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religion-is-a-mental-illness · 1 year

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By: Peter Boghossian, Ed.D. (aka Peter Boyle, Ed.D.) and James Lindsay, Ph.D. (aka, Jamie Lindsay, Ph.D.)

Published: May 19, 2017

Note from the editor: Every once in awhile it is necessary and desirable to expose extreme ideologies for what they are by carrying out their arguments and rhetoric to their logical and absurd conclusion, which is why we are proud to publish this expose of a hoaxed article published in a peer-reviewed journal today. Its ramifications are unknown but one hopes it will help rein in extremism in this and related areas. —Michael Shermer

“The conceptual penis as a social construct” is a Sokal-style hoax on gender studies. Follow the authors @peterboghossian and @GodDoesnt.

The Hoax

“The androcentric scientific and meta-scientific evidence that the penis is the male reproductive organ is considered overwhelming and largely uncontroversial.”

That’s how we began. We used this preposterous sentence to open a “paper” consisting of 3,000 words of utter nonsense posing as academic scholarship. Then a peer-reviewed academic journal in the social sciences accepted and published it.

This paper should never have been published. Titled, “The Conceptual Penis as a Social Construct,” our paper “argues” that “The penis vis-à-vis maleness is an incoherent construct. We argue that the conceptual penis is better understood not as an anatomical organ but as a gender-performative, highly fluid social construct.” As if to prove philosopher David Hume’s claim that there is a deep gap between what is and what ought to be, our should-never-have-been-published paper was published in the open-access (meaning that articles are freely accessible and not behind a paywall), peer-reviewed journal Cogent Social Sciences. (In case the PDF is removed, we’ve archived it.)

Assuming the pen names “Jamie Lindsay” and “Peter Boyle,” and writing for the fictitious “Southeast Independent Social Research Group,” we wrote an absurd paper loosely composed in the style of post-structuralist discursive gender theory. The paper was ridiculous by intention, essentially arguing that penises shouldn’t be thought of as male genital organs but as damaging social constructions. We made no attempt to find out what “post-structuralist discursive gender theory” actually means. We assumed that if we were merely clear in our moral implications that maleness is intrinsically bad and that the penis is somehow at the root of it, we could get the paper published in a respectable journal.

Manspreading — a complaint levied against men for sitting with their legs spread wide — is akin to raping the empty space around him.

This already damning characterization of our hoax understates our paper’s lack of fitness for academic publication by orders of magnitude. We didn’t try to make the paper coherent; instead, we stuffed it full of jargon (like “discursive” and “isomorphism”), nonsense (like arguing that hypermasculine men are both inside and outside of certain discourses at the same time), red-flag phrases (like “pre-post-patriarchal society”), lewd references to slang terms for the penis, insulting phrasing regarding men (including referring to some men who choose not to have children as being “unable to coerce a mate”), and allusions to rape (we stated that “manspreading,” a complaint levied against men for sitting with their legs spread wide, is “akin to raping the empty space around him”). After completing the paper, we read it carefully to ensure it didn’t say anything meaningful, and as neither one of us could determine what it is actually about, we deemed it a success.

Consider some examples. Here’s a paragraph from the conclusion, which was held in high regard by both reviewers:

We conclude that penises are not best understood as the male sexual organ, or as a male reproductive organ, but instead as an enacted social construct that is both damaging and problematic for society and future generations. The conceptual penis presents significant problems for gender identity and reproductive identity within social and family dynamics, is exclusionary to disenfranchised communities based upon gender or reproductive identity, is an enduring source of abuse for women and other gender-marginalized groups and individuals, is the universal performative source of rape, and is the conceptual driver behind much of climate change.

You read that right. We argued that climate change is “conceptually” caused by penises. How do we defend that assertion? Like this:

Destructive, unsustainable hegemonically male approaches to pressing environmental policy and action are the predictable results of a raping of nature by a male-dominated mindset. This mindset is best captured by recognizing the role of [sic] the conceptual penis holds over masculine psychology. When it is applied to our natural environment, especially virgin environments that can be cheaply despoiled for their material resources and left dilapidated and diminished when our patriarchal approaches to economic gain have stolen their inherent worth, the extrapolation of the rape culture inherent in the conceptual penis becomes clear.

And like this, which we claim follows from the above by means of an algorithmically generated nonsense quotation from a fictitious paper, which we referenced and cited explicitly in the paper:

Toxic hypermasculinity derives its significance directly from the conceptual penis and applies itself to supporting neocapitalist materialism, which is a fundamental driver of climate change, especially in the rampant use of carbon-emitting fossil fuel technologies and careless domination of virgin natural environments. We need not delve deeply into criticisms of dialectic objectivism, or their relationships with masculine tropes like the conceptual penis to make effective criticism of (exclusionary) dialectic objectivism. All perspectives matter.

If you’re having trouble understanding what any of that means, there are two important points to consider. First, we don’t understand it either. Nobody does. This problem should have rendered it unpublishable in all peer-reviewed, academic journals. Second, these examples are remarkably lucid compared to much of the rest of the paper. Consider this final example:

Inasmuch as masculinity is essentially performative, so too is the conceptual penis. The penis, in the words of Judith Butler, “can only be understood through reference to what is barred from the signifier within the domain of corporeal legibility” (Butler, 1993). The penis should not be understood as an honest expression of the performer’s intent should it be presented in a performance of masculinity or hypermasculinity. Thus, the isomorphism between the conceptual penis and what’s referred to throughout discursive feminist literature as “toxic hypermasculinity,” is one defined upon a vector of male cultural machismo braggadocio, with the conceptual penis playing the roles of subject, object, and verb of action. The result of this trichotomy of roles is to place hypermasculine men both within and outside of competing discourses whose dynamics, as seen via post-structuralist discourse analysis, enact a systematic interplay of power in which hypermasculine men use the conceptual penis to move themselves from powerless subject positions to powerful ones (confer: Foucault, 1972).

