20 Q's for Fic Writers
Thanks for the tag @grungeeuvu
1. How many works do you have on Ao3?
At present, I have 46 fics posted on ao3. Used to have over 50 but I deleted/orphaned some
2. What's your total Ao3 word count?
3. What fandoms do you write for?
Haikyuu is the only fandom I write for right now
4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?
5. Do you respond to comments?
Yes, almost always
6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?
Probably this one
7. What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?
Most of my fics have happy endings so this question feels impossible to answer lol
8. Do you get hate on fics?
No, I've only ever gotten 1 comment that was a bit rude, though it didn't seem intentional
9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?
Not often, the vanilla kind
10. Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written?
Setting counts as a crossover, right? I used to have a haikyuu fic that was set in Neverland (like from Peter Pan) but I deleted it because I wasn't happy with it. Was going to fully rewrite it, just have not had time/energy to do so. And I have an outline made for a haikyuu fic that's set in the Jurrasic Park universe (starts out similar to the first movie and goes from there, and almost every single haikyuu character is in the story somewhere)
11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?
Not that I'm aware of
12. There was no question 12 so I'll make one up myself: What's the longest you've ever spent working on one fic? And the shortest?
I've been working on SGB for almost 2 years now, that's the longest. The shortest would probably be just a couple hours.
13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?
Nope
14. What's your all-time favourite ship?
Impossible to pick a favorite
15. What's a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?
SGB😭😭😭 (jk, I'll finish it no matter what, it's just gonna take a few more years probably)
On a serious note, I don't think I'm actually going to rewrite the Neverland AU I deleted, and I'm not sure if I'll ever get around to finishing the Jurrasic Park AU
16. What are your writing strengths?
Ermmmmmm I'm not sure, maybe dialogue? I think I've gotten much better at that than I used to be
17. What are your writing weaknesses?
Adding last-minute details that aren't necessary and only serve to create openings for plot holes that I later have to fix somehow
18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?
Don't really have thoughts on this
19. First fandom you wrote for?
Haikyuu
20. Favourite fic you've written?
Tie between these two
I'll tag: @astrowaffles @wewindondowntheroad @paintbrushyy @stormears @axreliono @redrocketpanda @maybe-a-dinosaur @sunflowersatori @themultifandomdisaster @chameliyun @kleiner-ghost @tsukikitsune-exe @novatix
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Canyon - WoH chapter 9
In which some past sins start crawling on their back but they ignore them.
Summary: Two travelers climb the steep caverns of Fog Canyon. There are unsettling thoughts making their way through the surface, which the wanderer will try to make sense of.
Words: 2.2K
Start from the beginning here
(full chapter under the cut)
.
“Rough shift?”
You nod, taking a sip of warm tea, struggling to restrain the shiver running through your hands. You don't wanna go into details.
“We lost another one. A fly.” You lost a couple of bugs too.
You ask if you have to write to the family.
“No, don’t worry about it. This one has no relatives on our records.”
You nod again, eyes on the tiled floor.
“Look, none of the standard methods are working so far. We can try keeping them stable for some time but it’s always the same end result. I heard many of the people in the research department are quitting. They don’t wanna raise an alarm, but they can't find anything of use.”
You ask about the bug’s feelings on the current state of things. You can’t remember this insect as clearly as you wish. There is some familiarity. Colleague.
“I don’t know. We really chose the best time to train to become healers. huh?” The sarcasm in those words makes you uneasy. So does the colleagues’ nonchalance. “I don’t think I’m quitting, though. Recently, I was listening to my supervisor. She was talking about an incident with a particularly violent patient. I didn’t hear most of it, but they say they made a… discovery.”
Your digits drum on your cup, faster in pace. You are hesitant to reply or voice an opinion, so you nod to let the other elaborate.
“This man, head of the magic department, has been studying the properties of bugs as they pass away. He believes the cure to this plague is in the power of Soul…”
.
.
You wake up before that sentence ends.
