#I hate to spread like a conspiracy theory but these are my honest questions. I don’t have an answer to any of this. but it’s weird to me

[schofielded]

So TikTok is already back in the US not even 24 hours after it was closed, and I am not a fan of the phrasing of this message. “As a result of President Trump’s efforts” he’s not even in office yet, what do you mean as a result of his efforts?? Why bother turning it off before the deadline if it was just going to be turned back on practically immediately? (It’s propaganda, that’s why) (edit: this was posted the day before inauguration, January 19th)

[burlybanner]

Syzygy - An AU of Infundo (post-Infundo Chronicles).

Chapter 9: Who do you say that I am?

Summary:  Bruce has the upper hand, right?

Link to Chapter 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8

Author note: I am not a chemist and I don’t pretend to be. So feel free to shout at me if my technobabble is more babble than techno. Also, more DID stuff.

***

Funny enough, even though the video began playing there was still a good thirty second pause. Bruce watched "himself" rock back and forth in his chair, smile slyly to himself, and then root around in his drawers for something.

Bruce's lip curled in a small, self-righteous smirk. "Interesting."

"What is?"

"I'll tell you later, Steve. Keep watching; I want your honest perspective. If anything seems weird or off--" he made a face. "Well. More so than usual. Note it. I don't want you to tell me yet, but keep it in your head. I might need it later."

He could feel Steve fidgeting behind him but explaining would take too much time.

Your timing was off, Bruce sneered in his head. You expected me to pause it longer than thirty seconds. You missed.

He definitely heard a huff in his brain. I'm not omnipotent.

Bruce nodded to himself. Good. Professor didn't hold all the cards, then.

"Hey, I was saving that," Bruce muttered when Professor produced a tin from Bruce's desk. It was filled with tasty lemon bars that he'd planned on eating for a snack, after dinner, but Professor had wiggled his sausagey fingers and had begun chowing down on the tasty treats.

"Mm," Professor finally said. He grabbed a napkin and dabbed his lips before swallowing. "These are quite delicious, Banner. Absolutely heavenly. Sweet and sour treats are my favorite, by the way. Please eat more of them, whenever you're able." He ate three or four lemon bars before finding some hand sanitizer and wiping down his fingers.

"I imagine you're quite available for our conversation now. It's technically one-way. But I can tell you everything you need to know. In fact, I'll explain it quite easily to you, and the good Captain."

"There's that weird grin," Steve said. A growl had crept into his voice. "He knows I'm here, but I still see him for the bully he is. Sorry, Bruce. But your Person is an ass."

"Agreed," Bruce thought, chuckling. Professor huffed again deep inside but fortunately kept quiet in Bruce's mind.

Which could've been a strategic move but Bruce wouldn't analyze that yet. Too distracting and he hadn't finished the rest of the video.

Professor rose to his feet and slowly paced. The camera panned his movements as he commanded the lab area. Like a professor.

"One," he stated. "You know I am real. I typically stay out of things unless I'm warranted, but yes. You are correct. I've influenced some of your behavior in the past, and present. Possibly your future."

"Ass," Steve reiterated.

Bruce shushed him, since Professor seemed done pausing.

Professor held up his fingers like a peace sign. "Two. Hulk and I can work in tandem, but I usually let him do whatever he wants. I'm not a babysitter. I can influence him quite easily, though. He's such a child."

Bruce's expression hardened. Then how many people have you killed, how many families destroyed in my name, Professor? He thought darkly. If you're the Hulk's gatekeeper, was the killing and destruction in the name of science?

Professor appeared to grin and stare hard at the camera, almost winking at it, and Bruce's lips thinned. The answer was clear as day. Yes. Professor had done things. And he as the "Core" personality paid the price for the others. "Robbing Peter to pay Paul," Bruce muttered. He felt Steve's hug but he wasn't sure if Steve got what Professor had done. Tony probably had. Which meant they had a lot to discuss when he returned.

"Three," Professor said, his back to the camera. He held up three chubby fingers and pulled up another video screen on Bruce's desk. "I tampered with the gainer formula so it would be most effective. Jarvis? Zoom in if you would. Let Banner take a good, hard look at it."

Bruce hated being manipulated and playing into Professor's hands, but of course he was curious. "2-DG," He said, scanning the list. "Desipramine. Amitriptyline, escitalopram oxalate." Yes. He knew those drugs were in it, they weren't anything new.

Except...what was that hastily drawn scrawl--

He hissed sharply between his teeth. "Zolpidem...and thioridazine? Both of them...? You son of a bitch--"

Professor tutted and wagged his finger at the camera, as if he knew exactly what Bruce had said. "Swearing is such a nasty habit. Please refrain from doing so."

"Pause it, Jarvis."

Steve was the one who spoke this time, and Bruce checked over his shoulder. Steve's expression was hooded and stoic. But the love in his eyes was genuine. "You're on sedatives for your anxiety, aren't you?"

Bruce let out a slow breath. "Tranxene," he murmured. He took off his glasses and polished the lenses with his lab coat sleeve. "Pretty high doses of it, actually. Higher than the average person can afford to take." He pursed his lips and put back on his glasses. "And that's part of the problem."

"All those chemicals you read out," Steve said. He began rubbing Bruce's shoulder. "Do some of them interact with the tranxene?"

"Yup," Bruce said, sighing heavily. "In the wrong amounts they'd kill the average person. The gainer shake would kill Tony if he had anything more than four ounces. Although you'd be okay," He said, patting Steve's arm. "Probably mentally checked out, but you'd be okay. But with the addition of zolpidem...well." Bruce grunted and sat down. "Zolpidem has reported side effects of sleepwalking. And in some cases, sleep eating."

Steve snorted, laughing a little in between. "Which explains why you got the night munchies."

"Yes. However." Bruce turned, looking at Steve full in the face. "The thioridazine is a bigger issue. It's a phenothiazine, normally used for people suffering from schizophrenic episodes, and it can...really fuck up people like me." He absently scrubbed his face. He had a lot of questions. So. Many. Questions. But he'd have to find the time to ask, away from Steve.  "My balance between Hulk and now the Professor -” Bruce nodded to the screen. “That’s his preferred name, by the way--my...our balance depends on my own awareness levels. Hulk received the suggestion of the gainer shake from the Professor, but this was after Professor tampered with the ingredients. In short,  Professor created the shake so our walls would be tenuous, at best. It wasn't to allow the Hulk to binge eat, Steve. I think--"

His lips twisted, and the weird silence in his head confirmed it as he sighed. "Professor wants more control. He wants to Drive, in a sense. And he's using Hulk as leverage, and my desires for immobility, to do so. If I keep using the shake I'll gain. Definitely. But it also gives Professor that open window to play whenever he wants, by taking over my mind and body while I'm in a drugged, hypnotic state." Bruce stared coldly at the screen. "And I do not trust him."

Steve rolled a hand through his hair. "So it's potentially bad news. Do you have a reason to distrust him, though? Outside of acting like a jerk, has he really done anything...horrible?"

"I don't know," Bruce murmured. "I suspect he might be responsible for some of Hulk's earlier battle rampages. Or even some of the recent ones. But proving it will be...uncomfortably difficult."

"Why?"

Bruce sighed. "Because it means talking to them both. At the same time. And I don't think I'm able to do that without losing what little sanity I have left."

Steve grunted but chewed his bottom lip. "But would he have anything to gain - pun notwithstanding - now? He's folded. Given up his hand. You didn't know he was around until now, and he could've continued playing you."

"Tony figured it out, Steve.” He nodded to the monitor. “That's the only reason he showed up."

"Maybe." Steve tapped his chin. "I think you're right, though, Bruce. There's something else to this. But I don't think we're on the right track. I think it's something else."

"Really?"

Steve shrugged. "Either that, or he's just an ass who gets his kicks from people coming up with conspiracy theories. Could go either way."

"Thanks," Bruce deadpanned. He made a face and finger combed his curls. "We can't keep him on pause forever, Steve. He's gotten quiet in my head but I think he's waiting for me to make the next move." His eyes wandered over the screen and keyboard. All of it was, for lack of a better term, a clusterfuck and he wasn't sure how to fix it. And he wanted Tony back.

"We can wait a little while, if you're not up to it."

Bruce rubbed his chubby chin. "Nah. Better to rip off the band-aid, so we can deal with it. Jarvis," he sighed, "go ahead and play the rest."

There was another uncannily long pause, and Bruce smirked. He needed to use that information, that Professor made mistakes. He'd need that knowledge.

"Got it all out of your system? Good. Yes, you're right; the walls between us are thinner than ever. Unlike," Professor chuckled, "our body. Which is glorious, by the way. Can't wait to see what else you do with it."

"Can't tell if he's being sarcastic, or not," Steve grumbled.

"Shh," Bruce admonished. "Let him finish."

"Anyway, Banner, that's all I wanted to show you. I had to introduce myself properly, after all." His gaze sharpened, and the same cold chill ran down Bruce's back. "However, I do miss my science partner. Be careful with him, won't you? Try to bring him back in one piece. And tell him," he said, that same self-satisfied smirk spreading across his lips.  

"Tell him I said 'hi.'."

"That was the conclusion of the transmission," Jarvis intoned. "Do you need to review it for future use?"

"Yes," Bruce and Steve said together. Bruce smiled and rubbed Steve's hand. "Also, Jarvis, I'm asking for your help. If any of my...Selves decide to make a recording, wait until I'm 'me.' " He realized how weird that sounded, and sighed deeply. "Shit - I guess I should ask. Jarvis, can you tell the difference between us?"

Jarvis paused a millisecond before answering. "I've analyzed your mannerisms and compared them to the Professor as well as Hulk. I feel I'll have no issues telling the three of you apart, regardless of who is in control."

"Good." Bruce gave Steve a small look over his shoulder, unsure what the man was thinking. It was a lot to take in, he knew. And to be fair, he didn't expect Steve to respond to any of it well. It warmed him that Steve was doing this well. "Do me a favor, Jarvis. Always view me, Hulk, and Professor as three separate individuals. If another Person wants to access the system, they will need my permission first or, in a pinch, Tony or Steve if I’m ‘unavailable.’ But no one else. Is that clear?"

"Affirmative," Jarvis said. "On that note, would you like to view the notes and information I've gathered over time, notes the Professor might have added to my server files?"

"Wow.” Professor was a sneaky bastard. Of course he’d used Jarvis before, and Jarvis probably hadn’t known any better. He shared a look with Steve who looked equally uncomfortable. Maybe he’d talk to Tony about it later, whenever he got back. 

Bruce chewed his lip. "Yes, please, Jarvis. I'll need to look over those documents. I'll need to know if he's been tampering with any of my experiments."

Which would be horrific. What had the Professor done? How much damage--?