No one knows what any of this means because it is complete nonsense. Anyone claiming to is pretending. Full stop.

It gets worse. Not only is the text ridiculous, so are the references. Most of our references are quotations from papers and figures in the field that barely make sense in the context of the text. Others were obtained by searching keywords and grabbing papers that sounded plausibly connected to words we cited. We read exactly zero of the sources we cited, by intention, as part of the hoax. And it gets still worse…

Some references cite the Postmodern Generator, a website coded in the 1990s by Andrew Bulhak featuring an algorithm, based on NYU physicist Alan Sokal’s method of hoaxing a cultural studies journal called Social Text, that returns a different fake postmodern “paper” every time the page is reloaded. We cited and quoted from the Postmodern Generator liberally; this includes nonsense quotations incorporated in the body of the paper and citing five different “papers” generated in the course of a few minutes.

Five references to fake papers in journals that don’t exist is astonishing on its own, but it’s incredible given that the original paper we submitted had only sixteen references total (it has twenty now, after a reviewer asked for more examples). Nearly a third of our references in the original paper go to fake sources from a website mocking the fact that this kind of thing is brainlessly possible, particularly in “academic” fields corrupted by postmodernism. (More on that later.)

Two of the fake journals cited are Deconstructions from Elsewhere and And/Or Press (taken directly from algorithmically generated fictitious citations on the Postmodern Generator). Another cites the fictitious researcher “S. Q. Scameron,” whose invented name appears in the body of the paper several times. In response, the reviewers noted that our references are “sound,” even after an allegedly careful cross-referencing check done in the final round of editorial approval. No matter the effort put into it, it appears one simply cannot jump Cogent Social Sciences’ shark.

We didn’t originally go looking to hoax Cogent Social Sciences, however. Had we, this story would be only half as interesting and a tenth as apparently damning. Cogent Social Sciences was recommended to us by another journal, NORMA: International Journal for Masculinity Studies, a Taylor and Francis journal. NORMA rejected “The Conceptual Penis as a Social Construct” but thought it a great fit for the Cogent Series, which operates independently under the Taylor and Francis imprimatur. In their rejection letter, the editors of NORMA wrote,

We feel that your manuscript would be well-suited to our Cogent Series, a multidisciplinary, open journal platform for the rapid dissemination of peer-reviewed research across all disciplines.

Transferring your manuscript:

Saves you time because there is no need for you to reformat or resubmit your work manually

Provides faster publication because previous reviews are transferred with your manuscript.

To ensure all work is open to everyone, the Cogent Series invites a “pay what you want” contribution towards the costs of open access publishing if your article is accepted for publication. This can be paid by you as author or by your institution or research funder. Many institutions and funders now provide financial support for open access publishing.

We took them up on the transfer, and Cogent Social Sciences eventually accepted “The Conceptual Penis as a Social Construct.” The reviewers were amazingly encouraging, giving us very high marks in nearly every category. For example, one reviewer graded our thesis statement “sound” and praised it thusly, “It capturs [sic] the issue of hypermasculinity through a multi-dimensional and nonlinear process” (which we take to mean that it wanders aimlessly through many layers of jargon and nonsense). The other reviewer marked the thesis, along with the entire paper, “outstanding” in every applicable category.

They didn’t accept the paper outright, however. Cogent Social Sciences’ Reviewer #2 offered us a few relatively easy fixes to make our paper “better.” We effortlessly completed them in about two hours, putting in a little more nonsense about “manspreading” (which we alleged to be a cause of climate change) and “dick-measuring contests.”

The publication of our hoax reveals two problems. One relates to the business model of pay-to-publish, open-access journals. The other lies at the heart of academic fields like gender studies.

The Pay-to-Publish, Open-Access Journal Problem

Cogent Social Sciences is a multidisciplinary open access journal offering high quality peer review across the social sciences: from law to sociology, politics to geography, and sport to communication studies. Connect your research with a global audience for maximum readership and impact.

One of the biggest questions facing peer-reviewed publishing is, “Are pay-to-publish, open-access journals the future of academic publishing?” We seem to have answered that question with a large red, “No!”

There is, however, an asterisk on that “No!” That is, the peer-review process in pay-to-publish, open-access journals cannot achieve quality assurance without extremely stringent safeguards (which will come as no surprise to anyone familiar with the debate). There’s nothing necessarily or intrinsically wrong with either open-access or pay-to-publish journals, and they may ultimately prove valuable. However, in the short term, pay-to-publish may be a significant problem because of the inherent tendencies toward conflicts of interest (profits trump academic quality, that is, the profit motive is dangerous because ethics are expensive).

The pay-to-publish mechanism should not affect the quality control standards of the peer-review process. Cogent Open Access claims to address this problem by using a blind review process. Does it work? Perhaps not always, if this case is any indication. Some pay-to-publish journals happily exploit career-minded academicians and will publish anything (cf: the famous Seinfeld hoax paper)1. Is that the case here? Gender studies scholars committed to the integrity of their academic discipline should hope so, and they have reason for suspecting it. For a minimal payment of $625, Cogent Social Sciences was ready to publish, “The Conceptual Penis as a Social Construct.”2

There seems to be a deeper problem here, however. Suspecting we may be dealing with a predatory pay-to-publish outlet, we were surprised that an otherwise apparently legitimate Taylor and Francis journal directed us to contribute to the Cogent Series. (Authors’ note: we leave it to the reader to decide whether or not NORMA: International Journal for Masculinity Studies constitutes a legitimate journal, but to all appearances it is run by genuine academic experts in the field and is not a predatory money-mill.) The problem, then, may rest not only with pay-to-publish journals, but also with the infrastructure that supports them.

