#cricket hard work

[sweaterkittensahoy]

Tumblr just showed me a crochet community, and that's cool, tumblr, but do you understand how many years of fucking crazy I have dealt with in fiber arts communities and how little I trust literally any of them?

[fujobritta]

El Grillo (The Cricket) — Josquin Des Prez

(notes under cut)

[ohwolfling]

mutual aid request

hey, y'all. I'm officially at two years unemployed, no freelance gigs. I know everyone thinks AI doesn't *really* take jobs and that if it does it's not taking them *yet* but every little review, pop culture, art site you love has very likely been merged or bought out by a massive corporation since 2020 and those assholes do not care if what they make is good or if it even makes sense in a very basic way.

Many disabled folks made their living (using that term very liberally) by writing, researching, creating art, etc for these places from their home. And now that has been swallowed up as costs are rising.

I'm one of those people. If I can just hit $200 a week, I'll be able to carry on. But that's become increasingly difficult as every single space is pay to play and throttling the visibility of anyone who doesn't.

Without support, I will lose the non-permanent housing I have (I am by all measures but a literal roof still homeless and have been since a rent hike in 2018). Sometimes I can't make it cute when I ask for support. Things have been so bad lately that I'm struggling to even do the monthly bonuses for things like ko-fi or stream consistently on Twitch. Because I'm not eating and I can't afford pain management. I watched the place I'm from crumble in Hurricane Helene and am trying to balance all of the above with trying to make sure my family there is still okay. It's too much to do this alone.

My venmo is MirandaBrave. Sending aid there (please do not mark it as a payment, if you do I'll return it because that gets me in trouble) is preferred but I also have ko-fi which I will link below and at which you can become a monthly member if you're so moved to. Substack has a processing error so unfortunately I'm basically booted out of that system.

Thanks for reading. Please share if you can't help otherwise. I'm not exaggerating or joking. I really struggle with how I'm supposed to ask for help from the neurotypical masses and I'm frustrated that no one seems to take me seriously. It feels like people would rather fund a cat's surgery or someone's new car than keep permanently disabled people alive because of the great sin of needing more than one time support.

[thymelessink]

[turnupswritessometimes]

Ricordami - Lies of P - P/Romeo - Ch4

A03 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56555755/chapters/143738143

Summary: P decides to repair the king of puppets. It sends him on a journey to discover what happened to Carlo and Romeo - and to discover whether puppets can love, after all.

First | Previous | Next

4

They went out together. One night, P and Romeo walked out of the opera house and onto the streets of Krat. They fought the puppets who roamed the streets; the puppets who didn't heed their king any longer. Some were infected with the petrification disease; their joints jammed with carcass fluids. They couldn’t delay much longer – he would have to go into the Barren Swamp soon.

P had known Romeo was a good fighter; had fought him personally, even in this body; but it was different, fighting alongside him. Watching him move with such grace as he welded the weapon P had forged for him. Not quite the splendid sword he'd once had, but �� enough.

It felt right, to be with him, like this. His Ergo hummed in response to fighting alongside someone it knew.

"I fought alongside the cat and fox," he told Romeo, as they stood with discarded puppets around them. Puppets that weren’t like them, P reasoned; these puppets were still trapped without their egos. They were still dangerous. "But this is different."

"The cat and the fox?" Romeo echoed. He wiped his blade on his trouser leg, and left a smear of oil there. He still wore the old Monad Charity House uniform. It made his hair was bright as a beacon.

"They're stalkers. Or were." P flicked Gemini on, to see better in the darkness. "They couldn't come with me far. The Cat's leg was bad."

Romeo looked at him for a moment. Then he gave a short laugh. "I think they tricked you."

"Why would they do that?" It didn't make sense. They'd been going his way too. They had helped him, at least a little. What reason would they have to lie?

"Because you're—" Romeo stopped himself. He took a breath, and squeezed P's shoulder. "Because you're kind."

"Was – he?" Was Carlo?

"Sometimes. He could be." Romeo let him go. Continued down the alley they were stalking. "I think he used to be, and I think he wanted to be, but he also thought the world was unfair. That made him reluctant to be." "Are you?"