"Muffin," Steve sighed. Apparently he’d had enough, and Bruce didn’t blame him. He pulled Bruce close to his chest and rubbed circles across his back. "Professor’s made a mess of things, huh?"

Bruce chuckled darkly. "Understatement."

"Thought so. You should take a break, or a bath and get some food in ya." He grabbed Bruce’s shoulders and softly twirled him, so he could pat Bruce’s stomach. To Bruce's surprise his stomach growled. Loudly. "See? You're hungry. Get some snacks from the kitchen and de-stress. We'll worry about this Professor guy when you're more up to it."

"Maybe." Bruce wrung his hands, feeling out of sorts. The day started crappy and went downhill from the time he woke up. The Professor pressed all his triggers while singling out his frustrations and weaknesses. "I can't relax too much, though. The thought of what might happen..." He ran a hand down his face. "I dunno, Steve. I--"

"You'll be fine, Bruce, you've been okay to this point, right?" Bruce half-shrugged. "Then no worries, all right? We'll take care of the rest when it happens. Like you said, he tipped his hand and made himself a target."

Bruce rolled his eyes. "Not the best analogy, but--"

Steve put a finger to Bruce’s lips, stifling his rant. "Eat something, Muffin. Then do something to relax. Maybe turn on Netflix, or something. I'll be up to check on ya in a bit."

A small frown marred Bruce's features. "What are you doing?"

"I need to blow off some steam," he said, shrugging. "It was a weird experience for me, too, and I've gotta wrap my head around it."

"Hmm." Well, he couldn't argue with Steve because he agreed, but still. "Don't take too long. I think I need a lot of TLC tonight."

Steve laughed. "You got it. Tonight’s your night."

"Okay. I'm holding you to that," Bruce said, as he made his way to the exit. "You take too long, and I'll come find you. And you said it yourself, you don't want me burning any extra calories."

Steve chuckled. "Forty-five minutes, tops." 

He watched Bruce leave. But Bruce missed the subtle frown tugging at the corners of Steve's lips.

[ladycarrickferguss]

So, now that I'm clear headed I can post my thoughts about the last few days.

Yes, Kate has been abused for years  by the media and the fandom. Kate has been portrayed as a lazy woman  from a  social climbing family whose only ambition is to marry William.  The media fueled this narrative around her and family and its still around in the fandom when she got criticisim for her third pregnancy. As if she decided to be pregnant so she doesn't have to do engagements. Then there was questionning her right for a maternity leave.

I saw her being criticized for wearing dresses that hit just above the knee and for wearing skinny jeans because lors forbid that we see  the outline of her legs. I was there when people questioned her right not to have topless pictures taken.

There's also being followed by paps and individuals trying to spread rumors about the Middletons.

There's probably hundred of instances that I've missed. Anyway, point is that its not true Kate never got hate or that being called boring the worst she get called. Its understandably frustrating to see comments lessening Kate's experience.

Then, there's Meghan who is abused by the press right now. The hate she gets compared to Kate is the same in certain areas.  She's also seen as a social climber, her clothes are nitpicked, she gets slutshamed and she's  the subject of  ridiculous conspiracy theories.

Its different because there are layers to the negativity toward Meghan that isn't there for Kate. There's xenophobia and racism.  

Racism because the way Meghan gets a bad rep for showing her bump reminds me  of the way other black female figures like Beyonce and Serena Williams are criticized for proudly showing their pregnancy unlike when their white counterpart does it.  Example:

I'm not interested in who gets it worse. But this morning I got involved in my first drama in a way I shouldn't have. I mostly observe, reblog and makes comments about fuckery. But this morning I saw something in my dash and it made me angry. I let things get to me and I wondered why.

A few posters of the worst kind have been using the "But Kate gets it bad..." just to revel in negative press and posts about Meghan. So I saw a post about one of them in my dash.  I got anggry and didn't  handled well.

Later, I realized what gets to me. This feeling how each time you try to raise your voice it gets lessened.  I thought about the recent posts about oppression olympic and @thesussexroyals eloquent post, a lot of stuff I saw in the fandom and  I snapped.

So, I guess all I wanted to say in my long winded post is that maybe we should all be honest about the treatment a royal lady gets without the 'but". 

[hale-of-stiles-heart]

🐹🐹🐹🐹❤️❤️😇

This only includes one hamster but I hope you like! (also on ao3!)

"Is that a fucking rat?" Dean demanded, his voice high pitched with disbelief and pure confusion.

Cas was sitting cross-legged on the tile floor, the tails of his trench coat spread out behind him. There was a soft smile on his face, peaceful and happy, and a rip in the front of his white button up, but most importantly, there was a fucking rat in his hands.

It was orange with splotches of white, like a calico without the black spots, and had beady little black eyes that immediately reminded Dean of all the demons they had ganked in the past. Its ears were rounded and had the same tinge of dusty pink that its nose and paws did, white whiskers twitching. He couldn't see its wormy tail, figuring the little varmint had it tucked beneath himself.

Yet despite the fact that he had a dirty rodent cupped in his hands, Cas seemed perfectly content. He was actually smiling down at the filthy little creature, cooing at it under his breath like it was an infant.

"No, Dean. It's not a rat," Cas answered, stroking a hand down the animal's back. Glancing up at Dean, smile still brightening his face, he corrected, "It's a hamster."

"Uh, okay..." Dean drawled, "What's the difference?"

Cas had the nerve to roll his eyes at Dean, which Dean guessed he deserved since he had been a complete asshole for the past two days. Cases involving witches always did that to him.

They were in Arkansas, in a picturesque town called Bella Vista. It was lush and green with several lakes and creeks and even a handful of small waterfalls.

With spring melting the snow, the town was in full bloom, blossoming flowers and budding trees filling the countryside with green. Goldenrod and honeysuckle added splashes of yellow to contrast the purple of violets and coneflower.

But as serene as the town was, full of people fishing and camping and enjoying their retirement, there had been a dark secret lurking. That secret had been the work of a witch named David Arlott.

A Bella Vista native, David had been dabbling in black magic since his junior year of community college. Apparently, an ex-girlfriend of his had introduced him to the nefarious art.

When she had broken up with him, he had decided to use the magic she had taught him to target what she cared about most. That just so happened to be animals.

So what had David done? Gotten a job at a local pet store where he had his pick of cute and fluffy animals to slaughter just for the fun of it.

They had caught the case after stumbling onto an article on a conspiracy theory site that had put together a collage of newspaper clippings detailing the mutilated animal carcasses that had been found in the past several years. The runes etched into the animals' skulls despite a lack of injuries to their heads was what convinced Dean that it was a real case rather than a run of the mill incident of psychopaths in training practicing for slicing people up.

Finding the witch hadn't taken very long since there were only two pet stores and one no kill animal shelter in town. The ensuing fight with him had lasted much longer.

David turned out to be rather proficient in using magic offensively, binding Sam's arms and legs together while he kept slamming Dean against walls and animal cages. But he hadn't anticipated Dean and Sam showing up with a bona fide angel which turned out to be a fatal mistake.

A hand on the witch's forehead and two burned out eyes later, Dean was gawking at said angel as he cuddled a rat after burning the witch's body with Sam out back.

"Aside from the fact they're not the same species, there are many differences between rats and hamsters," Cas explained placidly, dropping his eyes to focus on the ball of fluff in his hands. Stroking the hamster with gentle, barely there touches, as though worried he might hurt it, he went on, "For example, rats are nearly twice as large as hamsters. And there is the noticeable difference between their tails. Rats ha—"

Dean held up a hand to stop him, getting his attention by clearing his throat. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he sighed, "Rhetorical question, dude."

"My apologies," Cas replied immediately, as per usual when he realized that he had mistakenly taken either Sam or Dean too literally. He didn't explain any further, earning another sigh from Dean.

"And why are you holding a ra—" he quickly corrected himself when Cas sent him a look "—Hamster. Why are holding a hamster?"

"It was frightened," Cas relayed, moving to pet the hamster under its chin. The hamster let out a happy little squeak. "He was terrified when the witch threw you into against his cage."

"Geez, my bad," Dean scoffed, rolling his eyes. He had been a bit preoccupied fighting the witch off to worry about getting some hamster's panties in a twist.

"I simply wanted to offer some comfort," Cas continued on, completely ignoring Dean's sarcasm. He beamed down at the hamster while softly claiming, "I've always enjoyed the company of animals."

Dean immediately caught Cas' drift. He was quick to shut it down before Cas could give him those big puppy dog eyes that could make Dean agree to anything. Shaking his head, he announced, "No, no, no. We are not getting a hamster."

"Of course not," Cas answered easily as if Dean had been the one campaigning for it. He rose to his feet, moving to return the hamster to its cage where the ball of orange and white made a beeline to its water bottle. Glancing over at Dean, he elaborated "It's not practical to have a hamster running around the Bunker. A dog would be a much better fit."

"No, we are not getting a dog!" Dean barked, incredulous as Sam re-entered the pet store, an empty gas can in his left hand. How the hell had Cas made the leap from a hamster to a dog was a mystery to him.

"Sam, tell him!" Dean entreated, whipping his head around to look at his brother, raising his brows pleadingly. Sam knew how weak Dean was for those big baby blues of Cas'. Practically begging, he reiterated, "Tell him we can't get a dog."

"I dunno," Sam said with a shrug as he wanted over to a cage holding a smoky gray cat. He looked over at Dean as the cat rubbed its cheek against his fingers, dissenting, "I think getting a dog would be nice."

"What?!" Dean squawked. There was no other word to describe the incredulous noise that erupted from his throat. "You can't be serious! A dog?!"

"It wouldn't be entirely unfeasible," Cas pointed out with a downright angelic smile. He took a few steps closer to Dean, holding Dean's gaze as he launched into an explanation, "We haven't been doing a quarter as much hunting as we did before. Supernatural activity has died down drastically. We would be able to take care of a dog. And if we went out on hunts, I don't imagine it would be too difficult to find a petsitter I believe the term is."

Okay, Cas had a point. Several points. And they were pretty damn solid.

To be honest, Dean didn't really hate the idea of a dog as much as he thought he would. It would be nice to have a pet, something as undyingly as his brother and his best friend.

And Cas was looking at him with those big hopeful eyes like he wanted the moon and only Dean could pluck it out of the sky for him.

"Ugh, fine!" He conceded with a heavy sigh, throwing his arms up dramatically. "We can check out one of the shelters when we get back to Kansas. But I'm not making any promises."

"Good enough for me," Sam remarked, clapping Dean on the shoulder. That said, he turned on his heel and walked back out of the pet store.

"Thank you, Dean," Cas murmured, tipping his head to lay a kiss on Dean's freckled cheek. He followed Sam's lead, glancing over his shoulder back at Dean as he pushed the door open. "By the way, the hamster called you an asshole. I'm glad to see you've proven him wrong."

[surveysonfleek]

359.

