#crouch writes

[crouchingjonklerhiddenzonkler]

will you guys forgive me for two back-to-back massive paragraphs that are, like, 255 words and 156 words apiece

like. this is how big they are

[crouchingjonklerhiddenzonkler]

MicroJanka: The Mystery

Inspired by this comic by @lemorgo.

“Yo, what is that?” 

“Huh?” Zanka looks over. Jabber is crouched down to the earth, sitting on his haunches, fabric tail dragging over the dusty road—eugh, that’s gonna need to go in the wash—bent over his knees, poking something with his index finger. He’s wrapped his long dreads around his other forearm, bent elbow sticking out horizontally from his shoulder, so at least his hair isn’t dragging through the dirt… Okay, actually, what is that? 

Two heads tilt. Four eyes squint. 

“Yeah, I got nothin’,” says Zanka. 

“Yeah, me neither,” says Jabber. He continues to poke. Zanka is sure that if he leans over to look at Jabber’s face, he’ll see that intense look of concentration Jabber sometimes wears while “processing” a new substance for Mankira. 

He sticks an arm into his pack. “Lemme make a sketch to show Nee-san later. Maybe the Boss, if I can catch him. Between the two of them, I swear they know everything…” He pulls out a notepad and a pencil, both provided by Tomme, who wanted him to make notes on the Trash Beast he was scheduled to exterminate today. 

Hate to break it to ya, Ms. Mima, but it ain’t exactly easy to take notes on the damn things when yer the one they’re rushin’. An’ I can’t exactly sit back and observe when it’s actively destroyin’ stuff. He flips past his post-mortem observations and sets the tip of the pencil to the page. Makes a mark. 

Blinks. 

“Hey,” he says. “What, uh, what shape would ya say that is…?” 

“Hmmmmmm,” says Jabber. “Uh… kinda… oblong?” He flicks it. “But it’s got this kinda… knobby bit down here. Oh, wow. That part’s hard. The other part was squishy, but this is, like, rigid ‘n’ shit.” 

Zanka makes some more marks. “Lean back a sec, yer blockin’ the light.” 

“Huh? Okay…” 

Zanka steps forward, but Jabber unexpectedly shuffles toward him—putting the taut Achilles tendon of his left heel right under the sole of Zanka’s boot. 

He pulls his weight back, but it’s too late. Jabber yelps and hops away like a frog, clutching his heel. Looks up, blinking owlishly.  

“Sorry,” says Zanka automatically. “You okay?” 

Jabber’s brow furrows. One eye squints. “Yeah…? The fuck?” His lashes flutter rapidly and his eyes don’t fully close. “Since when do you say ‘sorry’ to me?” 

Zanka blinks. “Uh. I mean, we ain’t fightin’ right now, an’ I stepped on yer ankle, so…” 

“Yeah, but I like it when you hurt me,” says Jabber, continuing to blink as well. 

“I mean, I know, but this time I wasn’t, like, intendin’ to,” says Zanka. 

“Oh,” says Jabber. “I mean, yeah, I figured, ‘cause if you meant to step on me, it woulda hurt a lot more- But. Like. What?” He cocks his head. “Just ‘cause it’s an accident, you gon’ apologize?” 

“…Yeah?” says Zanka. 

They stare at each other. 

“Okay,” they both say at the exact same time—in nearly the same tone, too. 

Zanka almost viscerally recoils. That… that is twisted. I did not know we could sound that alike, an’ I sure as hell never wanted to, neither. 

Jabber, who looks like he chewed a lime, seems to agree. 

He swivels his head back toward the mystery object. His elbow follows, pulled by the hair wrapped around his forearm. “But, like, what is this thing?” 

“Literally no clue,” says Zanka, returning to his sketch. Shading. Maybe some shading will help. “Shit. I wish I had a camera.” 

“Yo, maybe it’s a camera.” 

“What?” Scoff. “What’re ya talkin’ about? Where would the damn lens even be?” 

“No, no, look-”

FIN

[crouchingjonklerhiddenzonkler]

Janka Mermaid AU Part 4: Jabber's Origins

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Jabber was born in the sunlit waters of what land-dwellers call the Sargasso Sea. Nobody named him. He did it himself, as do all of his kind. When he hatched, so small he was barely a speck, he emerged with millions of his siblings, all living in the bright part of the water close to the air and slurping out of those warm currents thousands apiece of smaller, simpler creatures who are fed by the light. 

Most of his fellows were soon slurped up by much larger things in turn. But Jabber was lucky. He was left alone, and soon he had eaten enough that his body grew to the shape of a tiny little sail, still barely the length of a human’s first knuckle. Currents took him further inland, close to island shores, where he continued to eat and grow, until he stretched out and became a tiny little ribbon of glass, too small to even tie around a child’s wrist. His little body was so clear that when he ate and swallowed his prey, which was also gradually increasing in size, it could have seen straight out of him and watched the reefs where he lived go by. 