In sum, it’s difficult to place Cogent Social Sciences on a spectrum ranging from a rigorous academic journal in gender studies to predatory pay-to-publish money mill. First, Cogent Social Sciences operates with the legitimizing imprimatur of Taylor and Francis, with which it is clearly closely partnered. Second, it’s held out as a high-quality open-access journal by the Directory of Open Access Journals (DOAJ), which is intended to be a reliable list of such journals. In fact, it carries several more affiliations with similar credentialing organizations.

These facts cast considerable doubt on the facile defense that Cogent Social Sciences is a sham journal that accepted “The Conceptual Penis as a Social Construct” simply to make money. As a result, wherever Cogent Social Sciences belongs on the spectrum just noted, there are significant reasons to believe that much of the problem lies within the very concept of any journal being a “rigorous academic journal in gender studies.”

Postmodernism, Gender Studies, and the Canon of Knowledge

In 1996, Alan Sokal, a Professor of Physics at NYU, published the bogus paper, “Transgressing the Boundaries: Towards a Transformative Hermeneutics of Quantum Gravity,” in the preeminent cultural studies journal Social Text which is in turn published by Duke University Press. The publication of this nonsense paper, in a prestigious journal with a strong postmodernist orientation, delivered a devastating blow to postmodernism’s intellectual legitimacy.

Subsequently, Sokal and the Belgian physicist Jean Bricmont noted in their 1997 book, Fashionable Nonsense, that certain kinds of ideas can become so fashionable that the critical faculties required for the peer-review process are compromised, allowing outright nonsense to be published, so long as it looks or sounds a certain way, or promotes certain values. It was standing upon Sokal’s shoulders that we proceeded with our hoax, though we perceived a slightly different need.

Sokal’s aim was to demonstrate that fashionable linguistic abuses (especially relying upon puns and wordplay related to scientific terms), apparent scientific authority, conformity with certain leftist political norms, and flattery of the academic preconceptions of an editorial board would be sufficient to secure publication and thus expose shoddy academic rigor on the part of postmodernist scholarship and social commentary.

A primary target of Sokal’s hoax was the appropriation of mathematical and scientific terminology that postmodernist “scholars” didn’t understand and didn’t use correctly. (We included “isomorphism” and “vector” in our paper in subtle homage to Sokal.) Fashionable Nonsense pays particular attention to postmodernists’ abuses of mathematical and scientific terminology. That is, Sokal took aim at an academic abuse by postmodernists and hit his target dead-center. His paper could only have been published if the postmodernists who approved it exhibited overwhelming political motivations and a staggering lack of understanding of basic mathematics and physics terminology.

The scientific community was exuberant that Sokal burst the postmodern bubble because they were fed up with postmodernists misusing scientific and mathematical terms to produce jargon-laden nonsense and bizarre social commentary carrying the apparent gravitas of scientific terminology. It appears that Social Text accepted Sokal’s paper specifically because Sokal was a recognized scientist who appeared to have seen the light.

Our hoax was similar, of course, but it aimed to expose a more troubling bias. The most potent among the human susceptibilities to corruption by fashionable nonsense is the temptation to uncritically endorse morally fashionable nonsense. That is, we assumed we could publish outright nonsense provided it looked the part and portrayed a moralizing attitude that comported with the editors’ moral convictions. Like any impostor, ours had to dress the part, though we made our disguise as ridiculous and caricatured as possible—not so much affixing an obviously fake mustache to mask its true identity as donning two of them as false eyebrows.

Sokal exposed an infatuation with academic puffery that characterizes the entire project of academic postmodernism. Our aim was smaller yet more pointed. We intended to test the hypothesis that flattery of the academic Left’s moral architecture in general, and of the moral orthodoxy in gender studies in particular, is the overwhelming determiner of publication in an academic journal in the field. That is, we sought to demonstrate that a desire for a certain moral view of the world to be validated could overcome the critical assessment required for legitimate scholarship. Particularly, we suspected that gender studies is crippled academically by an overriding almost-religious belief that maleness is the root of all evil. On the evidence, our suspicion was justified.3

As a matter of deeper concern, there is unfortunately some reason to believe that our hoax will not break the relevant spell. First, Alan Sokal’s hoax, now more than 20 years old, did not prevent the continuation of bizarre postmodernist “scholarship.” In particular, it did not lead to a general tightening of standards that would have blocked our own hoax. Second, people rarely give up on their moral attachments and ideological commitments just because they’re shown to be out of alignment with reality.

In the 1950s, psychologist Leon Festinger revealed the operation of the well-known phenomenon called cognitive dissonance when he infiltrated a small UFO cult known as the “Seekers.” When the apocalyptic beliefs of the Seekers failed to materialize as predicted, Festinger documented that many cultists did not accept the possibility that the facts upended their core beliefs but instead rationalized them. Many Seekers adopted a subsequent belief that they played a role in saving the world with their fidelity; that is, they believed the doomsday-bringing extraterrestrials were so impressed by their faith that they decided not to destroy the world after all!

It is therefore plausible that some gender studies scholars will argue that the “conceptual penis” makes sense as we described it, that men do often suffer from machismo braggadocio, and that there is an isomorphism between these concepts via some personal toxic hypermasculine conception of their penises.

We sincerely hope not.