5000 Question Survey Pt. 5

401. Some say that high school is the best time of your life. Was that true for you? nah, it was definitely college for me. 402. What do you find yourself encouraging others to try? new foods, traveling to places i’ve been, beauty products etc. 403. Which is better: Mel Brooks or Woody Allen? eh, i don’t know either of them enough to choose. 404. When was the last time you were up all night? yesterday. 405. __ is life. The rest is just details. Fill in the blank. such.

406. Are people too complex and different to be categorized? yes definitely. everyone has a story. 407. Is it good to have pride in your own race or does that separate people from each other because it makes them think of everyone else as 'outsiders'? it’s great to have pride in your own race, especially if you’re spreading some knowledge about your culture to others. as long as you don’t look down on any other race, i feel like it’s totally acceptable. 408. What fictional story would you like to live through? harry potter i guess. 409. Are cats or dogs smarter? haha idk. 410. Have you ever guessed someone's password and broken into their diary? nope. 411. What teacher, if any, has effected you the most in your life? maybe my art teacher. she was a little crazy but she really helped me understand that i had potential. 412. Are you more easily bored or excited? both tbh. 413. What's the bravest or most daring thing you have ever done? traveled 14 hours by myself to dubai. nothing spesh, but it was a first for me. 414. "What's the point of robbery when nothing is worth taking?" (- Adam Ant) some people would beg to differ. 415. If your man or woman served you breakfast in bed as a treat what would you want? the typical big breakfast: eggs, sausages, bacon, beans, toast, hash browns. 416. What do you do only when you are upset? cry. 417. What's the oddest CD in your collection? an aqua remixes album. 418. What's the best diary name you ever saw? none that i can think of. 419. What would your friends be surprised to learn about you? i watch a lot of stupid shit on youtube. 420. Who owes you an apology? no one really. 421. Who deserves an apology from you? no one lol. 422. How would you like to treat your kids differently from the way your parents treated you? i’m happy with the way my parents treated me tbh. 423. Which do you like best: 60's, 70's or 80's fashion? 80s. 424. What is the worst pick up line ever used on you? ‘do you wna come up to my room?’ ‘no, i have a boyfriend.’ ‘so do i.’ fuck off lol. 425. Of the following, which word best describes you: inventive, kinetic (energetic), light-hearted, mature mature. 426. Do you own a record player? Do you use it? no. 427. How easily do you make friends? it depends. if i’m in a group of people who don’t know each other, then yeah pretty easily. it’s harder for me to make friends with people who already know each other. 428. What is the difference between having character and being a character? you’re not exactly being your true self by being a character i guess. 429. Are there any animals you flat out refuse to touch? anything that stings. 430. Do you care about your weight? yes, def. 431. Did you/will you go to the prom? i went. 432. Have you ever wanted to date twins? haha no. 433. What one thing would you change about high school if you could? nothing. maybe study harder. 434. If you came with a warning label, what would it say? brutally honest. 435. Are you artistic and creative? i’d like to think so, but i’m losing my touch. 436. What were you (probably) doing on this date last year? same shit, probably working. 437. What are you obsessed with? makeup. 438. What was the last compliment you received? i like your lashes. 439. Do you have any brothers or sisters? one sis. 440. Who would you like to be alone with right now? my boyfriend. 441. Do you push people away when you really want them to come closer? nah, i hate that reverse psychology shit. it never works. 442. Is a prenuptial agreement necessary or does it take the romance and trust out of marriage? i think it takes the romance and trust out of marriage for sure. 443. Do you lie your way out of things? not usually. 444. Are you better at talking or listening? depends on the person. probably listening. 445. What will only happen to you once in this lifetime? turning a certain age. 446. Know of any conspiracy theories you think might be credible? haha no, i hate that kinda shit, i’ll be obsessed with it for a good week. 447. What are the most beautiful words that have ever been spoken to you? nothing, just nice compliments and stuff. 448. If it were legal would you own a human slave (race unimportant)? no thanks. that’s terrible. 449. Have you ever read your own writing at a poetry reading? nope. 450. What is one simple thing that gives you the happy shivers? planning a holiday. 451. What do you do for exercise? a bit of everything. i’ll do treadmill, cross trainer or bike and then do weights. 452. Would you rather have a strict teacher with a sense of humor or a lenient teacher that doesn't teach? lol wtf? who the fuck would choose the second option? 453. If you ever have a baby what might you want to name it? haven’t decided. 454. If you won free tickets to a concert from a radio show and had to choose between Inxs, Poison, Blondie and Moby, which would you choose? omgggg. if i had to, prob moby. 455. Are you a good cook? not good, but i like cooking. 456. Do you prefer when things come with no assembly required, even if they are a bit more expensive? depends how much more expensive. 457. Start a sentence with the words: what if what if i got paid for doing these. 458. Are you more spontaneous and unpredictable or loyal and routine? loyal and routine. 459. What is the highest number you can count to in your head? meh. 460. How do you go about losing weight? eating healthy and exercising. 461. Do you have street smarts? i guess. 462. Do you have a lot of common sense? yes. 463. What is your favorite flavor of ice cream? cookie dough. 464. What's your favorite movie that involves dancing? save the last dance. 465. Would you ever want to become a guest on a talk show? If yes what would the show's theme be? yeah sure. idk what the theme would be, anything that i’m plugging. 466. Do you like the way you look naked? no. 467. Have you ever dissected an animal? yes. 468. Who do you know who is brilliant? my boyf. 469. Who do you know who is dull? haha. 470. Do you ever think about time travel? not really. 471. What is one interesting fact you know? you’re more likely to die by a coconut falling from a tree and hitting your head than being killed by a shark. 472. Do you talk to yourself? Do you talk to your pets? only in my thoughts. yeah sometimes i talk to my dog. 473. Do you believe that humankind has a future in space (will we live there some day)? possibly. probably not in my lifetime though. 474. Would you rather wear clothes that you don’t mind getting dirty or more delicate outfits? depends where i’m going. 475. How do you 'live life to the fullest'? taking risks, doing a lot of things you’ve never done before and aiming to complete your bucket list. 476. Are you sloppy or a neat freak? i’m in the middle. 477. Would you rather have a trunk full of nickels or half a trunk full of dimes? half a trunk. 478. What is the worst mistake you've ever made? idk. 479. Are you in good health? not really. 480. Are you patriotic? not really lol. 481. The greenhouse effect is bad for your health. i can see that. 482. There are about as many molecules of air in one breath as there are hairs on your head. crazy. 483. The Miss America pageant started out as a contest in which people decorated wheel chairs and one chair was judged the prettiest. cool. 484. To remove a tattoo a physician can place a small balloon under the skin, which is inflated so that the tattooed skin gradually stretches. Then they cut the stretched skin away. lol i’ve never heard this. 485. Cock fighting is a sexual sport. well, it can be. 486. It is the warmest time of the day during the hour that the sun is the highest in the sky. oookay i think i’ll leave it here unless there’s anymore questions in this survey. 487. Certain scientists specialize in studying cow farts. 488. The brilliant colors (reds, oranges, yellows) across the sky that we get from sunsets are caused mainly by pollution. 489. In Grimm's original fairy tale, Rapunzel is pregnant. 490. Dracula was the first movie about a vampire. 491. The inventors of Corn Flakes, the Kellogg brothers, ran a school for delinquent youth. 492. "Kemo Sabe" means "soggy shrub" in Navajo. 493. Sir Thomas Crapper invented the toilet. 494. The Earl of Sandwich invented the Sandwich. 495. Some Chinese alchemists were trying to invent an immortality medicine and accidentally invented gunpowder instead. 496. The human body is made of about 99% water. 497. Bubble gum contains rubber. 498 This survey to the zero power = 0. 499. Most lipstick contains fish scales. 500. There are 86401 seconds in day.

[tobiologist]

sincerity

Keith/Lance // canon divergent // 4.3k // sfw

Summary: "If not for the alien symbols etched into the spines of the fortune teller's books, Keith might have thought he was back on Earth.

'Why have you come here?'

And that’s the real question, isn’t it?"

or: Keith revisits the space mall to have his fortune told and gets more than he bargained for.

Keith is far from a skeptic.

 From a young age, he’s believed in most things the general public deem ‘unconventional.’ Aliens, ghosts, Mothman—conspiracy theories are Keith’s guilty pleasure. And, after the Garrison lied about Shiro’s disappearance, Keith put an even greater stock in government conspiracies than he used to.

 Does he believe in magic? Maybe. Okay, probably. Werewolves transform under the full moon, and fairies have the power to become invisible, some even heal people. Allura and Coran are always telling stories of abnormally strong Alteans or aliens with witch-like abilities, casting spells and changing form. And, of course, there are the Druids. Magic seems to stretch to every corner of the universe.

 So it comes as no surprise when Keith glimpses a fortune teller at the infamous Space Mall.

>> READ THE REST ON AO3 <<

 Keith spots the shop, only a few booths over from the knife salesman. Purple curtains hang down in front of the entrance. A massive wooden sign is fixed overhead, but the name is scrawled in an indecipherable alien language. The crystal ball situated alongside the text is the only indication of what’s inside.

 Keith dismisses it. There’s no time and no reason that he can think of to stop .

 (At least at that time.)

 Months later, when Shiro has disappeared for the second time—Keith hates having to acknowledge the fact it’s the second time—Keith finds himself in the worst possible position. Shiro brought up the issue for what felt like the thousandth time back when the two had been isolated from the rest of the team, cast away on an alien planet.

 “Keith, if I don’t make it out of here…” Shiro hesitated, and Keith couldn’t divert his gaze from the bags under his eyes. “I want you to lead Voltron.”

 The sentiment sent a chill down Keith’s spine. There were many occasions Shiro alluded to Keith taking over his position as leader of the team. But never before had the need felt so real, so immediate— like Shiro could die at any moment.

 When he vanished without warning, Keith felt obligated to honor his request and appoint himself as the new leader.

 Well, co-leader if Keith is being totally honest with himself. Recently, Lance had really stepped up to the plate. Whenever Keith needed a second opinion, Lance was there to chime in. During battle, he carefully watched Keith’s back, and, during mission briefings, Lance clung to his side and helped explain parts of the plan Keith didn’t quite understand himself.

 Considering the previous state of their relationship, it was… weird. But not totally unwelcome.

 It isn’t a problem. Except for the fact Keith can’t ignore his stupid fucking crush on his right-hand man and former rival.

 Yeah, it’s pretty awful. Keith can hardly be in the same room as Lance anymore without wondering what kind of beauty products he uses to maintain his appearance. On the rare occasions they’re relaxing, Keith closes his eyes and listens to Lance speak, savoring the sound of his voice and the underlying passion. On the nights neither of them can sleep, they sit near a particular porthole with the best view of the stars, sometimes in comfortable silence and sometimes exchanging stories from Earth.

