This is a comment someone appended to a photo of two men apparently having sex in a very fancy room, but it’s also kind of an amazing two-line poem? “His Wife has filled his house with chintz” is a really elegant and beautiful counterbalancing of h, f, and s sounds, and “chintz” is a perfect word choice here—sonically pleasing and good at evoking nouveau riche tackiness. And then “to keep it real I fuck him on the floor” collapses that whole mood with short percussive sounds—but it’s still a perfect iambic pentameter line, robust and a lovely obscene contrast with the chintz in the first line. Well done, tumblr user jjbang8
I went back to dig up this post because I was thinking about poetry.
This is one of those non-poem things that are among my favorite poems.
As the OP stated, the use of alliterative consonants is aesthetically just great, especially the placement of the strongest use at the end: “fuck him on the floor.” The use of “chintz” is indeed great word choice.
Because I’m insane, decided to scan the poem:
Not only is the second sentence, indeed, perfect iambic pentameter, the entire poem is perfectly metered, though the first sentence has four iambs rather than five.
There are further things I love about this poem, though: I like the casual connotations of “keep it real” juxtaposed with “chintz.” It causes me to interpret the “chintz” more strongly as meaning something fake, a facade. There is also of course the coarseness of “fuck,” which is a contrast with “chintz” but a different kind of contrast, gutsy and carnal where “chintz” is flimsy and inanimate.
And then there is the storytelling: there is SO MUCH storytelling in just these two lines. To break it down: The speaker is having sex with a married man, in the house he shares with his wife, which is “filled with chintz”—something that here connotes fakeness, in contrast with “keep it real.”
The illicit encounter in the poem takes place within a house filled with facade, the flimsy construction of the wife’s marriage and domestic sphere, but the encounter itself is a taste of something “real.” That’s a story, and it’s just two lines.
This is EIGHTEEN SYLLABLES, y’all. The amount of meaning condensed into these eighteen syllables is stunning, and it is so elegantly done.
From a technical standpoint (and ive taken 300- and 400-level poetry classes so I can say this) this is damn near flawless as a poem.
Ah dang to go further; the floor is framed as a refuge. As if there is literally no other space in this house that hasn't been populated by his wife with flimsy inanimate fakery. There is no space for this man in this house save for the floor. There is no space for him on the sofa, oon the counter tops, and most notably, no space for him in the marital bed.
I’d also like to point out the use of the word “has.” The wife has filled the house with chintz. She isn’t filling the house with chintz. She doesn’t fill the house with chintz. She has filled the house with chintz. Use of the past-tense makes the wife a subtly removed element in the story, someone whose presence we see in the environment, but who is blissfully distant during the actors throes of passion. There is an element of physical as well as emotional separation from the wife that is catalyzed by being fucked on the floor. Use of the past tense is an end to the wife presence in the actors life, a carnal catharsis amid cold fragility and emotional distance.
The best part is OP got fired because their boss asked why they weren’t “incorporating blockchain technology” into the video switcher they were building and OP straight up said “you have no idea what you’re talking about” and went to lunch
Truncated text of tweet from MrPitBull, Mar 11, 2026:
She kept finding women in laboratory photographs from the 1800s. Then she read the published papers—and every single woman had vanished. Someone had erased them from history.
Yale University, 1969.
Margaret Rossiter was a graduate student studying the history of science. She was one of very few women in her program.
Every Friday afternoon, students and faculty gathered for beers and informal conversation. One week, Margaret asked a simple question: "Were there ever any women scientists?"
The faculty answered firmly: No.
Someone mentioned Marie Curie. The group dismissed it—her husband Pierre really deserved the credit.
Margaret didn't argue. But she also didn't believe them.
So she started looking.
She found a reference book called "American Men of Science"—essentially a Who's Who of scientific achievement. Despite the title, she was shocked to discover it contained entries about women. Botanists trained at Wellesley. Geologists from Vermont.
There were names. There were credentials. There were careers.
The professors had been wrong.
But Margaret's discovery was just the beginning. Because as she dug deeper into archives across the country, she found something far more disturbing.
Photograph after photograph showed women standing at laboratory benches, working with equipment, listed on research teams.
But when she read the published papers, the award citations, the official histories—those same women had disappeared. Their names were missing. Their contributions erased.
It wasn't random. It was systematic.
Women who designed experiments watched male colleagues publish results without giving them credit. Women whose discoveries were assigned to supervisors. Women listed in acknowledgments instead of as authors. Women passed over for awards that went to male collaborators who contributed far less.
Margaret realized she was witnessing a pattern that stretched across centuries.
Women had always been present in science. The record had simply pushed them aside.
She needed a name for what she was documenting.