Romeo looked back. His eye glowed red, in the dim light. "I wanted to be."

That seemed just as much of a riddle to P. They continued. They fought. They hunted. Until they came upon a chunk of Ergo bigger than P's fist. It shone like a streetlight; like a miniature moon.

They both cradled it, together. This would be the last piece of the puzzle, P thought. There wasn't much more left to the story. They'd both wanted to know, but now they stood, hesitant, with the Ergo. Neither of them were ready for that final memory.

"Back at the theatre," Romeo said. P nodded. Followed him back down the abandoned streets. This, he thought, was what they'd both wanted, once. Not just to know about the memories. Before that – in the charity house – they’d wanted to be together, a team, on the streets of Krat, only there was no one else to save, now. No chance of being Stalkers any longer. The city was destroyed.

They sat opposite each other, in the big chairs Romeo had used for the performance. They'd been pulled so close that the wooden legs touched each other.

P met Romeo's gaze. Romeo stared back, with his mismatched eyes.

The Ergo hummed between them, the blue reflecting on their hands; on Romeo’s smooth skin.

"Whenever you're ready," Romeo said.

P raised his eyebrows. "Are you?"

It got him a small smile. He suspected it was because it reminded him of Carlo. He really didn’t know if he wanted to delve into Carlo's mind once more. It was becoming harder and harder to separate the two of them. But he’d promised Romeo he would discover what happened to them, because Romeo was his friend. So he would.

P nodded. He adjusted his grip on the Ergo.

They crushed it, together.

*

Carlo was still sick. He still coughed until his handkerchief was splattered with blood. Still felt feverish. Still felt his organs beginning to turn to stone. His hand had been sacrificed in vain. He didn't tell Geppetto that. He didn't need to. His father could see that for himself, even if he wouldn't acknowledge it. It was only in the sad look of his eyes, the tightening of his mouth.

"I have something to show you."

Geppetto said it, when he'd deemed that Carlo was recovered enough from surgery. When he was strong enough to sit and stand on his own. He didn't look down at his left hand; his lack of a left hand, which his father had hated him using.

Carlo didn't want to see; he didn't care for anything his father would show him; but there was little else to do now, in his father’s house. So he slipped out of bed. He followed his father down the corridors of the house, silently. Down to his workshop. His stomach clenched.

His father paused, before they went in. He brushed the hair from Carlo's face, where it had fallen lankly forward. Carlo flinched away. There was a pause. His father didn't try again. Instead, he opened the door of the workshop.

There was a puppet sat in the workshop chair.

That was not unusual, but Carlo's stomach swooped with a horrifying recognition. He knew that blonde hair. He knew that sleeping face. He knew the puppet sat there.

Rage flooded through him. It ignited in every part of him, as though he was doused in flames. The rage was so strong that, for a moment, he couldn't see anything at all. The puppet swam in and out of focus.

"Is this a joke?" he spat.

"Of course not." And, God help him, his father was serious about that.

Carlo looked at him. He felt twisted with hatred. "You're sick."

"Permit me a moment to explain."

"You think you could replace him? That if it looked enough like him, then the real thing wouldn't matter?" Carlo shouted. It made his throat sing in pain. He had to stop to cough, backing away from his father's comforting hand. "It won't be him! It could never be him!"

His shout echoed off the workshop walls, following by his desperate coughing. The silence that followed was even worse. The P still watching from somewhere inside Carlo didn’t want to see anymore” He thought he knew the rest, and he didn’t want to hear it.

"But it is," Geppetto said.

"Liar!" Carlo managed to choke out.

"No, son." His father didn't try to hold him, again. He stepped toward the puppet instead. "You see, I've discovered it. The secret of Ergo."

Carlo spat blood into his handkerchief. He leant against the wall, his strength sapped. "Really?"

"I suspected, I've always suspected, but now I'm sure. Now that puppet's Egos are waking up all over the city. Ergo isn't a rock. It's not a power source – not in the traditional sense, at least. Ergo comes from us. From life. It's a life source. It holds souls."