At this stage of life, he was still vulnerable, protected only by being difficult to spot. And hungry ocean creatures are wily. The few fellows he had left dwindled day by day. The ones who remained kept on growing bigger and bigger, and they all began to take on color, which only made them easier to spot and snap up. By the time he was fully opaque, there might have been two or three others left at his side. Not that he particularly cared—and in fact it was good that there were so few, since by now, they would have begun to look upon each other with great disdain. As a rule, his kind do not generally associate with each other except to create the next generation, and they were all far off from being able to do that. But soon it became moot anyway, because the others did not find themselves a safe cave or a hidden hole quickly enough, and alas—they all perished. This was simply the way of the ocean. 

But not Jabber. Jabber, by this point, was quick and clever, and proudly in possession of his own little place in the reef, a dark crevice between some rocks in which he rested during the day and from which he emerged at night, stalking the coral forest in search of fish, shrimp, crabs, urchins, and other tasty treats that were too slow or too stupid to avoid him. Sometimes, all he had to do was lie in wait at the mouth of his cave, still and silent with his head poked out, until the inevitable meandering arrival of some unsuspecting passerby—he lived in a rather busy neighborhood—then out shot the jaws, and there was his supper. 

As the days stretched on, he found himself preferring this method over the active hunt. He did not know why, but lately his body felt rather strange and unwieldy. All his life, even through all his growing and the last two drastic changes, movement had always come naturally and instinctively—now he was not sure where his insides ended and his outsides began. He often found himself trying to stretch out parts of his form that didn’t seem to exist. His cave, too, was becoming too small for him, the sharp rock walls rubbing against his tender back and sides. So he moved to another, and then another, with his little head poked out, lying in wait for a meal that, thankfully, reliably came—until one day he stuck out that head to eat, and it fell clean off instead. 

Shocked still, he watched it tumble down the sandy slope, snout and eyes and all, until it settled into a crevice, where immediately a crab began to pick at it with its pincers, shortly joined by a bevy of its fellows. Jabber was so at a loss that he didn’t even think of going down to collect a morsel of his own. My head! he exclaimed silently in his mind, entirely without words, for he had yet to learn even one. Instinctively, he reached up to touch the place where it had been—which struck him as very odd, since he had never had any appendage with which he could reach out or touch before, save for perhaps his jaws, which weren’t in the place he was trying to move anyway—and nothing happened, of course. But an ache began to spread through the upper part of his body. He did the only thing he felt he could do—he blinked. And then he realized he was doing something he had never done before. 

New sensations swept over him. He understood, now, that there was, in fact, still something on the end of his neck. It had eyes that could see, ears that could hear, a nose that could smell, and a mouth that could open and close, with a second set of jaws nestled deep inside like usual. But there was more. His face now seemed to have all these different parts that could twitch and move, and there was something fleshy inside of his mouth, nestled within the first pair of jaws, attached to the bottom half—a dextrous length of muscle with a thick base and a thin tip that could wriggle and writhe like the length of his tail. When he opened his jaws and let it out, it unspooled to quite a length. He rubbed it over the border of his mouth, soft and fleshy and new, and discovered that it was all quite sensitive—the muscle and the smooth lips both. 

His nose, too, was different. It could flare and twitch and scrunch, and it was no longer quite so attached to his mouth. He blinked again. He had quite forgotten about the blinking. Never before had he possessed something he could cover his eyes with, and it was very novel. He shut them just to see what it felt like and marveled at the warm darkness. There were two pieces to each cover, an upper one and a lower one, and at the edge of each piece, forming a frame around each eye, sprouted short feathery tendrils that felt even the slightest currents in the water with great sensitivity. 

More of these tendrils grew on the top, sides, and back of his head in a great big thicket. They were much longer than the ones around his eyes, and seemed much finer and more flexible. He could not move them, but they moved with the sea, brushing against the great big cartilaginous protrusions of his new ears, and as they swirled and swayed, he felt the movement tug gently at their roots, where they grew out from his skin. And, oh, his skin. It was different on the new head. Thinner, softer. Completely absent of mucus, but it did not feel dry. Instead, it felt sensitive and curious. He wanted to touch it. But with what? Sometimes he let a certain kind of shrimp pluck the scraps from between his teeth, but that was with his old head, and it wasn’t what he wanted now. What he wanted now was something he knew he had never had before, and he had no idea whatsoever how he was going to get it. 

But get it, he would. 

END PROSE

Plot Notes:

After this, Jabber starts to feel super sore all over and crawls into his cave, where he goes through an intensely painful transformation as the "maid" half of his body sort of has to pull itself out of his eel tail. This process hurts like hell and leaves him exhausted, but he's very enthusiastic about it and super interested in the results.

He soon becomes engrossed in exploring all the new sensations he's just become capable of, which leads him to discover the beginnings of his love for pain. This will be cemented by his very first interactions with human beings, in which he is treated quite cruelly.