Conclusion: A Two-Pronged Problem for Academia

There are at least two deeply troublesome diseases damaging the credibility of the peer-review system in fields such as gender studies:

the echo-chamber of morally driven fashionable nonsense coming out of the postmodernist social “sciences” in general, and gender studies departments in particular and

the complex problem of pay-to-publish journals with lax standards that cash in on the ultra-competitive publish-or-perish academic environment. At least one of these sicknesses led to “The Conceptual Penis as a Social Construct” being published as a legitimate piece of academic scholarship, and we can expect proponents of each to lay primary blame upon the other.

“The Conceptual Penis as a Social Construct” underwent a blind peer-review process and yet was accepted for publication. This needs serious explaining. Part of the fault may fall on the open-access, pay-to-publish model, but the rest falls on the entire academic enterprise collectively referred to as “gender studies.” As we see it, gender studies in its current form needs to do some serious housecleaning.

To repeat a critical point, this paper was published in a social science journal that was recommended to us as reputable by a supposedly reliable academic source. Cogent Social Sciences has the trappings of a legitimate peer-reviewed journal. There is no way around the fact that the publication of this paper in such a journal must point to some problem with the current state of academic publishing. The components of the problem are, it seems, reducible to just two: academic misfeasance arising from pay-to-publish, open-access financial decision-making; and unconscionable pseudo-academic inbreeding contaminating, if not defining, the postmodernist theory-based social sciences.

On the other hand, no one is arguing, nor has any reason to argue, that respectable journals like Nature and countless others have adopted a peer-review process that is fundamentally flawed or in any meaningful way corrupt. Much of the peer-review system remains the gold-standard for the advancement of human knowledge. The problem lies within a nebula of marginal journals, predatory pay-to-publish journals, and, possibly to some degree, open-access journals—although it may largely be discipline-specific, as we had originally hoped to discover. This is, after all, not the first time postmodernist academia has fallen for a hoax.

This hoax, however, was rooted in moral and political biases masquerading as rigorous academic theory. Working in a biased environment, we successfully sugarcoated utter nonsense with a combination of fashionable moral sentiments and impenetrable jargon. Cogent Social Sciences happily swallowed the pill. It left utter nonsense easy to disguise.

The publish-or-perish academic environment is its own poison that needs a remedy. It gives rise to predatory profit-driven journals with few or no academic standards that take advantage of legitimate scholars pressured into publishing their work at all costs, even if it is marginal or dubious. Many of these scholars are victims both of a system that is forcing them to publish more papers and to publish them more often, to the detriment of research quality, and of the predatory journals that offer to sell them the illusion of academic prestige. Certainly, we have every reason to suspect that a majority of the other academics who have published in Cogent Social Sciences and other journals in the Cogent Series are genuine scholars who have been cheated by what may be a weak peer-review process with a highly polished edifice. Our question about the fundamental integrity of fields like gender studies seems much more pressing nonetheless.

“The Conceptual Penis as a Social Construct” should not have been published on its merits because it was actively written to avoid having any merits whatsoever. The paper is academically worthless nonsense. The question that now needs to be answered is, “How can we restore the reliability of the peer-review process?”

"The Conceptual Penis” ultimately served as the beta test to the larger Grievance Studies Affair , which exposed the pervasive academic corruption in Gender Studies, Women’s Studies, Sexuality Studies, Cultural Studies, and others.

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religion-is-a-mental-illness · 1 year

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By: Michael Sherman

Published: May 8, 2023

On May 7, 2023 a new documentary series by the filmmaker Michael Nayna, titled The Reformers, premiers on Substack (Part 1 is free, the additional 3 parts are paywalled). It's worth watching. The series is about the Sokal Squared hoaxed papers that revealed the hallow obscurantism of grievance studies. Here’s the description and trailer:

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Skeptic magazine revealed the first Sokal Squared hoax paper, titled “The Conceptual Penis as a Social Construct: A Sokal-Style Hoax on Gender Studies.” The original paper is full of academic balderdash. For example:

We argue that the conceptual penis is better understood not as an anatomical organ but as a social construct isomorphic to performative toxic masculinity.

And:

In their exposé the authors of the hoaxed paper, James Lindsey and Peter Boghossian, offer two reasons for their hoax: (1) the pretentious nonsense that often passes for scholarship in postmodernism studies, and (2) the lax standards of some peer-reviewed journals. Critics of the hoax pounced on the second, claiming that the journal that published their nonsensical paper, Cogent Social Science, is a lowered-tiered journal and therefore the hoax was a failure. My motivation for publishing the exposé focused on the first problem. To me, it wouldn’t have mattered if the hoax were published in the Annals of Improbable Research, The Journal of Irreproducible Results, or even the Onion. The point, for me, is not to fool journal editors, but to expose scholarship that passes for cogent argumentation in support of a thesis that is, in fact, what Gordon Pennycook, James Allan Cheyne, and their colleagues call “pseudo-profound bullshit.”

Bullshit, they write, is language “constructed to impress upon the reader some sense of profundity at the expense of a clear exposition of meaning or truth.” Bullshit is meant to impress through obfuscation; that is, to say something that sounds profound but may be nonsense. It may not be nonsense, but if you can’t tell the difference then, to quote Strother Martin’s character from the 1967 Paul Newman film Cool Hand Luke, “what we’ve got here is failure to communicate.” Compare, for example, any of the passages from the “Conceptual Penis” hoax to the abstract for the 2016 paper published in the peer-reviewed journal Progress in Human Geography titled “Glaciers, Gender, and Science”:

Glaciers are key icons of climate change and global environmental change. However, the relationships among gender, science, and glaciers—particularly related to epistemological questions about the production of glaciological knowledge—remain understudied. This paper thus proposes a feminist glaciology framework with four key components: 1) knowledge producers; (2) gendered science and knowledge; (3) systems of scientific domination; and (4) alternative representations of glaciers. Merging feminist postcolonial science studies and feminist political ecology, the feminist glaciology framework generates robust analysis of gender, power, and epistemologies in dynamic social-ecological systems, thereby leading to more just and equitable science and human-ice interactions.