 Of course, that’s on the more innocent end of the spectrum. The tiny hormonal Keith residing in the dirty corners of his mind has totally different concerns. Such as what Lance’s lips feel like and the taste of his skin.

 Keith just loves having feelings for someone. Definitely. His absolute favorite.

 In other words, Keith’s life is a mess at the moment. As if the whole ‘new black paladin’ thing isn’t bad enough, the ridiculous fluttering in his stomach whenever he’s around Lance only serves to make the situation worse.

 Lance, totally oblivious to Keith’s emotional turmoil, has been hanging out with Keith more often. And doing horrible things like teasing Keith and surprising him with casual touches and, God, sometimes he even hugs Keith after a particularly grueling battle.

 It’s suffering. The whole damn thing is suffering.

 “Why don’t you just… I don’t know, tell him how you feel?” Pidge suggests. She leans back in her chair, fixing Keith with a withering stare. “By the way, you came to the wrong person for romantic advice.”

 “I didn’t know who else to ask,” Keith admits. “Hunk and Lance tell each other everything so there’s no way I could talk to Hunk. Allura and Coran would probably tell me to be upfront with Lance. And Shiro might tell Lance for me.”

 “He would do that?”

 “Well, in his own, ‘I’m Shiro and this is supposed to be me subtly hinting at Keith’s crush on you’ kind of way.”

 “Oh wow…”

 “Yeah,” Keith sighs. “You and I talk about other stuff so I thought… why not?”

 Pidge groans and turns her attention to the computer monitor. Lines of green code fill the screen, reflected in her glasses. “Fair enough, I guess. I’m not sure what to tell you, though.”

 “Do you think there’s any chance he actually…?”

 “Feels the same?”

 “Yeah, uh.” Keith clears his throat. “That.”

 “I’ve never asked Lance. The only way to know for sure is if you ask him yourself,” Pidge replies. “But, I mean, if you wanna know the truth… I think he���“

 “You know, um. Actually.” Keith jerks to his feet. A flash of lavender gauzy cloth pushes to the forefront of his mind. “I think I have this under control. But thanks for listening and good luck with your… programming.”

 Before Pidge can try and bar him from leaving, Keith darts out of the room. He somehow navigates the tangled web of wires littering the floor without tripping. The door slides shut behind him, and Keith swears he can hear Pidge yelling after him.

 A tiny part of Keith is sorry for leaving Pidge in the dark. But a greater part knows he has to do this alone.

 —

 There’s something intimate about the soft light and tight quarters of the fortune teller’s booth. Slender ivory candles line the walls, arranged on shelves between thick, ornately bound books. A small table sits at the center of the room with a rich crimson cloth draped over it. The crystal ball sits on top, brilliant indigo surface glimmering under the candlelight, encircled by a gold design embroidered into the cloth.

 If not for the alien symbols etched into the spines of the fortune teller’s books, Keith might have thought he was back on Earth.

 “Why have you come here?”

 And that’s the real question, isn’t it?

 Keith shifts awkwardly in his seat. It’s hard to speak to someone when he can’t even see their face. The voice on the other side of the maroon veil is raspy, thick with curiosity. Their hands rest on the table, knobby fingers adorned with rings, nails sharpened to dangerous points eerily similar to claws.

 “My… future?” Keith settles on. Because, Shouldn’t you know why I’m here? would make him sound like a gigantic douchebag.

 “Of course. But there is more to your visit than a simple reading.” They pause, and Keith can practically hear them smirk. “Is that not right, paladin of Voltron?”

 His breath catches in his throat. How did they recognize him? Regardless of how ridiculous Keith finds the space pirate costume, he assumed the scarf, mask, and hood would serve their rightful purpose. The last thing he needs is to cause trouble for the team because he couldn’t put together a decent disguise.

 They probably use magic, dumbass, of course they know who you really are. Keith forces himself not to visibly panic, hoping he can still maintain his cover.

 “I’m sorry, Voltron?”

 “You act me a fool,” the fortune teller scoffs. “The aura of a paladin, especially Red, is far different from other customers. Scarlet clouds surround you like a blanket, young one. It is a shame you cannot see them for yourself. They are breathtaking.”

 Keith is completely and totally screwed. So much for masking his identity.

 ”Please, you can’t—“

 “I do not plan to spread word of your visit, if that is what you fear. Such an announcement would only serve to bring the Galra here.” Another scoff, far more disgusted. “I would rather not deal with those scum.”

 Keith bristles. “They’re not all scum.”

 “Easy, young one.” The fortune teller swishes their hand as if shooing a pesky fly. “I know of your heritage. However, there are few exceptions such as yourself.”

 “The Blade of Marmora?”

 “More exceptions. And not many.”

 “But they’re expanding—“

 “As much as I would love to debate with you, Red Paladin, you are not here to speak of political or ethical matters. You and I both know this.”

 A deeper wisdom than Keith could ever imagine seems to seep out of the fortune teller’s pores. It shrouds Keith, heavy and overbearing. “Yeah… yeah, you’re right.”

 Thin fingers settle on the crystal ball. “The Black Paladin? You wonder if you will ever see him again.”

 Keith stiffens; he hadn’t said a damn thing. Not out loud, at least.

 “I just need to know whether he’s alive,” Keith stresses. “I can’t… the thought of something happening to him…”

 “I cannot say much, but I will tell you this: he is alive.”

 A swell of joy engulfs Keith, and he just barely quells the urge to celebrate, feigning indifference. Shiro is actually alive. That one single bit of information changes everything. Now when Keith pushes the team to keep looking, he knows their search isn’t fruitless. He feels like a dog chasing a car it knows it’ll catch. Maybe not now but… but soon. As long as it keeps trying.

 “On the matter of whether and when you find him, I am not permitted to share. We who hear the universe’s voice have a certain pride to uphold.”

 “Is this how all of your readings go?” Keith blurts. Dammit. “Wow, sorry. That was rude.”

 “It is quite alright. As I said before, you are young. Considerably young.” They drum their fingers on the twinkling crystal orb’s surface and sigh. “Humans do not live long and, even with the Galra blood running through your veins, you will never outlive a creature like me, centuries old… withering away...”

 Centuries?!

 “And yet…” they trail off. Keith watches in silent horror as the fortune teller’s fingers flutter and then freeze, knuckles white with strain. A low growl rumbles up their throat. The noise is grating and inhuman and, oh God, this is where he dies. Sitting in the booth of an ancient fortune teller in the middle of a space fucking mall.

 Then, suddenly, they go quiet. Keith opens his mouth to speak, to maybe try and redeem himself, when—

 Laughter.

 Like tires rolling over gravel, the sound echoes throughout the tiny room. A thunderous laugh, booming, unbridled and genuine. Startled by the outburst, Keith flattens against his chair. His first instinct is to grab for his bayard. Without his usual suit, Keith settled for stowing it in a makeshift holster attached to his hip.

 Keith is seconds away from actually pulling his weapon on the mysterious alien when they raise a hand, signaling him to stop. Slowly, he lowers his bayard.

 “I was… under the impression that—oh my. This is… unexpected,” the fortune teller manages between bouts of laughter. They keep their hand out until their childish snickers eventually die down. “He was not your sole reason for coming here.”

 Shame and humiliation boil up inside Keith, coloring his cheeks. The fortune teller was only supposed to pick up on his fear over Shiro not—fuck, of course, they picked up on that, too.

 “I… well—“

 “The paladins of Voltron certainly are fascinating,” they carry on. “Admittedly, your subconscious managed to keep that hidden from me. I am impressed, considering the strength of such an emotion. So powerful. Very suited to the temperamental Red Paladin.”

 Keith swallows nervously and, yep, his cheeks are on fire. Great.

 “I don’t know what you’re, um. Talking about?”

 “You do not have to play coy with me,” they insist. “The feeling itself is there. I am not sure how I missed it earlier. A dazzling blue, much like the briny waves of the Reustean oceans. How beautiful…”

 Blue.

 “You have felt this way for a while, have you not?”

 “Felt what way?”

 The fortune teller shakes their head, clicking their tongue. Keith pictures it as the forked tongue of a lizard. “These… emotions you feel toward the Blue Paladin. They are far too intense to have been born overnight.”

 “Intense?” Keith’s voice cracks. “Uh, I don’t really know if intense is the word I would use…”

 “And you wish to know if these feelings are mutual.”

 “I mean, that’d be a stupid reason to come all this way to see a fortune teller. Right?”

 “Because you are too frightened by the prospect of rejection to ask the paladin yourself.”

 “Okay, I never said—“

 “His demeanor intimidates you.” They slap their hands over their mouth. Well, over the veil where their mouth likely is. “What an unforeseen turn of events! The hot-headed red, daunted by the outgoing blue.”

 “I’m—that’s not true!”

 “You are afraid he will reject you. And yet—how amusing.” The fortune teller is basically giggling at this point. It reminds Keith of a teenage girl, gushing over the juiciest piece of gossips she’s discovered in years. “I am so glad that you have come.”

 What, so you can laugh at my shitty unrequited crush? Keith crosses his arms over his chest. ”Then I guess you have an answer for me.”

 “You are always watching him,” they mumble, as if they didn’t hear Keith. After a momentary pause, they bounce a little in their chair. “And he… ah yes. Although neither of you are aware—the universe is so very cruel at times. I had no idea.”

 Keith finds himself caught on a single word.

 “Why… cruel?”

 In the blink of an eye, the fortune teller deflates. They sag against the back of their chair. “In regards to this matter, I am not able to impart much knowledge onto you, young paladin,” they explain sadly, “although I would very much enjoy resolving this issue once and for all.”

 The reading has taken a turn for the ominous, and Keith doesn’t like it one bit. “What are you talking about?”

 “Much like with the rest of my prediction, I must remain… vague is not exactly fitting, but it will do. I shall offer you this: pay close attention to his sincerity.”

 “His sincerity,” Keith repeats.

 “The thoughts he voices.”

 “Listen, I know you’ve never met La—the Blue Paladin, but he voices a lot of his thoughts. How the hell do I know which ones to pay attention to?” Keith blanches, realizing his word choice. “I’m sorry, excuse the, uh. Language.”

 To his astonishment, they seem unfazed. “You will know, young one.”

 “I—“

 “Now, I know you have plenty of concerns as the temporary leader of the paladins of Voltron, but I must ask that you leave now.”

 “Temporary?“

 “And you may be very young, but the truth will reveal itself to you soon enough.”

 Before he knows what’s happening, Keith is being hoisted out of his chair and guided purposefully toward the exit. He tries to set his feet, but the fortune teller easily overcomes his strength. There’s more muscle hidden underneath their cloak than Keith surmised. He almost trips when he’s given the final shove out the door, catching himself just in time.