In the early 1990s, she found it in the work of Matilda Joslyn Gage—a 19th-century suffragist who had written about this exact phenomenon in 1870.
In 1993, Margaret published a paper formally naming it: The Matilda Effect.
The term captured something that had been hidden in plain sight for generations. Once you knew the term, you saw it everywhere.
Her dissertation became a lifelong mission.
For more than 30 years, Margaret researched and wrote her landmark three-volume series: Women Scientists in America. She examined letters, institutional policies, individual careers. She gathered undeniable evidence that women in science had been consistently under-credited and structurally excluded.
Her work faced resistance. Many dismissed women's history as political rather than academic. Others insisted she was exaggerating.
Margaret didn't argue emotionally. She presented data. Documented cases. Patterns repeated across decades and institutions.
Eventually, the evidence became undeniable.
Her research helped restore recognition to scientists who had been erased:
Rosalind Franklin, whose X-ray work revealed DNA's structure—credit went to Watson and Crick.
Lise Meitner, who explained nuclear fission—omitted from the Nobel Prize.
Nettie Stevens, who discovered sex chromosomes—received little credit.
Cecilia Payne-Gaposchkin, who discovered stars are made of hydrogen—initially dismissed.
And countless others whose names had nearly vanished.
Margaret changed the narrative. Science was no longer just the story of solitary male geniuses. It became a story of collaboration that included women who had been written out.
The Matilda Effect became standard terminology. Scholars used it to examine how credit is assigned, how authors are listed, who receives awards, who gets left out.
Not gonna lie this makes me a bit irritated. Here's the real version of this photo:
Instead of a cutesie reference to film censorship it was an explicit statement of defiance of Maryland's criminalization gay sex, which was not repealed until 2002. This wasn't a guy saying "Oh they can't put what I do in the movies according to a completely voluntary industry code" he was saying "The State of Maryland wants to put me in jail for being gay and having gay sex."
It wasn't a guy being cheeky about sex in an ambiguous, cute way. It was a man stating, in no uncertain terms, that a whole state of the United States considered him a criminal for being homosexual.
love seeing revisionism in the wild “free the nipple never meant you can walk around topless every where that’s still sexual harassment it just meant for like breastfeeding and stuff”no it literally means you should be able to walk around topless anywhere because get this. breasts aren’t fucking sexual organs.
I remember when I was about 12, I watched a show on TLC that followed people as they got somewhat uncommon medical procedures.
There was one episode with a trans woman getting different gender-affirming operations, including breast implants. It showed the procedure, and (what I found so fascinating that it's stuck with me for decades), as soon as the doctor put the implant in, a censor blur popped up on the nipple.
And you just know there was a meeting between the TLC lawyers and the editors and producers of the show to discuss what the difference was between a "man nipple" (can be shown) and a "woman nipple" (no no must obscure, 'tis naughty). And they decided that as soon as the implant goes in and the nipple has more mass behind it, that's the moment when it becomes a woman's nipple and must be hidden to comply with TV rules.
But it's the same nipple. On the same person. I know what it looks like; I just saw it. But TV and obscenity rules are rules, and the rules say woman nipple = sexual and therefore explicit, but man nipple = neutral, just fine.
"Free the Nipple" was calling out arbitrary bullshit like that, because someone just existing with their body parts should not be considered obscene, and the double standard that men can be topless but women can't is so blatantly ridiculous. All nipples are just nipples. If you get turned on or bothered by them, that's on you.
sigh. just another day scrubbing the floor and mowing the lawn and dusting and doing the laundry for the rest of my pack. but the house has to be in especially perfect shape today because Alpha Jameson has an important meeting with another Alpha from across the river. If they come to an agreement, the Newport and Cincinnati packs might finally have peace for the first time in decades. No more fighting….But they say the Newport Alpha is the most ruthless wolf who’s ever lived. Can our hotheaded Alpha really find a compromise with a man like that? I have to hope for the best…with a deal between our packs, the months of new business negotiations will have everyone so busy, they won’t have time to push me around. Alpha Jameson might even be too distracted to think about me. The thought is almost too good to be true. I’ve been his scapegoat to treat like trash ever since he and my younger sister claimed each other as mates. There was a time when we were kids when it was me on his arm at dinners and parties. But then we grew up, and…..I never got my Wolf. I’m a freak, and everyone knows it. Of course he couldn’t stay with me. Not that I’d want to be with him now anyway. These days he can’t even say my name without spitting it. Sometimes I think it would be easier if I never get my Wolf, and I get banished to live among humans. But then I remember my childhood best friend. She was so pretty—brown eyes, with brunette hair she always wore in a bun. I was homeschooled with my pack, of course, and she went to the local high school. We met at the library….our shared sanctuary. She didn’t have any other friends, and neither did I. We hung out every chance we got. Until one day when we were 16…her brother told me she was gone. I found out that their mom gave her away to a boy band, and I haven’t seen her since. That’s when I realized the human world is just as ruthless as the wolfen. No, banishment wouldn’t be better. But I don’t know how much longer I’ll survive this place either. Most days, keeping my head down and doing what I’m told isn’t enough to keep me out of trouble.