When this paper was published I thought it was a hoax, so I contacted the University of Oregon, the institution of the paper’s authors, and confirmed it was real. And this is just one of countless examples, posted daily on Twitter @RealPeerReview and retweeted all over the Internet to the amusement of readers who cannot decipher what most of these articles are even about, much less comprehend their arguments and gain value from their conclusions.

What matters to me is the truth about reality (lower t and lower r), which science is best equipped to determine. Ever since the 1980s there has been a movement afoot in academia in which postmodernism has encroached on some of biology, much of social science (especially cultural anthropology), and most of history, literature, and the humanities, in which the claim is made that there is no truth to be determined because there is no reality to study. Nearly everything—from race and gender to genes and brains—is socially constructed and linguistically determined by our narratives. And the more obfuscating those narratives are about these socially constructed non-realities, the better. This is the very opposite of how science should be conducted and communicated, and it is, in part, why we are currently witnessing the campus madness involving student protests—and even violence—when their unscientific postmodern unreal worldviews collide with the reality of contradictory facts and opposing viewpoints. It’s time we put a stop to the lunacy and demand critical thinking and clear communication.

The Morality of Hoaxes

The beauty and power of a well-executed hoax is that it reveals deeper truths not only about both the victims of the hoax and the hoaxers themselves, but about human nature and the foibles of our belief systems.

Decades of careful and extensive research into cognition and the psychology of how beliefs are formed reveals that none of us simply gather facts and draw conclusions from them in an inductive process. What happens is that most of us most of the time arrive at our beliefs for a host of psychological and social reasons have little or nothing to do with logic, reason, empiricism, or data. Most of our beliefs are shaped by our parents, our siblings, our peer groups, our teachers, our mentors, our professional colleagues, and by the culture at large. We form and hold those beliefs because they provide emotional comfort, because they fit well with our life styles or career choices, or because they work within the larger context of our family dynamics or social network. Then we build back into those beliefs reasons for why we hold them. This process is driven by two well-known cognitive biases: the hindsight bias, where once an event has happened or a belief is formed it is easy to look back and reconstruct not only how it happened or was formed, but also why it had to be that way and not some other way; and the confirmation bias,, in which we seek and find confirmatory evidence in support of already existing beliefs and ignore or reinterpret disconfirmatory evidence.

Given this state of our cognitive limitations, it should not surprise us that a movement arose in the 1980s that is variously described as postmodernism, deconstructionism, or cognitive relativism. Going far beyond cognitive psychology and leaning heavily on Marxist notions of cultural and class determinism, this academic movement came to believe that there are no privileged truths, no objective reality to be discovered, and no belief, idea, hypothesis, or theory that is closer to the truth than any other. In time, the movement spilled out of lit-crit English departments into the history and philosophy of science, as professional philosophers and historians, swept up in a paroxysm of postmodern deconstruction, proffered a view of science as a relativistic game played by European white males in a reductionistic frenzy of hermeneutical hegemony, hell bent on suppressing the masses beneath the thumb of dialectical scientism and technocracy. Yes, some of them actually talk like that, and one really did call Newton’s Principia a “rape manual.”

In 1996 the New York University physicist and mathematician Alan Sokal put an end to this intellectual masturbation with one of the greatest hoaxes in academic history. Sokal penned a nonsensical article entitled “Transgressing the Boundaries: Toward a Transformative Hermeneutics of Quantum Gravity,” choc-a-block full of postmodern phrases and deconstructionist tropes interspersed with scientific jargon, and submitted it to the journal Social Text, one of two leading publications frequented by fashionably obtuse academics. One sentence from the article, plucked randomly from the text, reads as follows:

It has thus become increasingly apparent that physical “reality”, no less than social “reality”, is at bottom a social and linguistic construct; that scientific “knowledge”, far from being objective, reflects and encodes the dominant ideologies and power relations of the culture that produced it; that the truth claims of science are inherently theory-laden and self-referential; and consequently, that the discourse of the scientific community, for all its undeniable value, cannot assert a privileged epistemological status with respect to counter-hegemonic narratives emanating from dissident or marginalized communities.

Sokal’s article was accepted for publication (as “real”, whatever that means in postmodernism), and upon release Sokal revealed it was all a hoax, and did so, deliciously, in the chief competitor of Social Text, the journal Dissent. Sokal called it a nonsense parody, but because most of what passes for postmodernism is nonsense and indistinguishable from parody, the editors of Social Text could not tell the difference! Q.E.D.

Subsequently, Sokal published a comprehensive book-length explanation, Beyond the Hoax, that provides readers with an annotated edition of the original article (explaining how he came up with each and every meaningless phrase!), the subsequent article in Dissent in which he explained himself to the disgruntled readers of Social Text, and a number of subsequent articles and essays he wrote in the decade since the hoax in which he elaborated on the problems inherent in postmodern philosophy of science. The golden nugget within this longish book—worth the price of admission by itself—is the annotated parody. For example, explaining the above passage, divided up into the semi-colon phrases, Sokal writes (with ellipses denoting the phrase explanations):

This statement is, of course, absurd, but it reflects several conceits of “postmodern” theoretical writing. First of all, reality (even physical reality) has become in certain circles a no-no concept, which must be placed in scare quotes. … This assertion is a commonplace (dare I say a cliché) in radical-social-constructivist writing about science. Like most clichés, it contains a grain of truth but greatly exaggerates the case. Above all, it fails to make the crucial distinction between actual knowledge (i.e. rationally justified true belief) and purported knowledge. … The theory-ladenness of observations goes back at least to physicist-philosopher Pierre Duhem in 1894; it poses problems for the most naïve falsifiability theories but by no means undercuts the epistemic claims of science. … This statement is silly, but it strikes the right emotional chords: against “privilege” (especially scientists’ privilege) and in favor of the “counter-hegemonic”, the “dissident”, and the “marginalized”. … Note, finally, that the four assertions contained in this sentence are at the very least debatable (if not downright absurd); certainly some argument in their favor ought to be required. But the editors of Social Text were happy to publish an article in which these assertions are taken for granted. Apparently in certain circles nowadays these assertions are taken for granted.