 Did they really just…? Keith swivels on his heel, ready to give the fortune teller a piece of his mind. But all insults escape him.

 The unnervingly cryptic alien has pulled back their veil. Their skin is tinted pink, clear and free of any blemishes or scars. Slits like those of a snake are situated between two round eyes. The irises are a mix of lively greens and reds, encircling inky black irises the size of pinpricks. They have fine facial features, pixie-like.

 Keith can’t help but note how beautiful they are.

 And the jealous side of Keith—a monster, really—heaves a sigh of relief because Lance isn’t there.

 “I have faith in you,” they whisper, gravelly voice dripping with honesty.

 Keith doesn’t trust himself to speak and, instead, offers a nod. As he turns to leave, his mind wanders. What would it be like, seeing the future? Keith thinks, especially after this bizarre encounter, that he would hate it.

 The fortune teller is almost out of earshot when he hears one last thing.

 “Good luck, Keith Kogane of Voltron.”

 --

 When Keith returns, the castle is blissfully quiet.

 It had been the middle of the night, by the castle’s clocks, when he left. The longer he sat with the fortune teller, though, the more he was convinced he’d come back to a confused and angry group of paladins. But, as he climbs down from Red, he notes the emptiness of the hangar.

 Keith crouches low to the ground. With every step he takes, he inwardly cringes at the loud thud of his armored feet hitting the floor. Keith hadn’t seen anyone but that doesn’t exactly mean he’s alone. Pidge would totally hide behind her lion and wait for the perfect moment to jump out and interrogate Keith.

 “Where the hell did you go?”

 ”Just to visit a fortune teller from the space mall. The one where we rode around on a giant cow? Yeah, that mall.”

 “Because that would go over so—“

 “Keith?”

 “What the f—“ Keith nearly collides with the last person he expected to see here. “Lance?”

 “There you are,” Lance cries. One hand goes to his hip, while the other angrily flourishes and gestures at Keith. “What do you think you’re doing?”

 Dread swells up inside Keith. “Going… back to my room?”

 “Okay, and what were you doing before that?” Lance demands. His pajamas swish with every frustrated movement, lion slippers planted firmly.

 “Flying around in Red.”

 “In the middle of the night?”

 “I don’t have to explain myself to you, Lance.” Keith winces; it physically pains him. “I’m going to bed now.”

 Keith fully intends to stride past Lance and back to his room, but the iron grip on his wrist stops him dead in his tracks. Caught off guard, Keith doesn’t even attempt to resist. Flames dance behind narrowed blue eyes, fixed on Keith and totally immobilizing him. Oh fuck.

 “I think you do,” Lance disputes, voice low and dangerous.

 Keith hates how attractive he finds that.

 “I think as the new leader of Voltron and as my”—Lance stutters over the next word—“friend, you have a right to tell me what’s going on. I help you out all the time. Don’t I?”

 “Yes…”

 “So you can’t just… shut me out like this! I may not be the leader-leader, but I’m like, I don’t know, the co-leader? And if something had happened to you, I—“

 Keith waits, ready for a full tirade. He recognizes the flailing arms and running mouth. But Lance’s voice, thick with desperation, is new. The fiery glint in his eyes, the flaring nostrils, and the way he keeps encroaching on Keith’s personal space—all of it is new. Quite frankly, it scares Keith.

 “Take me with you.”

 Keith feels like he’s been punched in the gut. “What?”

 “Next time, take me with you,” Lance insists. Their faces are only a few inches apart now and, wow, how had Keith missed that? “I always watch your back in battle so… why should this be any different?”

 Keith is almost definitely blushing. He feels like he’s burning from the inside out. “Lance… it’s okay. You really don’t have to worry about me.”

 “But I do!”

 “Because of the rivalry, right?”

 “Wh—you’re kidding.”

 “You’re the one who kept bringing it up!”

 “I haven’t in a long time! Not since Shiro left.”

 “It makes sense, though. Since—“

 “Oh my God, it’s because I care about you, dumbass!”

 Silence.

 If one of the mice were to drop a pin, Keith is sure he’d be able to hear it. There’s no way in hell he heard Lance right. For months, Lance went on and on about their “rivalry” and about how “anything Keith could do, he could do better.” Lance seized every opportunity to profess his undying hatred for Keith. And, sure, it’s been awhile since he pranced around spouting insults.

 But this?

 Keep calm, nothing to lose your shit over, Keith silently chastises himself. Then, he remembers what the fortune teller said. About paying attention to Lance’s “sincerity.”

 “Oh God,” Keith blurts and lurches in Lance’s grasp. “No. That would be… no.”

 Anger quickly gives way to worry, and Lance’s features soften. “You alright, buddy?”

 “Was that—would you say you were being sincere? Just now?”

 “Um.” Lance blinks. “Yeah? I thought that was obvious?”

 “Oh. Cool, cool.” Keith’s entire world is falling apart, but, you know, no big deal. Meanwhile, Lance regards him like he's a madman, ten seconds away from snapping and going on a killing spree. “Cool.”

 “You said ‘cool’ three times,” Lance points out. Cautiously, he takes a step closer. If not for their shoes, their toes would be touching. “I’m starting to think you’ve been brainwashed or something.”

 Keith lets out an ugly snort of a laugh. His mouth opens and closes uselessly. It’s like he’s forgotten how to fucking speak, and, with that, he officially wants to die.

 “Why did you ask me that, dude? Not gonna lie, I’m legitimately freaking out over here,” Lance prompts, voice laced with concern.

 “You’re sure you were being sincere?”

 “Yeah, what the hell? I lowkey poured my heart out to you! Of course I was being”—he bends his fingers into air quotations—”’sincere.’”

 “Right, coo—“

 “If you say cool one more time, Keith Kogane,” Lance warns. Another horrifying laugh falls from Keith’s mouth, and apparently that’s it for Lance. He slaps his hands to Keith’s cheeks, resounding smack bouncing off the hangar walls. “What. Happened?”

 “You care about me,” Keith deadpans.

 “That’s been established, yes.”

 “And you’re not lying.”

 “God, you’re making this way more embarrassing than it has to be… No, I’m not lying.”

 “Then please don’t kill me for this,” Keith breathes and, before he can lose his courage, pushes up on his toes and kisses Lance.

 Well, tries to kiss Lance. Their teeth clack, noses bump, and their actual lips only touch for a second or two before Lance squeals and pulls away. He holds Keith at arm’s distance and gives him a quick onceover. The entire time, Keith stares at a random spot on the wall behind Lance’s head and struggles to remember his own name.

 “You’ve been brainwashed!” Lance declares. “I can’t believe our fearless leader leaves for one night and comes back without any memory of his amazing teammates.“

 Spontaneity is truly Keith’s forte. He secures his arms around Lance’s neck and tugs him down into a second, proper kiss. Lance gasps but thankfully doesn’t tug away. For a moment, he doesn’t budge, and Keith considers pulling away himself, maybe sinking into the floor for safe measure. But eventually, something must click inside Lance’s head and shaky hands settle on Keith’s waist.

 Warm, Keith notes when those hands urge him closer, steady but gentle. Warm, when they adjust the angle of their approach to more comfortably slot their lips together. Warm, when Lance smiles into the kiss and warm when Lance trails one hand up Keith’s spine, curling fingers around strands of thick, dark hair.

 They separate for an instant, and Lance has the nerve to laugh as their lips meet again. Keith mumbles questioningly but refuses to stop, not when he’s made it this far. His heart feels like it’s going to burst out of his chest; it’s one of the strangest sensations he’s ever experienced. A heady combination of the rush of adrenaline during a fight, the fear of losing to Zarkon, and the satisfaction of finding something lost.

 Since an accidental smashing of lips during a training session at the Garrison doesn’t exactly count as a kiss, Keith is out of his element here. Breathing is becoming much too difficult. Thankfully, Lance seems to reach his limit at the same time Keith does and draws back.

 Keith craves the warmth of Lance’s touch and can’t bring himself to put space between them. Slowly, Lance leans and rests his forehead against Keith’s. Their breath mingles, swollen lips close enough to come together again if either of them were to move even the slightest bit.

 “Dude,” Lance gasps, disbelieving.

 “We just… and all you can say is ‘dude’?”

 “Better than saying ‘cool’ a million times,” Lance teases. “Oh, and being all cryptic and shit. I still wanna know where you ran off to.”

 “A fortune teller.” There’s no point in keeping it a secret anymore. “At the mall.”

 “Aw, you went back to the space mall without me?”

 “I wasn’t there to shop…”

 “We would’ve had fun, though.” Lance pouts and then freezes, as if he only just comprehended Keith’s explanation. “Wait, wait, wait. Why did you visit a fortune teller?”

 Dammit. “Uh…”

 And Lance—incredible but occasionally infuriating Lance—interjects. “Oh, I get it. You asked about Shiro, didn’t you?”

 Keith hesitates. He could tell Lance the whole truth. For a second, he considers telling Lance every detail about his visit but something advises him not to. A voice in the back of his head discourages him from describing the reading to Lance, at least not yet. Maybe it’s the universe or magical juju or any semblance of logic he has left after the kiss. Either way, Keith listens.

 “Yeah,” Keith whispers, eyes fluttering shut. “Yeah, that’s it.”

[apprenticebard]

“Sealioning” is probably one of my least-favorite New Internet Terms, tbh. I guess it was originally meant to meant to indicate the behavior of a person who insists on trying to have debates with disinterested parties and criticizing them for not wanting to engage, which is a thing that people do sometimes and is super rude, but I mostly see it used to mean “this person is asking questions that I think are easy to find the answers to, so clearly they’re only asking for the purpose of wasting my time or pissing me off, and I am therefore justified in harshly criticizing them for either feigning ignorance or being totally apathetic and insensitive.” Which is a horrible position to default to when people ask you obvious questions!

“I’m just venting in private, it wasn’t an invitation to debate”--fine, I understand this, everybody vents at some point and it can be hard to judge how public a particular venue should be considered, especially on social media; we can quibble about whether venting within metaphorical earshot of people who might reasonably be hurt by it is a good idea or not, or whether venting about certain people or groups of people might cause harm even if the subjects never become aware of it, but it's obviously a complicated topic, and it doesn’t mean you should be piled on by people who want to debate when you’re not ready to do so.

“It’s not my job to educate you”--yes, fine, this makes sense if you are not an activist, if you don’t wish to engage in forms of activism that involve spreading information, or even if you’re an educator who isn’t on educating duty at this particular moment. No one is entitled to your time and effort in this specific matter, and you do not bear a responsibility to defend all of your views to all of the people on a consistent basis, even though eventually communication must occur if people are to learn and grow.