But things could be worse. Yesterday I overheard my sister talking to Beta Devon about the deal Alpha Jameson is making with the Newport Alpha. Apparently, he’s requested a woman from our pack as his mate. With his reputation, I could almost feel bad for whoever Alpha Jameson chooses for him, even though the women in our pack treat me even worse than the men. I’m an embarrassment to them because I don’t have my Wolf.
Whatever. At least I know it won’t be me, because I’m not important enough to be married off……..
everyone saying that they can hear the MC’s voice so clearly. That’s because I didn’t write this. I channeled her voice through myself as a vessel. She’s out there somewhere.
funny you should mention it because I’m channeling the MC again right now and she met the Newport Alpha today. Her stomach was in her throat when she found out that he requested her, specifically. Whatever she’ll have to endure will almost be worth the look on Alpha Jameson’s face when he was forced to acknowledge that someone actually wants her—that someone outside of her pack even knows her name.
Still, the satisfaction was fleeting when it finally sank in that she’s leaving with the most ruthless Wolf this side of Louisville. Is she simply out of the pan and into the fire?
Not so much. In fact, the Newport Alpha is cold as ice. He hasn’t spoken a single word to her in the hour since they met and left Cincinnati on his sleek, burnt-sienna Ecosse ES1 Spirit.
Could he really have asked for her, specifically? What if he’d asked for someone else and they sent her instead, as a consolation prize? What if…
What if he asked for someone else, and they lied about who she was? Oh god. Would she have to pretend to be Payton or Sabrina to maintain peace and to keep her own head attached to its neck? She might be able to pull that off…for a week.
Does he even know what she is—what she isn’t. Did Alpha Jameson or her sister tell him she doesn’t even have her Wolf? Maybe the Alpha can sense that on his own…
They’ve stopped for gas, and he still hasn’t said a word. But he when he goes inside for an energy drink, he comes back out with sweet-tarts ropes—her favorite. It’s such a random candy too. How could he have possibly known that? A lucky guess?
They share an impossibly familiar look for just a moment as he hands her the candy. Then he’s astride the motorcycle again.
She wishes she had something other than him to hold onto as they speed southbound on 471. Despite herself, her arms are wrapped around his waist, and she tucks her forehead against his broad back so the wind won’t sting her eyes.
His carhartt jacket smells faintly of clove cigarettes. His hair smells like apricot shampoo from the dollar general. The specificity of the scent catches her off guard as they cross the bridge into Newport. Why would she recognize the brand? More importantly: why would a wealthy Alpha buy his hair products from a dollar store?
And why is she even thinking about his shampoo to begin with? She needs to be preparing herself for her first night in her new life. It could be anything. She needs to be smart. She needs to be on guard.
And yet…she can’t stop thinking about his brown eyes. Something in them is so….impossibly…..familiar. It just doesn’t make any sense.
That's very kind, but again I'm not writing this. I'm having visions and ecstasies where I see through the eyes of the MC. In fact......I'm being overcome now......
We've been driving for a long time now, well past Newport's city limits. At some point, we got off the highway, and I counted streetlights blurring by until we started passing trees instead. We're out somewhere in the woods now. I tell myself that I'll get my bearings the next time we stop, but we just drive on and on.
We blow through an intersection in the middle of nowhere, and I try to catch the name of whatever county road we must be on, but it's too dark, and we're driving too fast. The Newport Alpha doesn't seem to care about stop signs or speed limits.
Why would he? We could crash into a tree going 100 miles per hour, and he'd be okay. Not me, though. Inhuman powers of strength and healing are reserved for those with a Wolf.
I bite my lip and wonder again if he knows about me. If he does, I guess that means he wouldn't care if we took a turn too fast and I fell off the back of this bike and died. If he doesn't....
I shake my head. There's no way Alpha Jameson and my sister could've kept this secret. If they did, and he doesn't take it well when he finds out....
My stomach twists when I think about what might happen to me. No. Alpha Jameson needs this to go well. No matter how much he hates me—no matter how much sick pleasure he'd get if I were torn to shreds in a bad business deal. The Newport Alpha wanted a mate from our pack. Not even Beta Devon would be stupid enough to try to cheat such a powerful Alpha with some Wolfless loser.