Hoaxes are one of the most powerful tools of instruction and edification ever created because they reveal a weakness in human cognition involving gullibility and self-deception. As long as no one is hurt in the process and the reveal in the end is complete and honest, hoaxes are a form of magic.

Magicians, for example, intentionally deceive their audiences, but as long as they are not claiming to use paranormal or supernatural powers (so-called “real magic”), magic can be one of the best tools for understanding how the mind works by revealing how easily it is tricked. From a scientist’s and skeptic’s perspective, magicians like Penn and Teller are effective because they not only deceive their audiences, they often also reveal how the tricks are done in order to make a deeper point about deception, self-deception, and honesty. A properly executed hoax can be as entertaining and educational as a good magic show.

Moral objections to hoaxes should be reasonably considered, of course, but as long as no one is hurt in the process and the hoax is revealed in the end and shown to be executed with good intentions to make a deeper point, there is nothing unethical or immoral about hoaxing, and in fact the beauty and power of a well-executed hoax is that it reveals deeper truths not only about both the victims of the hoax and the hoaxers themselves, but about human nature and the foibles of our belief systems.

Why do people fall for such hoaxes? The hindsight bias and the confirmation bias. Once you believe that science holds no privileged position in the search for truth, and that it is just another way of knowing, it is easy to pull out of such hoaxed articles additional evidence that supports your belief. It is a very human process, and since science is conducted by very real humans, isn’t it subject to these same cognitive biases? Yes, except for one thing: the built-in process known as the scientific method.

There is progress in science, and some views really are superior to others, regardless of the color, gender, or country of origin of the scientist holding that view. Despite the fact that scientific data are “theory laden,” science is truly different than art, music, religion, and other forms of human “knowing” because it has a self-correcting mechanism built into it. If you don’t catch the flaws in your theory, the slant in your bias, or the distortion in your preferences, someone else will, usually with great glee and in a public forum, for example, a competing journal! Scientists may be biased, but science itself, for all its flaws, is still the best system ever devised for understanding how the world works.

It's enlightening, but also disturbing, to see the nonsensical academic shibboleths that we're surrounded by today are unchanged from Sokal's hoax almost 30 years ago when he spotted the problem.

They've been concocting buzzword-laden nonsense, peddling intellectual fraud as wisdom, and inventing fake credentials through bogus journals - aka "idea laundering" - for no less than that long.

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afreakingdork · 6 months

Text

Weak Spot - Chapter 41

RotTMNT Donatello x Reader

@garbagemilkshake is really selling it with this week's chapter artwork 😏

Warnings: Aged-up Turtles, Romance, Meet Cute, Villain Donatello, Cussing, Crushes, Xenophobia, Fear, Intimidation, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Hurt/Comfort, Love, AFAB Reader, Vaginal Sex, Sex Rough, Sex, Penis In Vagina Sex, Creampie, Teasing, Scent Kink, Sexual Tension, Breeding Kink, Multiple Orgasms, Cunnilingus, Fellatio, Marathon Sex, Somnophilia, Intercrural Sex, Bondage, Feral Behavior, Feral Donatello (TMNT), Mating Cycles/In Heat, Public Sex

Synopsis: A love story of villainous proportions! Though it hadn’t come easily, as these things rarely do, you found yourself in a whirlwind romance with a handsome and mysterious mutant. His idiosyncrasies had been easy to ignore as attraction grew into something more. However, will love endure when the unknowns about him end up being far darker than you ever considered?

It's wild that we've finally gotten here because it feels like it's been centuries, but this is the final chapter that includes a scene inspired by @some-guy-named-dominyk It dates back to when Weak Spot was still being conceptualized back in January! Huge shout-out and also how freaking far we've come!!!

Fem!Reader References/Warnings Below Cut

Also available on Ao3

First 💜 Previous

Last warning for the 🍋 under the cut. Minors DNI!

Fem!Reader References/Warnings: couple of bra mentions, impregnation mention, boob accentuation, folds teasing, getting wet

“Hey, Don?” From where your back was pressed to the flat of his side, you shifted your head against the bicep it was resting on. It accentuated the crook you’d carved out where you were comparing your nails to his.

“Hm?” You could feel him hum through his shell and how he had yet to stop scrolling on his phone.

“When’s your birthday?” You pressed your thumbs side by side to see if the texture was similar.

He made a small noise of recognition and you listened as he let his phone fall to his chest. “Approximately 35, hm.”

Squinting at how that wasn’t an answer, you turned a bit. It wasn’t enough to see him, but instead clip the canopy of your bed. “Donnie?”

“My age.” He clarified.

“That’s not-” You gave a signaling grunt that you were going to roll over.

He adjusted his arm to give you room.

“-what I asked.” You looked at him, pressing your chin to his plastron.

“I don’t have one.”

“What?”

He gazed at you with faint amusement.

“So…” You felt your expression fall. “Every time you said ‘approximately’…?”

“No way to know for sure. My testing is as accurate as possible.”

“You said 35 now, so you obviously have a date you roll it over?”

