Sep 14, 2025
—Sylvia Plath, "Stings"
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—Sylvia Plath, "Stings"
Jean-Marie Leclair (1697-1764) - Sonata for 2 Solo Violins in G-Major, Op. 3 No. 1, I. Allegro. Performed by Florian Deuter & Monica Waisman, baroque violins.
I HATE CHARACTER DESIGN
I Don’t Want to Sleep Angry
The fight started like so many others had—quiet frustration, buried too long, bubbling to the surface with nowhere else to go.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this tonight.
They were supposed to be curled up on the couch with leftover pizza and a bad sci-fi movie, bickering over plot holes and quoting lines at each other with exaggerated accents. But dinner was late, the kid had gotten suspended again, and they were both too tired to be kind.
"I asked you three times, Foxy," Puppet said, trying to keep her voice level, but it trembled with strain.
"And I told you—I was busy with FC!" His voice was louder than it needed to be. “I can’t be everywhere at once, lass!”
"You could’ve just messaged me."
“Maybe I didn’t want to text while he was bawlin’ his eyes out because the world’s stacked against him!”
The silence that followed was immediate and cutting. Puppet crossed her arms, long fingers curling tight around her sleeves. “So it’s my fault now?”
“I didn’t say that,” he shot back, exasperated.
"You didn’t have to."
Foxy sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. His tail twitched with restrained tension. "You're twisting my words again. I’m trying to do my best here, but I feel like I’m walkin’ into a trap every time I open my mouth."
"And I feel like I'm yelling just to be heard!" she snapped. “Everything falls apart and I’m just… supposed to smile and hold it together so you can cope.”
That one hit deeper than she meant it to. She saw it in the way his expression crumpled for a second—just a second—before he pulled his mask back into place. Cold, sharp, closed off.
"Maybe we do need a night apart," he muttered, voice low. "Cool off. Sleep it off."
She blinked. “You’re leaving?”
“I’m goin’ to the bedroom,” he snapped. “To stop sayin’ things I’ll regret.”
He turned his back, tail swiping across the carpet, shoulders tense as steel cables. She watched him disappear down the hall, footsteps heavier than they should’ve been.
And then—
SLAM.
The bedroom door rattled, a hollow sound that echoed long after the impact.
The kind of sound that feels like the end of something.
Puppet didn’t chase him.
Didn’t scream after him.
Didn’t cry.
Instead, she stood in the middle of the living room, in the same clothes she’d worn since morning, surrounded by soft lamps, half-wilted flowers, and the familiar smell of lavender and spice—and felt like a stranger in her own home.
Her arms hurt. She blinked and looked down.
Her nails—sharper than they looked, honed over years of anxiety and bad habits—had dug deep into her biceps, gripping so tightly through the fabric that red was seeping through her sleeves. Tiny half-moon cuts, some fresh, some already scabbing, had broken the skin. She had done it again. Without realizing. Without thinking.
Like she was trying to hold herself together—or maybe punish herself for not being enough.
Shame pooled in her stomach. She slowly peeled her hands away and looked at her fingers. Blood. Her blood.
It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t even that much.
But it was real.
And the quiet ache in her skin was the only thing grounding her in the moment.
She sat down slowly on the edge of the couch, numb. Her thoughts raced in tight, painful circles:
Why do we do this?
Why am I never enough?
What if he walks out next time and doesn’t come back?
What if this is just who I am—broken, hard to love, hard to be around?
She had made progress. She had worked so hard. Foxy loved her, didn’t he? She knew he did. He’d proven it again and again.
But love didn’t make her easy. And sometimes, love wasn’t enough to keep the shadows from creeping in.
And then—
Soft steps.
Rushed. Hesitant.
She didn’t look up at first. Couldn’t.
But she heard the breath—trembling, trying to be steady. And then a voice.
Low. Breaking.
“I don’t want to sleep angry,” he said.
Puppet’s head snapped up. Foxy stood at the end of the hallway, ears folded, eyes glassy with tears he hadn’t yet wiped away.
“I don’t want to lose you over this.”
The silence stretched.
Puppet’s lips trembled. Her shoulders fell.
Foxy took a few cautious steps forward. “I’m sorry. I know I sound cruel when I get overwhelmed. I hate it too, you know? I hate that I still get that loud. That sharp.”