Being honest with yourself, you had feared what would happen when you fell asleep. You find that instinctively, you seek darkness now, as if light threatened to burn you from the inside. In that regard, sleeping should be helpful, but it makes you vulnerable to dreams. Dreams were supposed to be inspiring, blissful, sometimes confusing, but the thought of them now simply causes an instinctive rejection. Thinking about it too much felt as if a swarm of lumaflies flew towards you, threatening to poke at the deepest edges of your memories. What you just experienced wasn’t as bad, so you reassure yourself that there is nothing real to fear.
(But why did you wake up so soon? Why do you feel so nauseous?)
Dreaming doesn’t burn now, but it certainly brings back unpleasant images. Nobody was exempt from such things, you thought as you turned over yourself, pressing your side on the cold floor. Asking about your experiences during the first wave of the plague was similar to asking someone about the weather, as if the breeze in the caverns and the new body count were comparable. But you doubted everyone had seen the same things as you did.
The truth they painted is not a good one. You feel your insides twist, making you shiver at the implications of your dream.
You could not manage to sleep again, so you sat up, pacing around in hopes that the images would assemble into a coherent story that let you fill in the blanks (that you knew the answer to but didn’t dare to actually think about), and flopped on the nearest seat once it became clear it would take more than merely rotating the same things in your mind to make any progress (admission).
Some time later, you took out the maps you had picked up recently. You were examining the possible routes in Fog Canyon’s map as your companion awoke, and after exchanging a few words and watching them leave, you pick another piece of paper, a new idea on your mind. It is time to do some self examination.
You take a quill, an incomplete map of the Crossroads and write down what you have cleared so far.
And this is where your thoughts go blank for a moment, as you reach the “present” events.
First you write your full name, which you then erase and just leave the first name in there. It feels less formal. Something about your first name still stings, but you dismiss the unease.
Then you write down your age. You are not a young bug just out of the nest, but you are not as experienced as older bugs either. You were old enough to have a job, but you weren’t quite stable back then.
You see a spot at the bottom right corner of the map, which seems unfinished. You wonder if the cartographer just never finished to chart down there, or if the place is inaccessible now. The map of the Crossroads seems to focus on the main corridors, where trading took place. You scribble a few homes in there. Your drawings aren’t as good, but you understand the general concept.
That’s Blueshore. The town behind the Blue Lake.
That… was your hometown.
(Not anymore.)
You had moved to an apartment in the City, back when your application for a scholarship was accepted.
Scholarship! That rings a bell (one that you’re willing to hear, at least). You can remember the tablet you received on your doorstep: its weight as heavy as the significance of the words in it. Clay is not a common writing material anymore, but prizes of such relevance needed a firmer constitution, for those that wished to preserve it. Your family wanted to hang it on your front door, as a sign of pride. You didn’t let them, embarrassed at the idea, but you still thanked their compliments.
Maybe you should have hung it, just for their sake.
You write that down. That is a reason for being in the City instead of Blueshore, working at home. You were a student. (A healer?) But you also worked. Students like you were doing their internships earlier to account for the demand of healers.
You write down the place you frequented during your internship. You then add a cross next to it, disgusted. You left, you remember that. You will never associate with that place again, and you hope that it's fallen to ruin like everything else. Nothing of value is left in there, and the best it can do is fade into oblivion. (But that doesn’t change the fact you knew of it, and what already happened.)
You close the map and fold it carelessly. It’s started to wrinkle. You don’t mind.
The Archives also come to mind now as you fix your eyes on the bubbles growing from the walls. The trips there bring happier memories. You studied regularly in… the City, but on occasion, bugs like you would visit the canyon’s building. You would hang out by the Queen’s Station and make your way up to the Teacher’s facility along with your fellow classmates.
The thought cheers you up somewhat, serving as a nice distraction from the previous current, just by the time your friend returns from their walk around the station. They grab your arm and their bag as they talk about their findings.You nod along, feeling a rush of energy in anticipation.
You know exactly where to take them.
The foggy caverns west of the station are as bright as you remember them. The wind blows colder and faster in there, but it is nothing you are not used to. The trihorned bug next to you has their eyes fixed on a group of lumaflies that float around one of the metal signs. There is an improvised drawing of Geo in it, clearly covering a different symbol. After a moment, they speak:
“This looks so much like a scam, look at that paint,” they rub the tip of their nail against it, watching the paint crack beneath.