The corner of his lip turned up and you felt the slide as the arm you’d been laying on came around your body. “The date is arbitrary.”

“It’s not funny. You’ve never had a birthday?” You tucked your chin down knowing it made you look up at him through your lashes.

The allure manifested in more affection. “What point is there to a mad man celebrating the passage of time?”

That made sense.

In a blink, you saw by how many levels.

There was little time for cake when he was scrambling not to starve as a child.

Balloons would have only hindered a fugitive teen.

He assumedly only wanted one prize in his 20s and that wasn’t something to be gift wrapped.

By 30, he was only starting out life and whipping up a party for one was a low priority.

In a bend, you felt him brush your shoulder before he pet your head. “Your thoughts?”

“I’m a little sad for you.” This time you sank down, dejected, until you could feel the rigid surface of his scutes against your lips.

He pressed his palm to the back of your head and coaxed your gaze to him. “I’m reminded of an Einstein quote.”

“’Time is relative?’” You only flicked your pupils to him before letting them fall.

“There is a continuation in some cases.”

With mild reluctance, you looked at him.

"'It's only worth depends upon what we do as it is passing.'"

The press of a digit said who he was referring to.

You softened with a pout. “Don…”

“Give me one.”

The jolt brought you all the way up to sitting.

His smile grew enough that it curled up the corners of his vision.

“Don, that’s like really important.”

“I know.” He’d had the reach to keep his hand on your head, but he let it cascade to your shoulder. There he gave a reassuring squeeze. “For you.”

Heart fluttering, you pursed your lips to think. “You switching to 35 now plus all the lost time makes me want to do it as soon as possible.”

“It can be tomorrow.” He offered with little weight.

“No, too soon.” You dismissed him absently as you wracked your brain. “Uh what star sign is it right now?”

Donnie seemed less amused as he arched his brow. Still, he relented and showed you his phone as he typed that query in. “Virgo.”

“Oh.” You spoke with a knowing air that he clearly didn’t comprehend. “Yeah, let me see.” You poured over his plastron and he offered up his phone. Tabbing over the date range you chuckled at the aspects of the sign.

Deals with information like a computer.

Chases after ideals to a destructive degree.

Must remember flaws are not defects.

A kind, supportive lover.

“This one for sure!”

Donnie sensed your amusement and pulled his phone back to review. “Inane.”

You laughed.

“For that reason?” He gave a face of disgust.

“No, just a happy coincidence.”

He exaggerated his expression.

You changed angles to peck his cheek. “One month from now and make it a weekend so…” You tipped his phone and in a few clicks had a calendar up. “September 17th.”

He made a show of rolling his eyes.

“Want to have a party?”

Coming down only partially from his grouch, he observed you. “What do you think?”

It wasn’t rhetorical and had you tapping a scute. “Like do I think you’ll have fun?”

“You have experience in the area. In addition to knowledge regarding me.”

“A small one.” You decided, giving him another kiss. “Anyone you’d like to invite or not?”

“The obvious.”

“Kaleb.” You agreed.

“Your friend group has been agreeable.” His look evened out to one you couldn’t quite read. “There’s been no move on their knowledge.”

“Yeah.” You felt as though you were giving whatever sentiment he had. That meant it was a sort of cautious optimism. “I think we’re okay.”

You felt a small pull in his body at your combined inference.

You smiled all the more. “We can find out by inviting them. If they’re really worried, they aren’t going to want to go to a villain’s birthday party.”

Donnie made a noise of agreement and gave a vague nod.

“We’ll rent out a bar.” You walked through your thoughts as they came up. “Cake, decorations, we should play catch up! Do some silly games that kids do, just cause. Why not? It’ll be fun as long as everyone commits! Then something more your style, like a trivia game?” You turned the question to him.

As he chewed the concept, his eyes lit up incrementally.

“We’ll have to do everyone versus you.”

“It still would not be a challenge.”

“You’ll have fun destroying us.”

“I aim for a perfect score.”

You chuckled and shared a kiss. “Flavor of cake?”

He hummed with interest. “Let’s order a nice one. You pick a style and I’ll schedule a tasting?” You watched as he disappeared into himself for a moment before snapping back to reality. “A preview.”

“You… aren’t talking about the birthday party…”

“No, I’m not.” He looked straight at you.

Where your heart was beating out of your chest before, it did a single leap to escape. “We haven’t-!”

“Discussed anything.” He agreed. “No rush, only a taste of what’s to come.”

Heat pooled in your cheeks and the weight brought your eyeseye down. “I do want to talk about it sometime.”

“We will.” He propped up on his elbows to catch you. “Not now. Birthday first.”

You nodded and kissed him to relieve the insistent ache.

He returned it with reassurance.

In a break for air, you spoke against his lips. “What can I get you?”

He stole an extra press before looking at you for clarity.

“A birthday gift. You’ll get gifts, so I’ll need ideas for the others, but I’m asking for me.”

“A gift…” He pondered and laid back into his pillow.

You cooled down your face before chasing him.

“Uranium.” He gave a bob of laughter.

From where you had just rested on his chest, your head shot up. “Like… the radioactive stuff!?”

He nodded, amused with himself.

“Why?!”

“I’m not allowed.” He scratched your back to soothe your surprise.

You chuffed as his words did the opposite. “There’s a story there!”

Donnie’s eyes shot to the top right of his vision as if it was a great labor. “With its incredible amount of uses, it has somehow eluded me. I broke into many labs to retrieve some, but I was never once able to leave with it.”

You stared blankly.

“Nuclear weapon threat.” He clarified, nonchalant.

The corners of your lips dropped.

“It can be sold publicly under certain criteria, but I have been banned under an agreement.”