He could have asked for any of the unmated women in our pack. Sabrina and Chelsea would have thrown one of their legendary tantrums if Alpha Jameson tried to give one of them away, but I saw Payton preening in every reflective surface she passed this morning. She wanted to look good for the Newport Alpha, and she did look good. She was taller and prettier than me—blonder, with better clothes and makeup. They all were.
Why didn't he want any of them. What does he want with me?
I'm so lost in thought, I didn't even notice that we'd turned down a long driveway until we stop.
He cuts the engine, but I still feel like I'm vibrating. I'm not used to riding on motorcycles. I'm really not even used to leaving the house. My arms feel like jello, still wrapped awkwardly around his waist.
The Newport Alpha suddenly gets up—so fast that I don't even have time to let go. His body drags mine sideways, and I brace myself to land on the gravel driveway.
But I don't. He catches me by my arm and pulls me onto my feet.
"Thanks," I say, at the same time he says, "Sorry."
It's the first thing he's said to me since we met hours ago. I know I look surprised when our eyes meet. Those brown eyes...
We stare at each other for so long, it starts to hurt. I'm not used to anyone acknowledging me unless it's followed by an insult or a slap. I can't take the eye contact, so I look down at my old Sperry shoes—rejects that Sabrina threw away.
He lets go of my arm and says "sorry" again.
"It's okay...." I say. My voice is so quiet. I hate it, but I don't know how to be any louder. I'm barely ever allowed to talk.
The Newport Alpha doesn't seem to care. He says, "I know this probably isn't what you were expecting, but I thought you might be more comfortable with a little privacy tonight."
I look up and realize he's talking about the house, a little cabin surrounded by trees. He's right, it's not what I expected. When my sister told me that Alpha Jameson was giving me away to the most ruthless Wolf in the tri-state area, I didn't really picture woodland cottages. It's not even as big as the garage where Beta Devon keeps those stupid, expensive cars he loves so much.
I don't know what to say, so I whisper, "It's fine."
The Newport Alpha grins. I don't know why he'd care so much what I think of his house, but I'm glad I made him happy. Things will be easier for me if he's in a good mood.
He says, "Yeah? Are you sure? I just thought it might be kinda overwhelming for you to meet the entire pack tonight, you know?"
"Yeah," I say, because I have no idea what else to say. Nobody's ever considered my feelings like that before, let alone gone out of the way to accommodate them.
"Well, uh, want to go in? It's kinda cold out here, huh?"
He's looking me up and down, and I feel exposed in my plain blue jeans and hand-me-down Hollister v-neck sweater.
"Sure," I say.
I follow him up the front porch steps. He opens the door, and I wait for him to go first, but then I realize he's waiting for me to go first. So I do.
This time, it is what I'm expecting. The cabin is decorated like a little hunting lodge. I've never been in one, but I've seen them in movies and TV shows. The walls are wood panel, and they're covered in antlers and trophy fish.
"Bedroom's over there." He points to a door on my left, then to one on the right. "Bathroom's there."
I'm eyeing a rack with three rifles hanging beside the door, and he must notice, because he says, "They're not loaded."
When I don't say anything, he keeps talking. "I bought this place a few years ago, and I haven't really gotten to redecorating. Those came with the place. Besides, who needs a gun to kill a deer?"
He grins, and I notice for the first time how sharp some of his teeth are. It's nothing like ours in my pack.
"Hey, I'm just kidding," he says. I guess he can tell I'm a little freaked out. "I'm a fishing guy, anyway."
"Oh," I say. "Ha."
I don't know why I even tried to laugh. It sounds more pathetic than I even usually do. He's frowning at me, and I panic a little. What am I thinking??? This is my new Alpha. Laughing at his stupid jokes will be the least of my duties to him. Pack members who don't play along never last long. I need to get it together.
"Well," he says. "Why don't we call it a night?"
He looks me up and down again. "Is that all you have?"
He means the clothes I'm wearing. I can feel myself turning bright red. Everything happened so fast today, I didn't have time to pack even my few belongings.
"Yeah," I say. "It's...okay. I....always sleep in jeans."
He cocks his head and looks at me like he'll call my bluff. I bite my lip. There's something in his face. He looks somehow....sad. I have no idea what to do with that. But then he smiles.
"Okay then, " He kicks off his timberland boots and pads across the room in his socks. I watch him lie down on the old, 1980s velour couch. "Good night."
I don't move. What am I supposed to be doing right now? I wait for some command. It feels like an eternity passes before he sits up and says, "Sorry, do you need something?"
I shake my head. He stares at me for a moment and says, "Huh. Well...sweet dreams?"
I still have no idea what he wants from me. I have no idea what to say, and then he says, "Sorry. I have no idea what you want from me right now..."
It catches me so off guard, I actually laugh. A real laugh. Then he laughs. His laugh is loud and confident, and it makes his broad chest rise and fall under his tight, black t-shirt.