“Was that supposed to lead somewhere?” You ask, not finding anything that remotely looked like a bank. You don’t recall there being any building of the sort.
“A dark alley, I guess. You gotta be naive to fall for it though.” They laughed, a memory resurfacing. “One of my brothers, uh, Big Guy, once brought one of these signs home. I’ve no idea how he got it. I bet he stole it though.”
“How did he manage to get away with it?” You ask, puzzled.
“Eh, I think he just found it while partying, he or a friend broke it and took it. Almost everyone was asleep at that time of the cycle so nobody caught him with it on the street. Thing is, I wake up the next day and the fucking Golden Scarab Avenue sign is hanging right next to my head.”
“Did it startle you?”
“Nah.” They shrug. “I thought it was awesome of him. He was great, it’s why my siblings and I called him ‘Big guy’.” Their pride is palpable in their words. Then, they walk towards the broken sign. ”I kind of…. wanna take this one with me, for old time’s sake.”
You ask them if there is anything that stops them.
“You’re right, I can just take it. Would it fit in my bag? Maybe not… but I can carry it on my arm. It makes for a shield too.”
“I don’t think anything here will try to attack you.”
“I just wanna play it safe, pal.” They wave, dismissing the topic and taking the closest staircase. Rigid vines and bubble tree roots have overtaken the walls and some of the tiles on the floor stick out. The taller bug is careful not to trip on their way up. “Hey so, you know where we’re going, right?”
“I do, yes. We are on the right path, even if some aspects have changed.” You touch one of the once smooth stone walls, now covered in branches. “Did you know that the Canyon used to be a part of Greenpath?”
“I think I heard about that once?” They shrug, standing on a stop, waiting for you to arrive. “What do you know?”
“Oh, well, the Archives were a common visit for students and others interested in innovation. Sometimes bugs would take the stag from the storerooms to the Queen’s Station, but I personally liked walking if I had the time.”
“Did you study there? I heard they had some of the best technicians in Hallownest.”
“I actually just took a class or two there”, you fidgeted with the handle of your nail. “I was not a technician, but I can confirm their expertise. The lumaflies native to this area are used all over the kingdom, and they provide a quick source of energy. That is why a lot of technology was made here.”
“Do they hurt to touch?” They ask, as a swarm gets closer and sparks come out of them.
“Only if they charge like that. I think there are some ways to lure them but don’t quote me on that.”
You reach a higher passage, clinging to the thin branches for support where the railings are lacking. The canyon was known for being the nest of the few creatures that could withstand the acidic water in its lakes. Oomas, strange, floating creatures made their home in it. They were a common sight in smaller, less crowded caves, but they had proliferated in the absence of bugs to keep them out of the way. It was no surprise that the most resilient organisms were the ones to thrive in spite of the harshness of nature. Though passive, the oomas made use of the wind and acid for their benefit.
Even if thousands of bugs wandered into these caverns in a constant stream of travelers, its inhabitants would adapt and regrow. Thin, yet strong branches fed from soil that would kill most other plants and fungi. Those are the often called bubble trees. You think there is some lesson you can get out of their resilience, but you’re sure that many others before you have already done that in the past, likely through more creative and eloquent ways. There is nothing new you can add to the discussion. (And frankly, it feels almost insulting that you, knowing yourself and what you did, should have a say in regrowth of any k—)
“Watch out!”
The trihorn bug tackles you, as an ooma core speeds through, hitting solid rock behind you. The shock causes both of you to trip, their weight turning you over your side. The core collides on a corner, exploding into an orange mass. You hold to your weapon for support as you get up.
You hear hissing, horror flowing through your veins as you realize the explosion has caused a chain reaction on another ooma, this time closer to you both.
“Hide in here!” They say, holding the street sign as a shield.
But you don’t have enough time.
You stretch one of your limbs, close your eyes, and focus on yourself, knowing it’s over.
The explosion does not occur where you expect it to, you’re unharmed.
The core has exploded in the middle of the air. Far enough from anything that could potentially perpetuate the chain reaction of explosions.
You sigh in relief.
“How did you do that?!”
Do… what?
“Is that some kind of magic? That was like a fireball!”
“I don’t know.” You reply.
(But you do know, and they know you do, too.)
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