Carlo felt sick. He wiped his mouth with the handkerchief, no doubt smearing blood over his cheek. His mind half-guessed at what all this meant, but he didn't want to acknowledge it. He wanted it to stay slow with the effort of being sick.

"The puppets have Egos, because they are remembering their previous lives," his father continued. "So? Don't you see? If you collect the Ergo, you can still use that person's life." Carlo stared. He looked from Geppetto's face – full of a manic joy – to the blank puppet he stood next to. Romeo. No. No. Everything in him was repulsed by the idea.

"You said you'd save him." His voice sounded very distant to himself.

"He had already passed, when I arrived," Geppetto said. His watery eyes flicked up to Carlo, and he felt a chill grip his spine with icy fingers. "But I did tell you I would help him. However I could."

"He's – he's..." Carlo's mind spun with fever. "Lampwick's in there."

It wasn't a question; it was a terrible, sickening truth.

"Yes." Geppetto smiled. "Though, truthfully, I have not started the puppet yet. We won't know for certain it's worked, until then."

Carlo shook his head. The room rose and fell with the movement, the puppet in the chair a pale blur. Romeo was dead, he told himself, as much as it splintered him in two. Romeo was dead, and he needed to mourn him. Not think about turning on that puppet.

The puppet wouldn’t be Romeo.

"Here," Geppetto said. "We'll start him up, together."

"No." The word ripped from Carlo's mouth. He snarled. "No. I refuse. No!"

He stumbled from the room. He didn't make it far. His heart was already overworking to keep himself alive, now it was racing with stress and fear and hatred. He fell to his knees in the hallway. Had to catch himself against the wall and scramble to his feet. He fled. From his father, still shouting after him. From the thing that he'd turned Romeo into.

Carlo had loved puppets. He'd loved watching puppets perform. It had been a delight. It had been a way to see his father, when he couldn't be bothered to show up at the Charity House. But puppets were – puppets. Tools. Performers. They were things which did as they were told, and they were marvellous for that.

They couldn't be people.

How would it feel to wake up inside a puppet? To realise you were a puppet?

To realise that you were bound by the Grand Covenant.

Romeo – his Romeo – his Lampwick – was bound by the Grand Covenant. If he was truly inside that shell.

When Carlo reached his rooms, he was sick. He retched into the bedpan, over and over, until only bloody spittle dripped down his chin. He had to twist his head into his shoulder to wipe it; his only hand was braced against the floor, keeping him upright.

 Geppetto followed him. Of course he did. And he rubbed that terrible hand on Carlo’s back as he struggled to breathe. Carlo couldn't push him away; he didn't have the strength; he didn't have the hand.

"I know it's surprising," his father said, his tone soft.

Carlo took a gulping, shuddering breath. He managed to look up at Geppetto, his hair sticking to his damp skin.

"If you ever do that to me," he said, his voice shaking. "I'll never forgive you."

*

Carlo woke to find his head resting against a chest. Romeo's chest. Romeo was holding him. His arms were around him; tight. And Carlo - P - shook. He was shaking as though he had a malfunction; perhaps there was; perhaps it was too much Ergo – too much stress.

"I think you're trying to cry," Romeo said, softly. Distantly.

P didn't move. He stayed pressed against him, his arms clutched in Romeo's shirt, his legs trailing onto the floor. Carlo's wish – his last wish – had been to not be a puppet. To not have his Ergo trapped. To not have his father bring him back, again.

Not like he had done to Romeo.

"I think..." Romeo paused. "I was an experiment. To see if it was possible. Before…before you."

P stared at the room of the theatre. The lights blurred into each other, and stung his eyes. "You think he always planned to do it."

Had he always known that Carlo was going to die? Had he tried to bring Romeo back first, just so see if it was possible? The prelude to his son?

"I think...Geppetto always loved puppets, more than he had people."

A puppet did as it was told, after all. His son would do as he was told. After all, Carlo's Ergo was inside P, and P had been obedient. He had done as his father had asked, without question. He had loved him.

Carlo had loved his father, once.

P still shook. Even when he got the strength to sit up. He took hold of Romeo's hands, and did not think too much about his legion arm. About the hand that his father had given him. Then he looked at Romeo, properly. He felt his gears jar.