He laughs longer than I do, and then I say, "I don't know where I'm supposed to go...tonight?"
"Oh!" He says, smiling. "The bedroom's all yours! There are fresh sheets. It's a little cold, but it'll warm up in here soon. I just switched from wood to solar, and it's been a whole thing, you know?"
I don't know. I just say, "Okay, thanks," and then I wander awkwardly to the bedroom.
But I stop in the doorway. I don't know why, but I suddenly feel a little bold. I want to say something other than oh and yeah, but I have no idea what.
He's looking at me like he knows I'm trying to get the courage to talk.
So I just ask, "What's your name?"
"Oh!" He laughs again. "I can't believe I never said. It's Yale. Yale Northland. It's kind of a weird name, though, isn't it?"
I don't know what to say. Am I supposed to agree with him? Would that be rude?
He says, "So my friends just call me by my initials, Y.N."
"Okay, Y.N.," I say. Then I have nothing else to say, so I say, "Goodnight," and I shut the door behind me.
The bedroom looks just like the living room, with wood panel walls and random woodsy knickknacks. The bed is huge. It takes up most of the room, and it's covered in old, homemade quilts. I've never seen anything like them. They're so....cozy. I pull them back, and the sheets are red flannel with patterns of little black pine trees and bears printed on them.
I take off my jeans, because I actually don't want to sleep in them, and I climb into the gigantic bed. Thew Newport Alpha is nothing like what anyone said he'd be.
He seems so normal. I can't help feeling like there's something I'm missing. Like, tomorrow, I'll wake up and he'll be the cruel, ruthless Wolf my sister told me about.
My stomach twists, but not even the fear is enough to keep me awake after such a long day. I try to stay awake, but the cabin is so quiet, and the bed is so warm, I drift off to sleep...
#reading this feels like having knives thrown at you
Well get ready to start dodging, because for the first time in a year, I can feel the MC trying to speak through me...
I awake to a crash. Or was it a scream ... My own voice, screaming.
I'm breathing hard—panting, even—my whole body too hot in the Hollister sweater I went to bed in last night. I shouldn't be surprised; it's not the first time I've screamed myself awake, but it usually only follows the times I've cried myself to sleep. Last night wasn't one of those times. No, last night was ... I can't bring myself to even think the word safe. Instead, I say out loud to the dark room, "different."
My voice is timid as always, but at least I'm speaking. Maybe, in the life I've lived, anything that's different is safe.
But I can't afford to let my guard down. Not when I have no idea what awaits me today. Alpha Yale was kind to me last night, but I know it was all propriety. No matter his reputation—no matter how badly we all know Alpha Jameson needs this to work—Alpha Yale couldn't be a complete brute right away. No matter how worthless I may be to my pack, no matter how much they hate to claim me, I'm still one of them. If Alpha Jameson let an outsider treat me as badly as he does, it would make him look weak, like he can't protect his own. As an Alpha, Yale would understand that and play polite as part of the deal, if only 'til everyone forgets about me.
If I'm going to survive this—whatever this is—I have my own role to play: The perfect Alpha's mate, but that's already out the window. She wouldn't be Wolfless.
I shake the thoughts out of my head. Over-thinking in the dark all morning won't win Alpha Yale over. I switch on the novelty lamp at my beside; it's shaped like a wolf howling at the moon, which is full and round to cover the light bulb inside. A little on-the-nose... But Alpha Yale did say he plans to redecorate the place. The wood floor is cold on my bare feet. No points to solar power, I think.
Back home, we had heated floors. At least, the main house did, where everyone else lived. My room—the unfinished basement—was all moldy cement. How could I have any opinions about Alpha Yale's HVAC setup, coming from someplace like that?
There's a second door in my room, on the other wall just beside the door to the main house. I open it cautiously, expecting a closet, but I'm pleased to realize it goes directly to the bathroom. The lights are already on inside—so bright I blink and see spots for a second. I immediately notice a folded bundle of fabric, with a small note on top:
M.C.,
I pause. How did he know I prefer to go by my initials, the same as he does? There's no way Alpha Jameson or my sister would have been considerate enough to mention it. They never remembered themselves—or they pretended not to, anyway.
I hope you slept well. I'm out getting us breakfast. This is for you, in case you don't actually like living in those jeans. Back soon - Y.N.
I turn over the note for some reason, and I realize it's been scrawled on the back of an old envelope, already torn open. The return address sounds like a satellite dish company. Absurdly, I imagine Alpha Yale tucked into one of those homemade quilts, surrounded by novelty lamps, watching black-and-white movies, or whatever channels you get by dish out here in the sticks. I catch myself smiling before I remember I'm just making things up. Most Ruthless Alpha this side of the Mississippi, I remind myself. He's probably not catching oldies re-runs.