“This thing is obvious to me, and has been explained somewhere in the world at least once before, so if you claim it isn’t clear to you or that you want to learn more about why I believe it, you must be baiting me and acting in bad faith, and shall be mocked for doing so”--no, stop, do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars. Consistently reliable research is beyond a lot of people’s abilities, especially if they’ve never been to college or, through no fault of their own, live in an ideological bubble that is isolated from particular truths. It can be really hard to tell the legitimate authorities apart from weirdos with an axe to grind if you have no experience in a field. Even if it’s within their abilities, it may be really time-consuming for them, they may have no idea where to start, they may have a life outside being Right about everything and not know whether the issue is important (”the world’s getting warmer? so what?”), or they may be from a different background that makes your claim look as outlandish as a flat-earth conspiracy theory, something they shouldn’t waste their time on unless someone can give them a reason why they should. And that’s just for things that actually are obvious; topics that are more complex, where both sides make good points, are even harder to get to the bottom of.

It’s not that people never argue in bad faith; that happens all the time.  It’s that accusing people of intentionally trying to piss you off or waste your time, just because they ask questions about things that seem obvious to you, will give you a lot of false positives, will discourage people from asking questions in the future, will turn people away from your position who might otherwise have been persuaded, and is rude as heck. I’ve seen people be accused of “sealioning” for asking one question about the evidence for the gender wage gap, which IMO is not the sort of simple and obvious thing from which you can tell that your conversation partner is necessarily being unreasonable or acting in bad faith.

I don’t think anyone should be required to defend their beliefs on a constant basis. It’s OK to disengage even if your opponent isn’t hostile and does want to learn, and people who don’t respect that are being rude and, in some cases,  harmful. But we all know how easy it is to spread misinformation, so I also think that people shouldn’t be expected to amend their beliefs without getting the chance to dig through and look at all the evidence, and I realize that that can be a time-consuming process. The least we can do is remember not to assume that the apparent desire for more information is evidence of malice.

Also, the lady in the original comic was being kind of rude, and the sea lion was way more calm and polite in the face of her “I just don’t like sea lions” opinion than I would have been in the face of some guy’s “I just don’t like women” opinion. I dunno what the relative systemic power of sea lions is in this ‘verse, but criticizing the sea lion for wanting to start a dialogue with someone who disdains him for something he has no control over seems rather callous, and turning the character into a verb that gets used to mean “this person is being willfully ignorant just to piss me off and then claim they won the argument” strikes me as a slightly worrying failure of cognitive empathy. Yes, he refused to let the matter drop and insisted on following the lady into her house in order to have a debate with her, which is totally inappropriate, but I hardly think his crime was the fact that he dared to ask why someone hated him.

(Yes, I know the author has issued a clarification that sea lions are meant to stand in for people who exhibit the particular behavior of wanting to debate casual statements and refusing to let them lie, not any immutable characteristic of the sea lion, but since “I just don’t like X people” is very often not an innocuous statement, and being a sea lion is immutable in the real world, I don't think the metaphor works very well. It’s not a horrifically insensitive comic, or anything, but it seems like a bad thing to reference when trying to explain why you object to somebody asking questions about your beliefs and worldview. Especially if they’ve only asked a single question and have not done anything analogous to following you into your house.)

If this seems like a petty thing to worry about, I’ll add that I grew up in a church/school environment where questioning Facts like The Earth Is 6000 Years Old or America Is The Greatest Country In All Ways was seen as evidence of either a lack of faith or intentional malice. I’m in a different place now because I had parents who encouraged me to ask whatever questions I wanted, no matter how obvious, tedious, or disturbing, and because I eventually ran into Catholics, and Catholics consistently answered my questions instead of just warning me about hell over and over. They debated, they disagreed, they educated. They discussed things with non-Catholics without acting like they might be infected with something, or like they were afraid that a little investigation might cause their worldview to come crashing down. They sought the truth, and delighted in all those who came to them for help in seeking it.

So yeah, mocking people for not knowing stuff you know is rude, and I think we should try not to be rude. But refusing to tolerate questions and debate in general is dangerous, both to your movement and to the individual people in it. And yeah, as I said, you don’t have a responsibility to debate with people or educate them at any given moment. Maybe not ever, if debating is just not your thing and you think there are better ways for you to use your time. I’m not that good at debate either, honestly! Constructive and honest debate is hard! There’s no shame in saying that you’re not able or willing to answer someone’s questions, unless you have some particular obligation to that person. But mocking, belittling, or punishing people for having questions, for seeking debate, for trying to do the things one does when one wants to understand and lacks the necessary equipment to do so--that is poison to any community, and is most toxic of all to a community that is trying to change the hearts and minds of the people around them.

TLDR: Refusing to respect people’s boundaries and leave them alone when asked is bad. Asking people questions is not in itself bad, even though people don’t generally have an obligation to answer. These behaviors should not be conflated.

[omgnsfwisnsfw-blog]

NSFW #04: Crushed

The night was far too beautiful for something so violent to have happened. The vast starry sky spread out far above the top level of the parking garage, moonlight joining the various halogen sources of illumination as a large, well built blond gently lifts a far smaller redhead out of a wheelchair, tucks her into the side door of a vintage Mustang, and turns to face the other individual with him. “Thank you.” John tossed a pair of gym bags that were previously slung over his shoulder into the trunk of ‘Alundra’ and quietly closed the lid. So quiet as if to make sure to not alert anyone to their successful escape. The wheelchair John had used was discarded nearby. Mike, for their part, had curled up in the passenger seat, wrapped in a blanket, both for warmth and to cover the fact that they were wearing a hospital gown and little else. The surroundings were comforting, the faint smell of leather far easier on their nerves than the oppressive scent of disinfectant and medicine. Feeling perfectly safe now, they teetered between being asleep and not, listening to the muffled voices of their friends outside the car. The reserved big man walked around the driver’s side door to meet his accomplice. Natalie Young. For her part, Natalie was doing her absolute damndest to keep her emotions in check since Mike needed her to be their rock… but the edges were beginning to fray. If she actually smoked, she’d be well on her way through a pack of them at this point. The sound of John’s voice roused her from her thoughts, the blond managing a weary smile. “Of course. I hate hospitals just as much as they do, so for the record? If I’m ever the one in this situation, feel free to do the same thing.” John nodded solemnly. His right hand wavered nervously so he put it into his jeans pocket. “Was this okay to do? I know it’s what they wanted. But I guess, what if this is worse than it seems?” “Then the nurses wouldn’t have let them have a smoke break.” Sighing to herself, Natalie wrapped her arms around herself before giving him an appraising look. She knew full well how sturdily built John was physically - she remembered how easily he hauled her out of harm’s way - but that didn’t necessarily match what was happening in his head. “How about you? How are you holding up?” Inside there were a multitude of platitudes waiting to escape from his lips. But this evening had been exhausting. So, instead, he let fly what he was thinking exactly. “I’m angry.” His dry tone betrayed that statement. There was a twinge of that emotion before his normal soft eyed expression resumed. But the stream of consciousness also continued. “I’m angry that this happened. That I let it happen. They’re my partner. They’re my… partner. I let them down.” “John…” Forgoing the formality, the blond reached out, her hand carefully, lightly resting on his shoulder even if she’d much rather just give him a hug. There were boundaries she needed to respect, though… unspoken ones she had picked up on after spending some time in his presence. “You didn’t let them down. There’s no way you can blame yourself for the actions of someone else. Besides, you got Mike out of a situation they hated as soon as you could.” He didn’t draw back. There was a trust there. There was an understanding that Mike thought the world of Natalie. Even in this short period of time. Time, though, was relative for John. It was what happened during that time that truly defined -- that this was okay. “I also have anger towards the ones who did this. I don’t even know who they are.” He struggled with this. He had never really felt this for anyone. Even before all of this. He averted his eyes from Natalie as he confessed. “Don’t think less of me. I hate them. They showed no remorse in their actions.” A gentle pat of his shoulder. “I don’t think any less of you for that, John. If anything? You need to use that anger. Use it the way I did to make Luke face the music.” Her hand lingered after that contact before it slowly withdrew, a soft sigh escaping the Undisputed Champion before she nodded as if to support the suggestion she was about to offer up. “But for now… take it easy. Put it aside and focus on taking good care of them.” He complied. John tucked away that imagery of bone impacting bone. Their skulls being crushed by his knee. Their bodies flying through the air -- hitting exposed concrete. “I will. I think we’ll hole up somewhere close for a few days. I’ll keep you updated.” “Alright.” Leaning down, the blond murmured her goodbyes to her girlfriend before she peeled her well-worn Duke hoodie off over her head and added it as a layer to their warmth. A parting nod and she was off, leaving the two to make their departure. The room was dim and ambient. Most of the lights were off, the curtain drawn with only faint peeks of late morning sunlight peeking through. This was due to to one of the occupants getting over a roaring headache: in fact, after what she’d endured the previous night, Mike McGuire was deeply fortunate that was the worst she got away with. She was sitting in a chair in the corner of the room on one side of a small table, draped in a Blue Devils hoodie slightly too big for her, ice pack clutched to her head, her faithful (and also somewhat banged up) partner, Bishop Church, sitting opposite. A takeaway box bears evidence of her breakfast- a smattering of crumbs and a few stray smears of strawberry syrup. Beside it is a smaller box containing bread crust neatly cut away from the previously consumed buttered toast. Slowly, Mike set the ice pack on the table, and staring dead into the camera, slow clapped. “Congratulations, boys. You had the balls to answer our challenge. Good for you. Shame you had to jump us from behind like the couple’a needle dicks you are, but hey. We can start from someplace, yeah? So let’s start here. Hi. We’re NSFW. I’m Mike, he’s Bishop, and you, apparently, are The Lummox.” Her partner raised an index finger up to object. “The Limit.” Mike shrugged. “How silly of me. Wallop in the fuckin’ head after being spiked through a table will do that. But anyway. We have no idea who the blue fucking fuck you guys are. We didn’t even know your names until literally a minute before we started filming. Had to key up last night’s Rampage just to see who the purple polka dot fucking Hell jumped us. Hey, kids, EWC.tv is really fuckin’ prompt with putting up material. In case you’re holding out on picking it up, I’d do that. Real handy if you have to work Monday nights.” “Very colorful.” John smiled wryly at her. “And my partner is right. We asked for competition. And we got it. You unmasked and you made your intentions clear. Want to know what is strange? Frank. Alexander. We agree with you. The tag division is rather anemic these days. So Mike, imagine this. These two guys inked fresh new contracts. They look around and they see the landscape. And to be honest, they don’t see much. But suddenly, they see that shining city on the hill. That’s us. We are, champions or not, the example of what a tag team should be here. So you didn’t go after the champions. You didn’t go after anyone else. You went after us because we are tag team wrestling in this company.” “Exactly fuckin’ right. There is no team like us. We are not two random guys put together. Nor are we one guy who picked some random dude for notoriety and muscle. But you guys? I see you. Look at you with your matching outfits and finishing each other’s sentences. I’d say it was cute, but… eeegh. Maybe you boys shoulda left the masks on. You’re like ten pounds of ugly in a five pound fuckin’ sack.” Mike shakes her head, then frowns, rubbing it. That probably wasn’t a great idea. “But this ain’t a beauty contest. Otherwise Natalie Young woulda been champion a billion years ago instead of just snagging it recently. Nah, you’re a couple of fucking bruisers- you’d almost HAVE to be, bein’ from goddamn Detroit- and you obviously know how to make an impact. There’s just one small problem.” She leaned forward, emerald eyes steely, expression harsh. “We’re not fucking afraid of you. We ain’t even intimidated.” John shook his head as if to confirm that. “No. Your brand of cruelty isn’t new. The Limit is Rob Garcia minus the charm. The Limit is Draco Lazarus minus the wit. The beating you gave us wasn’t the first we experienced and as we make more and more waves, it won’t be the last. We won’t let what you two did to us - define us. You may be just the answer to the questions we've been asking. You two may beat us pillar to post in Manitoba. But we will get back up. No matter what happens to us. You are what we asked for and we will damned if we balk at your methods.” A familiar, mildly unhinged smile began to bloom on the New York brawler’s face. “You’re not somethin’ to be scared of. In our book, you’re somethin’ to look forward to. You’re a big steak dinner with all the trimmings. You’re Christmas morning. You’re the first fucking day of summer vacation. Do you know how long we’ve been waiting for a couple’a beasts like you to come along? Not a lazy soup-slurping sasquatch, but an actual well-oiled fucking machine who knows how to do what we do? I’m so excited I could wrestle you both right now. I don’t fucking care how much of a bruised up mess I am or that the ghost of Keith Moon is playing a wicked drum solo on my fucking cortex. NSFW doesn’t run from a challenge, especially ones we ask for. No Scrambling, Flaking, or Waffling here- we asked for competition and you delivered with a cheap shot, and we can’t wait to answer back.” John, under the table, placed a hand on her forearm. “I’ve asked my partner to not feed into the conspiracy theories. The coincidental timing of your appearance. The reactions of those involved. But there is something I do hope The Limit understands. It is the same lesson that Orianna Johnson learned. Alexander. Frank. You two made this personal. And I promise you. I assure you. By the time this is all said and done, you two will get your receipts for this.” Mike looked to her partner briefly, almost as if wordlessly saying something to him before slowly bringing her hands up. Almost abruptly, she cracked her knuckles. Her expression was mildly pained but her smile was vicious as a great white’s. “Under all the excitement and the tasty prospects of a challenge? Yeah. You hurt me. But what’s more, you hurt my partner. And nobody gets away with that shit on my watch. I’m not gonna play nice, but that’s fine. I don’t think you two even know what the fuck ‘play nice’ means. But hey, anybody can be a tough fucker when they attack from behind. So Monday, up in fucking Canada. Let’s see if you Detroit boys can pose the same kind of challenge when we see you coming. Don’t you dare fucking disappoint us.” Turning the camera off, Mike stretched and rolled back onto the bed. They were frankly sick of laying down, but they’d promised. It had been their end of the bargain, after all- John and Natalie had got them out of the hated hospital, but in return they had to stay on strict bed rest for at least a day. Despite grumblings of being bored and restless, they did as their friends asked. It was the least they could do. “...I’m freaking pissed they didn’t have any doubles free. I hate that you gotta crash on the floor. S’not fair. You got banged up too, y’know.” John stood up from the office chair and stretched. “I’ll be okay. Besides what’s the alternative? Sleeping in the same bed?” Mike gave a cheeky sort of grin and shrugged in response. John realized what he had just said. “Nevermind. Hey. I got something for you.” He moved over to the bags strewn in the corner of the room. He retrieved his, opened it, and dug through the contents until… “Here. You lost it last night.” He turned around with something he knew that Mike cherished in his hands. The precious baseball cap that usually never left their head, despite looking like it’d seen far better days. Letting out what could only be described as a delighted squeal, Mike shot forward and snatched their hat back, hugging it to their chest like a child might hug a beloved stuffed animal before tucking it back onto its rightful spot on their head. “You don’t know how much this means to me. I thought the fucking Lummox might’ve stolen it, or that jerkass Bennett threw it in the trash or something. My dad gave me this the last game we went to before I graduated high school. It’s irreplaceable.” The look they gave their partner couldn’t have been more grateful if he’d just given them a kidney. “Thank you so fuckin’ much, buddy. I mean it.” John listened intently. He had his books. But no possession held any value like they had expressed. But he enjoyed the fondness she exhibited for her family. Perhaps lived vicariously through it. Family. He would have liked the concept. And he heard a confession. Words that he had heard before certainly. This time they didn’t confuse him. Or twist his innards into knots. But he wasn’t sure if he understood. He felt the same way, too, right? “Hey. You ok?” They frowned. He was sort of staring past her for a minute or two. “Huh? Yeah.” They are partners. Partners. For the first time in his life, he played part to what he considered deception. But not for his own sake. John sat down on the bed next to them. He clasped a hand over theirs. Pushing down that aversion to it. “I’m good.” “Okay. Sometimes it kinda feels like… you’re a million miles away even when you’re right next to me. It’s really… this’ gonna sound fucking weird. It’s lonely. But it’s okay, you’re here now.” It was a strange thing to say even by their own standards, and it was dangerously close to crossing a line that, though recently revealed, they didn’t want to cross. Not for lack of wanting to, but for other feelings being involved, other people being involved, that they didn’t want to hurt either. They made a face before shrugging, sighing, and leaning back into the pillows. “...wanna watch a movie? I think this place’s got free HBO.”