He's very into having hands now and touches absolutely everything, a habit that follows him into maturity.

Yes, he does still have pharyngeal jaws in this form. They're pretty far back in his throat, and when they come out, they slide out over his long, pointy tongue. It is super freaky. The teeth that are in his outer jaws are sharp as well, though they're much closer to human teeth than the needles he's got going on in the back. When he shifts into human form, though, he has normal human teeth, an ordinary human tongue, and only one set of jaws. Thank goodness.

Meta:

Here, I tried out a different style of writing from the way I usually Jank it. It was fun! I thought it rather suited the subject material.

I have no intention of continuing this unless I randomly feel like it at some point, and if I do, I certainly won't put it through anything close to my usual editing process.

In the event that anyone wants to use or expand on this idea, you are absolutely welcome to--I only ask that you credit me and link to one of these posts. If you want to post any portion of my actual writing somewhere as part of something you do, please attribute that excerpt clearly. Also, I'd love it if you dropped by and showed me!

[crouchingjonklerhiddenzonkler]

How the hell do you tag on AO3?

Hello, my anonlings (and assorted others). It is I, the Big Anon, otherwise known as Crouch, here to request your advice on this important matter.

Simply put, I have always sucked shit at tagging. My steadfast beta tells me I "certainly have a way with it," which is Steadfast Beta for, "I don't even know how to help you, man." Thus, I have simply been doing my meager best.

Part of my skill issue is probably because when I personally go to read, I search very simply by ship tags or character tags, and when I decide which works I'm interested in reading, I actually mostly go by the summary; I often hardly glance at the tags. Nevertheless, I know that for many people, the tags are very important in their search process. I wish to ensure my tags are of sufficient quality to help people decide whether or not they're interested in my work.

To that end, I would like to ask everyone some questions:

What do you do when you search? Are there important types of tags you filter by?

Assuming you got here by finding and reading one of my works on AO3: what about that work made you decide you wanted to read it? Did the tags assist you at all?

What is your general opinion of my tagging so far? Is there anything you would like me to do less or more of?

Is it better to under-tag or over-tag?

And to my fellow writers, some of whom I am @-ing on this post, I ask:

How on earth do you decide what to tag?

Responses, opinions, and advice greatly appreciated. Thank you all very much.

@ikebanaka @nightmarecleric @bluestofbloomingmoons @blinkbinurdrink @ghost-kings-court-jester

[crouchingjonklerhiddenzonkler]

Friends, Authors, How Do You Plan Your Works?

Why, I create a detailed scene-by-scene outline, of course.

I make a more general outline and decide on specific scenes as I go.

I jot down some notes here and there, but mostly discover my plot by drafting.

I start with a general idea in my head, but I don't write notes.

Outline? Notes? Planning? What are these things you are saying to me?

I am abruptly stricken ill, then sit down and black out until a story appears.

Voting ended onMay 6

I would love it if you reblogged or commented with more details! Personally, I am usually a mix between the first three options, often depending on how long I've been thinking about a work before I write it. I can be either very methodical or very spontaneous as suits my mood. And I am occasionally blessed by the final option. That's how I wrote "Jabber Gets Hit By A Car".

Also, I am tagging some people I chat with. If you are a Gachi author and you want to chat with me, please get in touch!

@ikebanaka @bluestofbloomingmoons @nightmarecleric

[crouchingjonklerhiddenzonkler]

Here are some snippets from my current project:

[crouchingjonklerhiddenzonkler]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/83618151

Sequel to Buttons is out.

[crouchingjonklerhiddenzonkler]

Janka Ficlet #1: Don't Worry About It

He's not not awake, but he's not not sleeping, either. There's nothing he has to do anymore today, and physically he's all tired out, but he still feels restless, something keeps him staring at the wall through forty-percent-lidded eyes even though his book is on the nightstand, shut. The tassel of its place-marker falls out and drapes like a tail. He traces the line in his mind without moving.

Door to his room clicks open.

For a second, his shoulders tense, but then he hears it, someone humming, and when it crawls up his ears to his brain his body says, sureokaythat'sfine and turns back into languid putty.

He's lying on his side. Fingers trail down the arm laid on top of the covers. The humming is close now, low and nearly tuneless. He can feel it in his own chest.

Feels the covers pull back, shifting over his ribs, a faint chill at his back. A weight dips the mattress. Gravity pulls him that way, and he doesn't fight it, lets himself roll maybe six or seven degrees until two bodies meet.

"Mm," says the person behind him. It ends in a lilt, almost a giggle. A hand smooths over his side to his chest, settles its arm there. A face presses against the back of his neck.

It's cold.

All along his back, pressed up against him, it's cold.

Wait. No, it's not. It's-

"Baby?"

"Mm-hmm?"

"Why'reya wet?"