Under the note is a pair of grey sweatpants—no brand, I notice, the old tag long since worn totally blank. They're clean, but they still smell like him—borax laundry soap, clove cigarettes, and ... Apricot shampoo, I think. 2-in-1. The kind with conditioner included. I shake my head again. Why do I know that, and why does it even matter?
I pull the pants on and look at my reflection in the mirror. My brown, curly hair is a hopeless tangle. I can taste my morning breath. I open a few cabinets, looking for toothpaste or a comb, careful to close them as quietly as possible, in case Alpha Yale wouldn't want me going through his things. The whole bathroom's completely empty, anyway. Unless there's a second bathroom—doubtful, from how little this place seemed last night—then he clearly never stays here. Even the toilet paper roll is almost used up.
Giving up, I use the elastic on my wrist to shape my hair into the semblance of a bun. My brown eyes are underscored by bags, deep and somewhat purple. I notice a stain on yesterday's sweater, so I take it off to reveal my thin, blue camisole with lace trim. It's cold enough in the bathroom that my arms immediately go to gooseflesh, but I warm up a little when I put on the sweatpants. They're too long—Alpha Yale is at least a foot taller than me—so I roll them three times at the waist, which looks a little frumpy, but so do I.
I take one more look at myself in the mirror. My eyes are wide. Suddenly, panic blooms in my chest. I don't want to go out there. I don't want to face Alpha Yale and this new life. But I can't go back, either. Not to Alpha Jameson. Not to my sister. There's no one there who would have me, protect me if this all went to hell. I won't go back. I'd sooner drown in the Ohio River than cross it again.
Swallowing my dread, I open the other door to the main house.
"She's awake!"
I blink against the sun pouring into the room from three skylights, which I hadn't noticed last night. There's a man I don't know, sitting on the old couch in front of the TV, tucked into one of those patchwork quilts, exactly as I'd stupidly imagined Alpha Yale.
"Finally joining us, in the land of the living?" His grin is goofy and genuine, and I notice he has sharp teeth like Alpha Yale's.
"Booo!" Another voice says with a laugh, as if the man on the couch has made some sort of corny joke, but I don't get it.
"M.C., Good morning," says yet a third person. The whole cabin is a single room, with the living room's old, shaggy carpet ending abruptly at the kitchen's linoleum floor. There's a second man, sitting at the kitchen table with a mug of what I assume is coffee, because I can smell the beans, pleasant and freshly ground. His smile was just as genuine, but smaller, shy. I couldn't see his teeth. He was regarding me from behind thick, red curls, cut into bangs that hung over his eyes. I would find the style irritating, but he must not mind.
"Just in time for breakfast!" Says the man who was boo-ing. He's standing at the stove, and even from behind, he looks almost ... startling, wearing a colorful, satin bath robe and a bleached buzzcut halved in two sides by a neon-pink skunk stripe. He adds another pancake to a pile so enormous, I worry they're expecting even more company.
This is my new pack, and one of them must be Beta, if Alpha Yale left them here, with me, without formal introductions.
"Come sit," says the first man. He's in a thick, wool sweater, the same sky blue as the silk wave cap on his head. He's still smiling, and I catch myself thinking he looks very handsome, in a cozy way. They all do, in their sweaters and robes at breakfast, like it's the morning after a slumber party.
I'm suddenly struck by some strange familiarity, as if I've seen all of them before. I try to picture their faces among visiting packs we've sometimes hosted in Cincinnati. I haven't been welcome at any guest events in years, but perhaps when we were children—when my parents were still alive and Alpha Jameson and I were still ... I can't bear to think about that—about the better days. I need to focus on today.
I didn't expect to meet my new pack this way—without Alpha Yale here. It seems somehow improper, like we're breaking some sort of rule. There were so many ... formalities back home. Everything even somewhat noteworthy was strangled by ceremony and pomp. Any day now, I half expect Alpha Devon to demand a full Pack initiation ritual for his next stupid car.
Compared to that, this is so casual, so relaxed that I feel my hackles up. The man on the couch seems to notice, because he looks a little startled, and he says, "Or don't! It's okay!"
Oh my god, I'm being rude. I'm being rude to the men who are almost definitely Alpha Yale's closest confidantes.
I wonder suddenly if this is some sort of test, to see how I fall into my place at my Alpha's side, even when he's not here—to see if I have the quality of a leader. The idea of me leading anyone—anything—is so stupid that I laugh—quietly, bitterly, to myself.
But the man on the couch catches it and misinterprets it. He smiles gently, clearly hoping I've come around. I take a deep breath and force my shoulders to relax. There are no practice rounds; this is my new life, in this very moment, and every first impression I make it critical. Perhaps to my very survival.