[leviathangourmet]

In The Coddling of the American Mind, Jonathan Haidt and Greg Lukianoff argue that well-intentioned adults are unwittingly harming young people by raising them in ways that implicitly convey three untruths:

The Untruth of Fragility: What doesn’t kill you makes you weaker.

The Untruth of Emotional Reasoning: Always trust your feelings.

The Untruth of Us vs. Them: Life is a battle between good people and evil people.  

In their telling, the spread of these untruths, especially in the middle and upper classes, helps to explain a spike in mental-health problems among young people and recent tumult on the campuses of highly selective colleges. But if parents and educators change course, they argue, they can raise happier, healthier kids who’ll turn into better citizens.

I liked the book, which has its origins in a 2015 cover story in this magazine. The updated thesis, when fleshed out across detailed chapters, struck me as clearly stated, logically argued, and plausibly true—and the proposed remedies struck me as highly unlikely to do harm.

“Whatever your identity, background, or political ideology,” the authors advise young people, “you will be happier, healthier, stronger, and more likely to succeed in pursuing your own goals” if you do three things:

Seek out challenges “rather than eliminating or avoiding everything that ‘feels unsafe.’”

Free yourself from cognitive distortions “rather than always trusting your initial feelings.”

Take a generous view of other people, and look for nuance, “rather than assuming the worst about people within a simplistic us-versus-them morality.”

They even include practical advice for conveying those lessons in child-rearing. How significant are the ills that they identify relative to all the others that confront higher education or young people generally? I don’t know. But their prescriptions seem sensible, low-cost, likely to help some, and unlikely to prevent other reformers from addressing other problems.

Some critics have praised their work. Thomas Chatterton Williams reviewedthe book favorably in The New York Times. Wesleyan University President Michael Roth’s Washington Post review seemed to endorse the book’s advice in its last paragraph.

Lots of folks who responded to the book more critically argued that it gave short shrift to the thing they regarded as the most pressing problem in society or on campus. Few challenged its core arguments, whatever they were worth.

But I wanted to hear from critics of their central thesis. That’s how I found myself reading Moira Weigel’s review in The Guardian, having seen folks on social media flagging it as a devastating takedown. “Moira Weigel eviscerates with ease ‘The Coddling of the American Mind,’” the biologist Stephen Currywrote. The sociologist Kate Cairns asserted that the review “systematically demolishes” the book, while another observer characterized the review as “an excellent shredding.”

Imagine my surprise when even that review contained a passage that appeared to grant the potential value of the advice at the book’s very core. Weigel wrote:

Despite the title, which suggests cultural or civilisational diagnosis, the checklists and worksheets distributed throughout this book make clear that its genre is self-help. The tips it contains may benefit upper middle class parents. They may benefit students from minority or working class backgrounds who arrive on elite campuses to find that, despite good intentions, those campuses have not fully prepared for them.

It’s the sort of passage that would usually appear in a positive review. It is no small thing to identify a problem that harms families from different economic classes and to offer tips that may help folks in each to help themselves.

But as it turns out, that passage is a brief aside, anomalous for its substantive assessment of the book’s thesis. The review’s first paragraph complains that the book doesn’t discuss financial hardship among college students (though the authors trace the mental-health trends that worry them back to high school and to the wealthiest families, not the ones struggling to pay tuition). An entire section complains that the book’s style “wants above all to be reasonable. Lukianoff and Haidt include adverb after adverb to telegraph how well they have thought things through.” Is it bad to want to be reasonable? Have they thought things through? The merits of such substantive questions are rarely Weigel’s focus, though. Many critiques are implied rather than stated, rendering them unfalsifiable.

The balance of the review is scathingly negative not in its arguments—a few pop up along the way, some concerning peripheral matters—but in its ad hominem attacks and other rhetoric disguised as argument as though its mere trappings confer heft. An argument can be strong or weak, civil or ill-mannered, calm or heated, edifying or misleading. Even the most frustrating arguments, though, offer readers more than the tropes pervading this frustrating review, and other journalistic work of the same genre: Let us call them Idioms of Non-Argument.

The Guardian review is a useful illustrative example in part because its entire mode is foreshadowed in the headline that announces the article:

The Coddling of the American Mind review – how elite US liberals have turned rightwards

Greg Lukianoff and Jonathan Haidt’s book sets out to rescue students from ‘microaggressions’ and identity politics. But perhaps they merely resist change that might undermine them

That display copy says: Never mind the merits of the book’s thesis—what’s important here, fellow leftists, is where the authors fall on a left-right ideological spectrum and what psychological factors may be motivating them. What’s a truth proposition when there’s an ongoing culture war to fight?

What unfolds over the body of the review isn’t quite a character assassination of the authors so much as a series of premeditated assaults.

The book is utterly in keeping with the longtime professional interests of both authors, and closely tied to Greg Lukianoff’s personal experience using cognitive behavioral therapy to fight serious depression. But Weigel dismissively speculates that they wrote the book “perhaps, because an article that they published in The Atlantic went viral.” Is she implying that the subject doesn’t justify book-length treatment? Some other dig? Is the line merely included to convey contempt?