"Your eye," he said. It was different. It was no longer the red puppet eye it used to be. It was the same as the other one. The same hazel, slightly green when it caught the light. Romeo untangled one hand, to trace over it, closing his eye. It was just like the necklace. He had changed. The memories had made him change.

Made them more human.

"Your hair." Romeo reached out a hand before P could check himself. He lifted a lock; it was the same length as before. This time, it was the colour that changed. The hair Romeo held was silver like stars. When he turned his head, he saw it was just that strand. A mark of Carlo's dismay and his grief.

Romeo looked back at him. His expression was stoic, but P saw something, in his eyes. Felt something, in the way he held his hands – he caught the other in his own, because it was easier than thinking about his changed appearance. Wondering whether he was becoming Carlo.

"I'm sorry," P said. His voice was strained. "I'm sorry for what he did. I'm sorry for what I told him to do."

"You didn't tell him to do that," Romeo replied, similarly cracked. "You didn't tell him to do this to either of us."

P shook his head. He brought the backs of Romeo's hands to his mouth, and kissed the knuckles. Even if they couldn't feel the same way, if it didn’t feel like it used to, then at least they understood the action. Understood the meaning behind it.

"You said you hated him, once," Romeo said. "Do you, now?"

P wasn't sure. Dimly, he realised that Romeo had said 'you,' and not 'Carlo,' and that P didn't correct him. But Carlo's visceral hatred, his disgust with his father, was mingling with his own affection he'd felt for Geppetto. Even then, he realised, there had been that nagging suspicion. Perhaps that had been Carlo. He wasn’t sure where either of them ended, anymore. He didn’t know if he wanted Romeo to, anymore. Perhaps Gemini was right about that.

"I don't know," he said. That wasn't a lie. "I don't know how I will face him."

Romeo tilted his head to one side, his lips quirking in a slight smile. He drew their joint hands back to himself, opening them to kiss P's palms.

"If you can lie," he said. "You can act."

P tried to smile back. He cupped Romeo's face instead, unable to look away from his mended eye. That had been Ergo. It had been because P was determined to find the truth. He had done that. Some good had come from the truth.

"Unless you want to do something more drastic?" Romeo asked.

Unless P wanted to attack Geppetto. He didn't think he could. There was still too much of P in him for that.

"He wants to save Krat," P said, slowly. He had believed that, and still wanted to believe that. "I believe that. But do you? Want to do something more drastic?"

"Will you fight against me if I do?"

Fight him again. Destroy him again, if he tried to destroy Geppetto?

P didn’t – couldn’t – reply immediately, because he was not entirely sure. Not anymore. P might, but he knew the Carlo in him wouldn’t. He wasn’t sure which was stronger, and he didn’t want to find out.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said. That wasn’t a lie.

Romeo smiled. Nodded. Leant forward, and kissed P’s mouth. A soft, gentle movement that stirred his Ergo. He kissed him back.

And tried not to think about Geppetto. 

*

Sophia stopped him, when he came through the door of the hotel. She held a hand to his chest, her brows drawn together. He did stop. Her deep blue eyes examined him, and she looked concerned.

“What’s wrong, clever one?”

P looked at her. It was a struggle to breathe. “I remember.”

Her hand hovered over the lock of grey in his hair, but didn’t touch. “You remember?”

“I remember – Carlo.” He was starting to shake again, just at the memories. “And Romeo.”

“Romeo,” she echoed. “The name from the necklace.”

“The king of puppets.” He caught her wrist, gently, and brought it down. She made him calm and composed.

“I’m worried about you,” Sophia said. She hadn’t moved, to let him step around her. “I’m worried you’re going to do something you’ll regret.”

“I’m not going to do anything drastic,” P said, carefully. Not tonight, he thought.

Sophia must have caught something in his tone. She lowered her chin, narrowing her eyes at him. “Are you lying to me?”

He half-smiled, despite everything. He shook his head. “I don’t want to lie to you.”

She almost smiled back. She did take his hand, in both of her own, and squeezed it gently.

“But I have to see Geppetto,” he continued. He didn’t know what he was going to do, or say, but he needed to see him. He needed to look him in the eye and see his reaction.

