brightly, bouncing down the front steps in a chartreuse workout set. Sheâs got a bunch of identical ones, some brand Jamieâs not online and/or rich enough to have heard of, and Jamie knows from tapping Trevorâs hip out of her way after her pilates class one time that the fabric is buttery soft, luxurious. âHow was your weekend?â
Jamieâs fingers flex at her side. âNot bad. How about you?â
âOh, it was great!â Trevor gushes. âMostly just hung by the pool, so nice to finally get some real summer weather, right?â
âFor sure.â
âI didnât exercise at all, though, just, like, a total laze all weekend. Iâm heading to pilates now, but Iâm glad I caught youâgonna hit Mercado on the way back, what can I get you?â
Jamie felt like a bit of a worm the first time she intentionally didnât 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.Â
She doesnât bother with the You donât have to that wants so badly to come out of her mouth. Trevor trained that out of her weeks ago. âThat sandwich you got for me last week was perfect,â 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 ofâstares 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.Â
Because like. Trevor is straight. Sheâs married to a dude. But the way she looks at Jamie sometimes has the potential to put ideas in Jamieâs 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, âFuck me, Iâm gonna be late. Okay, Jim, see you soon! Be safe!â
She always says that when she leaves Jamie alone in the house. Jamie thought it was a sexism thingâno way sheâd say that to a male contractorâbut by now she realizes she means it, just wants to make sure Jamieâs safe. It makes Jamie feel some type of way.
âThanks, Z,â 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 Jasonâs comments to keep into consideration when reading. âWhat? No, IâŠâ he pauses, tilting his head. His eyes squint as he re-analyzes the interaction. âI thought you were in theater.â
Jason sputters. âWhat gives that impression?â
Tim gives him a blank stare, the type that screams I know more than you. âWell for starters,â he begins as if he has a list, which knowing Tim, there probably is. âYou 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?â
Jason is surprised Tim didnât start counting on his fingers, just to drive the point more home. âFine,â Jason huffs. âMaybe I am a theater kid. Can you blame me though? The voices are fun.â
âThe voices sound like torture.â
Jason rolls his eyes. The sass this kid has could run circles around Dick. âEquis. Weâre getting off track.â
My WIP closest to completion is about 70% done at 4k+ words. Itâs 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, Iâve 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 Fretiaâs 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 Landâs 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 theyâve been brought out to serve as canon fodder, giving the executioners a break from having to do the job themselves. However, theyâre 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 whoâd distributed the elixir. They give you a wide berth and you do the same, hoping theyâll 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 youâd 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 donât get the opportunity to speak to her; youâre not sure what youâd 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 didnât.
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.
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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 canât be the only one left out. Itâs just a pity that the only person sheâs 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%
âAnd how did you convince them to give Lothal the budget?â He doesnât give it much thought, but something tells him she would be in a worse mood if she didnât get it. âI take it you got the budget.â
She flashes a bright smile at him.
âWell, of course. The data we put together is good.â Smugness doesnât really sit well with him, but heâs in a good mood and can make little concessionsâheâs learned heâs always making concessions when Arihnda is concerned. And they do work well together, after all. âThat with my speech convinced them that Lothal is a safe investment. AlthoughâŠâ she seems reticent at first, but then shrugs and adds, âTarkin seems to favor you, that may have played a part as well.â
He's a⊠cordial relationship with the Grand Moff. But thatâs as far as it goes.
âTarkin doesnât play favorites,â 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.
âHe usually doesnât, but when it does benefit him, he plays favorites just alright.â
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 canât help but notice how the lines around her mouth became tenser just a moment ago as she spoke about Tarkin.
Thrawn knows sheâs no stranger to dealing with Tarkin. Thatâs how she managed to get the Grand Moff to give him and Vanto a career boast years ago. To this day, he doesnât know how she did it.
He files this information for later research and for a futureâhe hopesâconversation.
âKrennic doesnât like you, but he doesnât like Tarkin either. The sentiment is mutual from what I could see today.â
âThe enemy of my enemyâŠâ he muses.Â
âYou are learning something, after all.â
He flashes her a sardonic smile. If Arâalani could see him right now, sheâd be proud of him.
âStill, we all work for the Empire. I do not think Tarkin would favor Lothal if our data wasnât acceptable.â
She chuckles.
âPeople work for themselves,â she corrects him. âTarkin especially. Sometimes his interests happen to align with those of the Empire.â Thereâs a frown on her face as she adds, âI see I still have a lot to teach you, Grand Admiral.â
It gives him some hope. It does seem to bode well to their future. To keep Arihnda on his side, if needed, he doesnât mind always staying behind on the Empire politics.
He wonders what Arâalani 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.
âI prefer to think that our private interests are not above those of the Empire.â
She shakes her head, as if heâs a lost cause.
âSuit yourself, Grand Admiral.â
For a moment, thereâs silence between them. He wonders if sheâs going to leave the airspeeder nowâleave him. But she looks ahead and asks in a serious tone.   Â
âWhat about you? Donât you do anything for yourself?â Her voice is lower, which makes him ask himself if he didnât make up the last bit, âFor pleasure?â
As previously noted, my largest fandom is also my smallest đ So we'll go with the most popular pairing in my WIPs: mattdrai! (Technically I have a 1634 WIP, but there's only like two sentences actually written so this is the one you get content for.) This is set in the same universe as Intreat me not to leave thee; for context, in this soulmark AU, your mark consists of significant words your soulmate says to you, in their handwriting. Those words need to be said face-to-face--or so everybody thinks . . .
âThey should go back to the draft for All-Stars,â Leon says to Connor. âKeep the riffraff out of the dressing room.â He doesnât bother to keep his voice down.
âDonât wind him up, Leo,â says Connor.
âYour English is better than mine, and you only use it for evil,â says the him in question. Matthew Tkachuk, sharing their bench, and isnât that an absolute mindfuck. Leon thinks he can be excused his comments to the press, considering.
âMy dogâs English is better than yours; itâs not an achievement.â
âHarsh, Drat,â says Tkachuk, and laughs.
Leon doesnât actually hate Tkachuk, off the ice, but the way he refuses to be insulted is infuriating. Makes him want to pick away at Tkachukâs shell until he finally finds the soft underbelly. Instead itâs usually Leon heading to the box, which is also infuriating.
Theyâre dressing to play against the Central, but Tkachuk must have gotten held up; heâs only just now gotten into the room. Leon sits on the bench, staring unfocused at Tkachuk and trying to think of something else mean to say, which is why his eye falls on Tkachukâs torso when he pulls his shirt over his head. Giordano shouts something and Tkachuk twists a little to reply; it gives Leon a long moment to look at the tattoo just under his pec. Orânot a tattoo, his words, maybe, because thatâs all it is, just a neat line of text. Which readsâ
That canât be correct, surely, but there it is, written right on Tkachukâs ribs: Probably get off the ice. Leon looks up, reflexively, and finds Tkachuk looking back, absolute horror on his face. He whips his eyes to his laces and tries to breathe in and out normally. Get the gear on, get it together. It helps that when he glances up, Tkachuk is facing the other direction, dressing as quickly as he can. No wonder he always keeps that fucking towel around his neck. Press is going to have a goddamn Sportfest about this, if it ever gets out.