He swallowed, voice cracking.
“You didn’t deserve that. You’re tryin’. And so am I. But we’re tired. And scared. And I—God, I just… I can’t sleep thinkin’ you hate me.”
His voice trembled. “I know I stormed off, but—I just... I kept hearin’ your voice in my head, and—” He gestured helplessly. “I love you, and I can’t stand thinkin’ this—this stupid fight—might be the last thing I ever said to you tonight.”
Puppet didn’t hesitate.
She crossed the room in three strides and wrapped herself around him, burying her face in his chest. The sob came before she could stop it, and he was already holding her like he was afraid she’d slip through his fingers.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, the words cracking as they came out. “I didn’t mean to push you away.”
“No, no—don’t you say sorry,” he murmured into her hair. “It’s me. I shut down when I feel like I’m failin’. But I ain’t afraid of failing—I’m afraid of failing you.”
“I thought you were really gone,” she whispered. “Just for a second. And I didn’t know what I’d do.”
“I’ll always come back,” he murmured into her hair. “Even when I’m mad. Even when we say stupid things. I will come back.”
They stood there for a long time—just breathing. Relearning each other’s rhythms. Puppet’s hands tightened around his back, pressing into fabric, into safety. Foxy’s grip didn’t loosen. If anything, he pulled her closer.
Eventually, he pulled back just enough to look at her. “You’re shakin’. You okay?”
She started to nod, but his eyes dropped to her arm. To the dark spots on her sleeve.
“What’s that?” he asked softly.
She froze. “Nothing. It’s—”
But he was already lifting the sleeve, slow, careful.
His expression changed. Not horror. Not pity. Just—hurt.
“Love…” he breathed. “You did this?”
Puppet couldn’t look at him. “I didn’t mean to. It’s just something I do when I feel like I’m losing control. I didn’t notice until you left.”
“Love…” His voice broke. “You shouldn’t have to bleed just to hold in how you feel.”
“I didn’t mean to.”
“I know.”
He pressed his lips together and gently took her hand, guiding it to his mouth. He kissed each knuckle, slow, reverent. Then her wrist. Then the edge of the bruise.
“I hate that I left you in that space,” he whispered. “I’m so damn sorry.”
Her eyes stung again. But she let him hold her hand there, wrapped gently in both of his, like it was something sacred.
“You didn’t know,” she said. “And you came back. That’s what matters.”
He nodded, pulling her close again. “Let me help next time. If you feel like that. You don’t have to carry it alone.”
“I’ll try.”
“That’s enough.”
She gave a wet laugh, wiping her face. “You’re lucky I love you.”
He kissed her temple. “You’re lucky I do.”
They didn’t talk much more that night.
They lay down together, curled in tight. Puppet rested her head on his chest, where the faint thump of his artificial heart soothed her nerves. Foxy ran his fingers gently through her hair, and every so often, he’d lean down and whisper, “Still here,” like a mantra.
She slept with her arm across his chest, and when she woke the next morning, her sleeve was rolled up and cleaned, bandaged with care. She didn’t remember him doing it. But she didn’t have to.
Because she knew.
He saw the parts of her that hurt, and he stayed.
*pretends to sting you*
Female Red Velvet wasps, Dasymutilla occidentalis are not aggressive, but if frightened they will sting.
Males can't sting. (In wasps, ants and bees the sting, if present, is a modification of the ovipositor.)
This doesn't stop males from *pretending* to sting.
If restrained my boy will curl his gaster around & sort of dab at you ineffectually? He's doing his best! This turns out to be a smart move for him. Predators (and annoying, curious humans) will freak out and drop him in response!
I like to imagine that on hymenopteran social media there is "discourse" over the ethics and impacts of pretending to sting.
FRVW Female Red Velvet Wasp MRVW Male Red Velvet Wasp
FRVW: Sting fakers put all our lives at risk. As soon as the Lumbering Beasts notice we can't *all* sting we'll all be less safe.
MRVW: Nonsense! Lumbering Beasts just think we missed.
FRVW: You see this shows you know nothing about how stinging even works. You can't "miss."
Hoverfly: I think it's fine.
FRVW: No one asked you! (mumbling) goggle-eyed, bootleg-ass yellow-jacket.
Hoverfly: EXCUSE ME?
INSECT SWARM