For a long moment, he didn’t think Sophia would let him. She still examined him, as though he was about to go into a frenzy. Whatever she saw in his expression, it passed the test. She nodded, and stepped to the side.

It left him facing the stairs. They seemed more numerous than before; seemed like climbing a tower, instead of a couple of flights. Gemini glowed at his side.

“I’m sorry pal,” he said.

P traced his fingers over the lantern. The glow felt like an encouragement, and he certainly felt he needed it. He started upwards, taking every step carefully. When he reached the landing, Spring spotted him from where she sat on the side table. She chirruped at him, and P smiled, as stroked her.

He still took a breath, and a long pause, before he stepped through to Geppetto’s room.

His father sat at his desk, as usual, tinkering with machine parts. When he heard P’s footsteps, he looked up. He dropped the machine parts. A screw rolled across the carpet.

Geppetto stood, and crossed to him. His face was pale; aghast.

P didn’t move. His Ergo was stirring, and he felt a swarm of emotions wash over him. Hatred and loathing, but mixed with the same affection and love from before. He loved his father, but he hated him too. Even worse, he had a slight fear. What would his father do, if he crossed him?

“Son, what happened?” Geppetto asked. “Your hair. Who did this to you?”

“Myself,” he replied.

“There will be a way to fix this.” His father took hold of the grey lock, twisting it in the light. “I will fix this.” Then he realised what P had said, and frowned. “What do you mean, yourself?”

“It happened,” P said. It took a great deal of effort to control his tone. His words. “When I remembered.”

Geppetto frowned. “Remembered? What do you mean?”

“When I crush Ergo, I remember things. From before.”

Geppetto’s hands went to take his face, as tenderly and gently as they always did.

P stepped back. Sharply. Suddenly, he didn’t want to be touched by this man; couldn’t bear the thought of it. “I remember Carlo.”

His father jerked backwards, as though he had been slapped. He stared, his brow furrowed, and his chest heaving. “Who told you that name?”

Who had first said the name Carlo? When had he first heard it whispered?

“Romeo.”

“Romeo?” and Geppetto sounded angry, now. “How do you know anything about Romeo?”

“His necklace.” P found he didn’t want to lie. He wanted to tell the truth. He wanted to watch the words pierce his father; wanted to see his reaction to them. To realise what he had done. “The king of puppets had a necklace. Engraved on the back, it said ‘To Romeo. Your Friend C.’”

His father smiled, then. Indulgently. He did step forward, and said, “I believe you need rest, son. I said before. Even if you can’t sleep, your system needs time to configure itself. If you don’t, you get confused.”

Geppetto’s hand landed on his shoulder, and squeezed.

P didn’t move. He stared. “You tried to fix him. Carlo. You took his hand.”

His legion hand clenched on its own. He watched his father’s mouth tighten; watched the recognition spark in his eye. Still, he took P’s other shoulder. Pushed him back a step.

“Son, you need to sit.”

P shook his head, but there was a strange compulsion within him. He wanted to do what his father said – he’d always done what his father said, and that was easy. It made him feel safe. He wanted to. It was easier.

But—

“No.” He caught his father’s wrists. Not hard. “No. You took Romeo. You made him a puppet.”

Geppetto froze, again. He drew his hands away, breathing heavily. He brought one up, again, and brushed P’s hair lightly. The same way he would to Carlo. He hated it. He hated this man, he thought.

“Sit down, son,” he said, again. “And we’ll talk.”

He sounded so reasonable. So gentle. P didn’t want to talk. He didn’t know what he wanted to do – if he wanted to shout and scream, or lash out. He didn’t know if he could; if he was able to scream; if he was able to hit his creator.

His indecision decided for him.

He sat down, in the chair. That same chair he always sat in. He didn’t realise that he was so compliant.

And Geppetto knelt before him, as though he was speaking to a small child.

“I amputated Carlo’s hand to help heal him,” he said. “He asked me to save his friend, and I did. I only ever did what was best for Carlo. He was everything to me. He was my precious son.”