Both authors have long records of producing work that is intellectually honest; neither happens to be an ideological conservative. Yet over the course of the review, Weigel compares them not only to Allan Bloom, but also to Dinesh D’Souza, and then, using guilt-by-association tactics, to the alt-right:

Hints of elective affinities between elite liberalism and the “alt-right” have been evident for a while now. The famous essay that Allum Bokhari and Milo Yiannopoulos wrote in 2016, “An Establishment Conservative’s Guide to the Alt-Right,” cites Haidt approvingly. At one point Lukianoff and Haidt rehearse a narrative about Herbert Marcuse that has been a staple of white nationalist conspiracy theories about “cultural Marxism” for decades.

Nassim Taleb, whose book Antifragile Haidt and Lukianoff credit with one of their core beliefs and cite repeatedly as inspiration, is a fixture of the far right “manosphere” that gathers on Reddit/pol and returnofkings.com.

The commonality raises questions about the proximity of their enthusiasm for CBT to the vogue for “Stoic” self-help in the Red Pill community, founded on the principle that it is men, rather than women, who are oppressed by society. So, too, does it raise questions about the discipline of psychology – how cognitive and data-driven turns in that field formed Haidt and his colleagues Pinker and Jordan Peterson.

Are Haidt and Lukianoff correct or incorrect about Herbert Marcuse? Is Antifragile a good book? Is cognitive behavioral therapy a worthwhile approach? Is there wisdom to glean from the Stoics or the discipline of psychology? Weigel offers the reader no arguments of substance—just the Idioms of Non-Arguments that all of those things raise questions because ostensibly bad people are tenuously associated with each of them. God help Kevin Bacon if he’s ever the subject of a similarly crafted profile.

The apotheosis of Weigel’s vilification tactics comes a bit later. In the book, the authors recount what they regard as examples of “catastrophizing” on college campuses. But the authors also go out of their way to point out that today’s college students are sometimes behaving totally rationally when they perceive a threat to their physical safety. Among other examples, they flag an apparent rise in hate crimes, a college student’s online threat to “shoot every black person” at the University of Missouri soon after Dylann Storm Roof’s neo-Nazi murder spree, and the murder of Heather Heyer in Charlottesville, Virginia.

They write:

Students of color facing ongoing threats to their safety, and seeing frequent reports of threats elsewhere, are not new phenomena; the history of race in America is a history of discrimination and intimidation, intertwined with a history of progress. And yet, this new wave of racial intimidation may be particularly upsetting because of recent progress … The shock of Trump’s victory must have been particularly disillusioning for many black students and left-leaning women. Between the president’s repeated racial provocations and the increased visibility of neo-Nazis and their ilk, it became much more plausible than it had been in a long time that “white supremacy,” even using a narrow definition, was not just a relic of the distant past.

Judge for yourselves whether passages like that are fairly or unfairly characterized in the part of Weigel’s review where she likens the authors to a character in a recent Hollywood film, who kidnaps black people and steals their bodies:

Like Mark Lilla, Steven Pinker and Francis Fukuyama, who have all condemned identity politics in recent books, [Haidt and Lukianoff] are careful to distinguish themselves from the unwashed masses— those who also hate identity politics and supposedly brought us Donald Trump.

In fact, the data shows that it was precisely the better-off people in poor places, perhaps not so unlike these famous professors in the struggling academy, who elected Trump; but never mind. I believe that these pundits, like the white suburban Dad in the horror film Get Out, would have voted for Barack Obama a third time.

Cheap shots like that serve no purpose other than to prejudice readers, and bear not at all on the quality of the book’s ideas. (And not that it matters, but famous professors in the struggling academy are, contra the inapt analogy to better-off people in poor places, a demographic that surely voted overwhelmingly against Trump.)

Vilification and guilt by association are not the only Idioms of Non-Argument. Misrepresentation is another.

Consider the treatment of intersectionality in the book. The authors sketch the framework as it was articulated by Kimberlé Williams Crenshaw, now the director of the Center on Intersectionality and Social Policy Studies at Columbia University, and they favorably quote an explanatory  passage from Intersectionality by Patricia Hill Collins and Sirma Bilge.

The authors write:

Intersectionality is a theory based on several insights that we believe are valid and useful: power matters, members of groups sometimes act cruelly or unjustly to preserve their power, and people who are members of multiple identity groups can face various forms of disadvantage in ways that are often invisible to others. The point of using the terminology of “intersectionalism,” as Crenshaw said in her 2016 TED Talk, is that “where there’s no name for a problem, you can’t see a problem, and when you can’t see a problem, you pretty much can’t solve it.”

Only then do they add:

Our purpose here is not to critique the theory itself. It is, rather, to explore the effects that certain interpretations of intersectionality may now be having on college campuses. The human mind is prepared for tribalism, and these interpretations of intersectionality have the potential to turn tribalism way up. These interpretations of intersectionality teach people to see bipolar dimensions of privilege and oppression as ubiquitous in social interactions. It’s not just about employment or other opportunities, and it’s not just about race and gender.

Their argument is that while the originators of intersectionality and careful adherents of the theory offer important insights, some less nuanced interpretations are misleading students about reality by training them to see the world “in terms of intersecting bipolar axes where one end of each axis is marked privilege and the other is oppression.”

By way of illustration they cite teaching tools like this one:

They reason:

Since “privilege” is defined as the “power to dominate” and to cause “oppression,” these axes are inherently moral dimensions. The people on top are bad, and the people below the line are good. This sort of teaching seems likely to encode the Untruth of Us Versus Them directly into students’ cognitive schemas: Life is a battle between good people and evil people.

Perhaps their reasoning is flawed or their concerns are not borne out by the facts. But how does Weigel distill that very carefully qualified argument?

For all their self-conscious reasonableness, and their promises that CBT can master negative emotion, Lukianoff and Haidt often seem slightly hurt. They argue that intersectionality theory divides people into good and bad. But the scholars they quote do not use this moral language; those scholars talk about privilege and power. Bad is how these men feel when someone suggests they have had it relatively easy – and that others have had to lose the game that was made for men like them to win.

Once again, there is a truth proposition, like Can CBT help master negative emotion? But rather than use the best available evidence to adjudicate something so plainly relevant to the book, Weigel casts doubt on the proposition in the reader’s mind by claiming that the authors “seem slightly hurt,” citing no particular passage, as if that should bear on our faith in cognitive behavioral therapy.

She then offers a misleading account of their beliefs about intersectionality—they are explicit that neither intersectional theory nor the scholars they quote commit the Us vs. Them fallacy—and concludes by asserting how they feel (which is to say, how her ideology tells her that they must surely feel) in a hypothetical situation that she made up.  

Later, Weigel writes:

Predictably, Lukianoff and Haidt cite Martin Luther King as a spokesperson for “good” identity politics—the kind that focuses on common humanity rather than differences. But there was a reason the speech they quote was called “I Have a Dream” and addressed to people marching for jobs.

Keeping faith with the ideal that all humans are created equal means working to create conditions under which we might, in fact, thrive equally. In the absence of this commitment to making the dream come true, insisting that everyone must act as if we are already in the promised land can feel a lot like trolling.

“Can feel a lot like trolling” is dense with weasel words, but what’s more notable here is the clear implication that Haidt and Lukianoff insist “that everyone must act as if we are already in the promised land.”

Later, Weigel writes, “Enjoying the luxury of living free from discrimination and domination, they therefore insist that the crises moving young people to action are all in their heads.” No, they do not so insist! Lukianoff leads an organization—the Foundation for Individual Rights in Education—that constantly advocates on behalf of students facing unjust discrimination, and battles administrators who violate their civil rights. And their book explicitly states this about social-justice activism:

College students today are living in an extraordinary time, and many have developed an extraordinary passion for social justice. They are identifying and challenging injustices that have been well documented and unsuccessfully addressed for too long. In the 1960s, students fought for many causes that, from the vantage point of today, were clearly noble causes … Students today are fighting for many causes that we believe are noble, too, including ending racial injustices in the legal system and in encounters with the police; providing equal education and other opportunities for everyone, regardless of circumstances at birth; and extinguishing cultural habits that encourage or enable sexual harassment and gender inequalities. On these and many other issues, we think student protesters are on the “right side of history,” and we support their goals.

Despite that passage, Weigel goes on to write, “The authors cite the ‘folk wisdom’ ‘Prepare the child for the road, not the road for the child.’ They call this attitude ‘pragmatic.’ The prospect that a group of children might get together to build a new road themselves is not one they can countenance.”

The authors themselves, though, believe they are offering advice to young people that will make them more likely to succeed in building a new road.

That brings us to yet another Idiom of Non-Argument: reduction to privilege anxiety. Forget about counterarguments that address the merits of a proposition. Simply assert that its advocates fear losing their privileged status, and obviously acted in order to thwart the rise of marginalized people, and you will discredit their project without having to grapple with it at all.

Thus:

… the consensus that has ruled liberal institutions for the past two decades is cracking up. The media has made much of the leftward surge lifting Bernie Sanders and Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez. But as this new left-liberalism gains strength, a growing number of white men who hold power in historically liberal institutions seem to be breaking right.

As more and more Americans, especially young Americans, express enthusiasm for democratic socialism, a new right-liberalism answers. Its emerging canon first defined itself in reaction to new social movements highlighting the structural or systemic elements of identity-based oppression. By deriding those movements as “clicktivism” or mere “hashtags,” right-liberal pundits also, implicitly, expressed frustration at how web platforms were breaking up their monopoly on discourse.

One wonders: What makes the book’s thesis right-leaning? How has Haidt or Lukianoff broken rightward? Does democratic socialism bear on their subject matter in any way? If Lukianoff is motivated by frustration at web platforms for breaking up an elite monopoly on discourse, why does the organization he leads fight to expand the ability of leftist college students and faculty members to post their views without punishment on blogs and social media? And what, precisely, is it about their claim that students are prone to catastrophizing that preserves privilege? A review operating in the mode of argument and ideas would grapple with such questions rather than begging or eliding them.

The Idioms of Non-Argument reward those adept at using book reviews as a chance to denigrate ideological adversaries, ascribing to them motives that fit their in-group’s preferred narrative. But they do little for readers.

The Guardian’s review is terribly unfair to The Coddling of the American Mind’s two authors, but that is of comparatively little consequence. If the book’s thesis is correct and its insights are actually adopted, it could help a lot of people; if it is incorrect in a way most people fail to appreciate, it could do harm or impede a search for better solutions. That’s why it would be valuable to have a rigorous critique from a skeptical reader. Put another way, testing the truth of its claims really matters.

But Weigel’s look at the book—perhaps the most prominent skeptical review it received—spent little time arguing about its actual claims. Instead, it focused on the attributes of its authors and how they might be invoked to reify the progressive left’s notions of what ostensibly motivated them to write, or who has the better overarching ideological narrative to advance. This is the problem with the Idioms of Non-Argument. They don’t leave us any closer to understanding.