"Good morning, everyone," I say, and I'm surprised that it doesn't come out as meekly as I feared it would.
Now the man on the couch grins again. "Good morning! Sorry to crowd in on you like this, but we all got worried when y'all didn't show up last night. Y.N. said he'd be back with you at the house."
"We drove all up and down 471 this morning, looking for his stupid motorcycle," says the man with the coffee. "Assumed you crashed and exploded, 'til we finally remembered this place. I'm Brayden, by the way."
"Ah! Kristofer, with a K and and F," says the man at the stove.
"Caleb," says the man on the couch.
"Brayden, Caleb, Kristofer," I repeat shyly, committing the names to memory. Titles would be the least of my political responsibilities here.
"With a 'K' and an 'F'!" Kristofer reminds me immediately.
"Thanks, I've got it," I say. I decide to join Caleb on the couch after all, if only to pretend for this pack that I can be comfortable among them—that I can be one of them. Caleb offers me some of his quilt, but I shake my head, no-thanks.
"So," I say, and all three of them look at my expectantly. I do my best not to shrink. "Who here is Beta?"
"Oh! Uh-" Says Caleb, and they all look at each other.
"We uh," Kristofer takes a bite of one of the pancakes, plain and right off the skillet. I watch him chew it with his mouth open, full of those same sharp teeth. "We haven't decided yet."
Caleb puts a hand over his face, as if embarrassed. "Awesome, Kristofer," he says under his palm.
Kristofer is immediately defensive, "Sorry, but, like, we haven't though! Right?"
"Why don't-" Brayden interrupts, loudly. Then he looks at me and says, softer, "we wait for Y.N. to get back, and he can make our introductions."
"Sure," shrugs Kristofer, finishing off his pancake.
I don't know what to say, but I don't need to, because—as if on cue—the door opens, and Alpha Yale is there, his broad shoulders nearly taking up the entire frame.
He looks furious.
"You guys have to be fucking kidding me!" He says. It's not quite a shout, but it's not exactly not a shout. I clamp my teeth together, forcing myself to look neutral.
"You can't be mad at us, dude." Brayden speaks first, sounding unphased by the Alpha's anger. "We spent all night expecting you in a body bag. Obviously we came looking for y'all."
"What?" Alpha Yale looks bewildered. "What do you mean?"
"You went off to some high-stakes meeting with uh," Brayden seemed uncertain for a moment, like he doesn't know exactly what he's about to say—what he should say. I recognize this, because it's how I so often speak—like I have to choose my words very carefully. "A rival Pack. And you never came back."
"Shit," Alpha Yale says. I don't know what to make of it, the way he completely deflates, like all the anger's gone out of him at once. I can't believe there won't be yelling, fighting, someone's broken bones at the end of it. But he just says, "Sorry. That sucks, I shouldn't have done that."
"True," says Caleb, not unkindly.
"I just ... Got in my head, on the way back, you know?"
"We get it, we get it," Says Kristofer, around another mouthful of pancake. "You wanted her all to yourself."
At this, Caleb makes an Alright, Enough face at Kristofer, who shrugs defensively.
Alpha Yale chooses to ignore the exchange, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. Finally, he looks at me, and I think—against all logic—that every part of him softens—his eyes, his shoulders, his whole posture.
"Are you getting along alright, M.C.? Sorry I left you. I got us pancakes, but I see I've been outdone." He looks somehow ... uncertain. I don't understand it—any of it. This gentle Alpha—betraying every bit of his reputation—this place, this pack.
"We've been good company," says Caleb, and I find myself smiling, despite myself.
"It's ... true," I agree, quietly. "They've been ... very nice."
Alpha Yale rolls his eyes. "They're always nice," he says. "But you still have to watch out."
"For what?" Kristofer says, mock-offended. I begin to suspect he's always on the defense.
"I never know," says Alpha Yale. "Which is what worries me." He puts down the plastic carry-out bags beside the door, where he kicks off his boots and shrugs his Carhartt jacket off, onto the coat tree.
I expect him to join Caleb and me on the couch. He is my Alpha. But he sits on the little loveseat across from us, his broad frame sinking into the old, too-soft floral cushions. He smiles again at me—shyly, I think beyond all reason—but then his eyes widen.
"Willow's not here, is she?"
Kristofer scoffs through yet another pancake. "We're not completely clueless."
Alpha Yale's shoulders relax, but for only a second before the kitchen door—which I've only just noticed—bangs open.
"You guys are clueless, and I am here," says a woman with brown eyes. With brunette hair in a messy bun. Grown so much since I saw her last, but still somehow just the same. I completely forget myself. I'm standing before I can even consider the consequences for speaking out of turn, for failing to answer my Alpha's question, failing to acknowledge him at all.