He. He was Geppetto's son. And the soft way in which he said it about Carlo made P realise it had only been used for him out of habit. He felt a dull hurt, at the same time as resignation. (That was from the Carlo side of him, he realised – of course his father would see him as less – why was he surprised? Why could his father still hurt him, even now?)

"But you have to understand..." Geppetto spoke slowly, now, slowly rose to his feet. P felt a creeping sense of danger; felt like when he could hear puppet footsteps further down the street; when he could hear springs, but couldn't see where they were coming from. Surely, he was wrong. "You are a puppet."

"I didn't want to be," Carlo said.

Geppetto blinked. Then his face twisted with anger. He caught P's chin in a harsher grip than he had before. His heart hammered.

"Don't." The word came out twisted like a gnarled tree root. "Don't pretend you are him. You're not."

He was. He was, and he wasn't. He was Carlo but he was also P, like two halves of a butterflies wing, joined in the middle by his body. He stared back at his father, watching the anger and confusion play out over his face.

"Stop looking at me like that."

It clinked into place as neatly as a spring; Romeo had been right. His voice stayed eerily calm – that was the P side of him.  

"Isn't this what you planned?" he asked. Still felt trapped, and still felt that sense of dread. "Lampwick was the experiment. When it worked, you tried it with me."

Geppetto let go of his face. Sharply. His head jerked back. There was a grim satisfaction in knowing he was right. That was the truth. It shouldn’t send him wheeling like it did. He sat in the chair, stunned, and watched Geppetto’s expression harden. He looked like stone.

"No," he said. "No, you're not Carlo. Not yet."

Not yet. It sounded like a threat. P wouldn't dream of hurting his father, but he suddenly knew he needed to be away – needed to get away – but he was trapped by the man over him. He couldn't get up without hurting his father.

And he didn't have the chance. He felt the shock through all of him; from the metal foot of the chair, the headrest, the arm rests. A sharp shock that took his breath. A shock his father had administrated. Panic flooded him, brightly, a sharp fear that he felt in his Ergo.

Felt his Ergo spark out – felt it call for Romeo!

Then his whole system short-circuited.

[softichill]

A Collector I drew for art class!

[non-sims]

that whole "post for yourself/the love of whatever you're doing" is kinda real.

cause not all my ff16 stuff "pops off" and I genuinely don't mind that cause I'm posting for the love of the game/clive.

but ngl when a sim post of mine doesn't get at least past 10 notes in a day I'm calling it a flop, deleting it, & will be in a 'mood' till I post something else.

[goodmorningevildoers]

Have you signed up yet for your inevitable assimilation? Register today and beat the crowds! N-no. No. Not like that. Put down the crowbar. Although we admire your bloodthirstiness.

https://goodmorningevildoers.com

[so-bitya]

i like how edward is treated for being so cool admiring others and learning their techniques when all he does is steal other guys moves

[kids-motivation-stories]

Motivational Cricket Short #Cricket #Motivation

[the-impala-is-my-home]

Zhu Yuanzhang; the radiant emperor, fated to be the greatest of all.

Zhu Chongba; just a humble monk at your service.

[tigersorange]

i had the cactus for TWO HOURS!!!!

[cricketdrawings]

In 2025 I want to try blogging more about my art n process on here, I also want to FINALLY start consistently making youtube videos, but as with every new thing I try and do, we shall see :)

[analyticallyminded]

i am currently in the process of revamping my card and I've only got a bit left and gotta make a new promo and then i'll hopefully be Around more again bc everything will feel Fresh and New

[ssreeder]

how are we feeling about the new netflix adaptation of avatar??!!!!!!!!!!!! the zuko casting eats and swolzai is so cool to see actually translated well (although we will see how they treat the characters in this)

HEYYYYYYOOOOO!

The only thing I’m really looking forward to from the live action is being able to gossip about it with my mutuals. I don’t really have any other opinion, I mean… it looks cool! (Sokkas hair & zukos scar bother me but ehhhh what can I do?) But I’m an animation junky, I love my anime and my cartoons (bobs burgers beloved) so I don't particularly care for the “real people actors” taking over my cartoons but I’m totally chill about it honestly.

I will ABSOLUTELY be watching it and probably will form a more solid opinion after I actually watch the show.