"Meredith?" I ask, my voice louder than I've ever heard it, so I cringe even as I take a step forward toward her.
She stops smiling, turns pale with shock, and she looks right past me, to Alpha Yale. She's so stricken that I turn to look at him too, and his face is an exact echo of hers. Caleb has a hand over his own face again.
"I'm sorry, I didn't realized she'd be here," says Meredith. Says my childhood friend—my only friend—lost for a decade since her mom gave her away to that boy band.
"Meredith," I say again, still looking at Alpha Yale, still trying to understand his shock and hers—trying to understand anything. "What's going on?"
I look back at her, and now Meredith is blushing, from her ears, all the way down her neck. "I'm not-" she starts, but she stops, apparently unsure what to say.
"You are!" I say, unable to contain myself, startling myself with my own voice. I'm shaking. I feel suddenly hysterical. I can hear that in my voice too—the panic, the loose ends. I know I'm fucking everything up—for myself, even for my pack—but I can't put myself back together. "Meredith! What is going ON?"
Meredith is still looking past me, at Alpha Yale, who is looking back at her desperately. They seem to be having some sort of conversation with their eyes. I can't stand it. I may not have my Wolf, but I feel myself transforming into some monstrous version of myself that I never knew exists—some desperate, angry, clawing thing that cannot stay quiet, no matter what catastrophe I bring down upon myself.
"Someone say SOMETHING!" I shout, and even Brayden looks shocked by my outburst.
Meredith's mouth is open, as if she'll speak, but nothing comes out. Kristofer takes another bite of a pancake.
I'm about to grab someone by the shoulders and start shaking them, when Caleb looks up from behind his hand and says, "Y.N.—Yale. I don't wanna air your whole life out, but you need to say something here."
Yale looks at him, opens his mouth, shuts it again, and takes a deep breath through his nose.
"She's not Meredith, M.C."
I'm about to argue, and he knows it, because I inhale, sharp and fast, ready to yell, to tell him he's wrong, he's lying.
But he reaches across the coffee table and puts a hand on my knee.
"I am—was," He says, awkwardly, painfully.
I cannot even begin to understand what he means.
"And that's Willow," he says. "Was Meredith. Was, uh, me?"
"I'm losing track of this explanation," offers Kristofer, uselessly.
I look back at Meredith—Willow?—who shrugs and smiles sheepishly, like she still has no idea what to say.
I feel faint. Everything is catching up to me at once. The days before Alpha Yale's arrival that I didn't eat—barely slept. The shock of all things unfamiliar. The years of grief—of sleepless nights crying for Meredith. My vision goes vignette, blackening at the edges.
Caleb must notice first, because I hear him say my name, feel his hands on my back and chest, to steady me. I try to answer, but the words are like syrup in my mouth. I feel like I drool them, but I don't know if I really do.
The last thing I hear before I collapse is Kristofer's voice.
"I don't know if this matters, but we're also not Werewolves," he says. "We're Vampires."
Every glasses-related poll honestly needs to be separated into diopter ranges like wrestling weight classes bc every timeeeeee these +1.25 bitches are in the notes like "OMG why would you wear glasses in the shower!! why would you wear glasses having sex!!" because without them i am functionally blind. you may as well turn the lights off at that point bc i am feeling my way to the pussy like Velma. those are my eyes, bitch
US based but it’s similar reasons in other countries. and of course many companies have international locations. idk if that’s why it’s happening with sour patch kids but this is a thing
My nephew is very allergic to eggs, peanuts, tree nuts, and sesame. Last year my sister discovered all hot dogs and hamburger buns now contain sesame. Not "may contain", but listed in the ingredients. This year basically every brand of sliced bread also now contains sesame, making it very difficult to find bread items he can eat.
They're just adding it to their products, so they can just list it as an ingredient and not bother with worrying about cross contamination. And they aren't even bothering with telling anyone. Capitalism is going to kill us all.
"Which brings us back to Kellogg’s. Back in 2016, the company found a way around the added burden and expense of complying with the FSMA: they simply began adding trace amounts of peanut flour to their cracker products. Doing so allowed them to list peanuts as an ingredient of the product, freeing them from having to prevent cross-contact.
At the time, Kellogg’s notified Food Allergy Research and Education (FARE) about the impending change and left it to them to warn the allergic community. In this case, Pearson’s didn’t even bother as near as we can tell."
Game where the ancient hero is awakened from the deathless sleep of centuries in the hour of their people's greatest need, only to find that civilisation is thriving and there are no obvious threats on the horizon; the game then becomes a fish-out-of-water detective sim as they try to figure out what woke them up, and also solve other, smaller mysteries along the way.