You pressed down on his plastron.

He feigned it pressing his lungs. “A stipulation of working with government approval. I’m not to come into possession of it by any means. They have multiple tracking programs that exist not to stop me, they know better, but to flag my entry into a system. My funding would be cut and all my projects seized and destroyed.”

You openly paled.

He gave a knowing huff. “Pity. Even if it could advance humanity; they’d rather destroy as a feeble means to slight me.”

“I know… like know, but it’s still so surprising when you say things like that…” You bore your gaze into his plastron.

He flattened out his hand to your back and pressed for comfort. “Perspective.”

Your gave a single nod.

“Unobtainable.” He rubbed up your spine to get your attention.

You gave it with a slight turn.

“Whatever you actually give me, I’ll cherish.”

You slowly sank down to hug him.

He gave you a squeeze.

“Thank you for sharing your dream.”

He nodded against your head.

“A month doesn’t seem like enough time now.”

He bobbed and gave the small of your back a sympathetic pat. “I said cherish, but preferably not a joke gift.”

You brought your face up to show him you’d take it seriously. “It’s your first.” You did your own knowing flash forward. “Down the road, someday.”

His gaze softened as he liked the insinuation of your future together.

You brushed his cheek slowly, committing the look to memory.

He allowed the etching.

Returning from hanging it in a mental gallery, you settled back down against his scutes. “Can you really not get around the flagging?”

“Irritatingly enough, no.” He clipped. “They flag every single entry into the system, even their own. They bested me only in tediousness.”

“Bureaucracy.”

“The bane of us all.” He nearly groaned.

“You celebrate birthdays.” You stared flatly at the drone from over your pad of paper.

“Oh yeah, every year!” S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. looked over from where he was moving music around on Donnie’s monitors. He could have easily done so within his head, but he’d offered to share for the sake of hanging out.

“You and Donnie live in two different worlds.” You couldn’t help but laugh as you made a note.

“Don’t I know it!” He rolled his eyes and you glimpsed a mass of files lift and drop into another folder.

“What do you do?” Where you had your knees pulled up into Donnie’s computer chair, you let the pad fall against your thighs.

“Gaming tournaments, server games, oh! And, one time, an online scavenger hunt!”

“You planned them all?”

“For sure! I’m more interested in everyone else having a good time!” He beamed you a glowing smile.

You jolted. “Ah! When is it?! Why didn’t I open with that?”

“Because you were thrown by what a dope MC I am!” S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. spun his chassis to reflect light which made it look like sparkles were coming off of him. “January 28th!”

“Early in the year.” You mused.

“Christmas part two.” S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. croned. “Any excuse to party!”

“You know…” Running your fingers along the edge of your pad, you dipped your eyes. “Coral wanted to meet you and the others know about Donnie…”

S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. had turned to face the monitors again and sent only his digital pupils over to you as he tried to reign himself in. “I’ve heard the second part.”

“You’re helping monitor.” You gave a bob of your head to indicate you knew. “Sorry, I haven’t had time to mention the first, everything was up in the air for a bit.”

“Dad’s PTSD.” He hovered a little to the side, just enough to where you could glimpse the other side of his beak. “Retraumatization and all.”

“Yeah.” Though on the mend, wounds like his were not something to be cured. They were to be carried and coped with. Even tonight, though he’d been fine enough going on his own to an investor dinner as a means to give you space to plan, you still had worries.

“Y/N?”

“Yeah?” You lifted your gaze at the new inflection.

“Not to push, but it sounded like you were leading to something… awesome??”

You pushed your lips to a corner. “Someone’s being selfish.”

“Me? Pssh! Never! Who’s that? Couldn’t be me…!” His gaze darted away before he flew right up to you. “But seriously, Coral wants to meet me and we’re already talking about a party so putting two and two together…!?”

You bopped him with your notepad.

He revved excitedly under it.

“Want to come to a birthday party?”

In a flick he rose up and knocked your pad to your chest. “Uh, duh!!”

You chuckled.

S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. swung back and forth shaking the rear of his unit. “A real party! A real party!”

“Cor’s gonna be mad, you know.”

“Pissed!” He sang, undeterred in his little dance.

“You might wanna pretend to be a little afraid. For her sake.”

“Nah!” He did a barrel roll back to you. “I’m gonna be me.”

“And everyone will love you.” You couldn’t help but reach out for him.

He let you pull him in where he nuzzled your cheek.

Releasing him, he hovered close and you tapped the pad. “Okay, so I’ve got the party supplies. You found a location.”

“Music?” He pretended to be aloof and whistled his way back to the computer.

“I do owe you that DJ event, but that’s supposed to be for you.”

He tapped the desk with one of his rotors. “Now look here, what’s a DJ to a party of one?”

Your lips fell a little.

“A blast.” He went on, without noticing.

It brought a smile to your face.

“But a crowd?” Another roar of his motors took him into another flip. “Now that’s a bash!”

“Remember, Donnie-”

“Pops doesn’t like music, yeah, yeah!” He waved a rotor at you before focusing on the screen as if he were writing hundreds of words a second.

You watched as dozens of screens and folders rotated for him to sift through.

“I’m gonna make a playlist so good that even he’ll shake his booty!”

If anyone could do it, you bet it was Shelly. “Now, that I want to see.”

“A gift for him and everyone else!” S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. slowed, playing a song and nodding as he considered it.

A gift.

Drawing the quintessential box on the page, you hadn’t made any progress in that department.

Whatever song S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. was playtesting perfectly encapsulated your mood on the matter.

It was solemn and quiet with little change to the soft tune.

You wanted to get Donnie something truly special. It was his first birthday after all, but it was near impossible to think of something he couldn’t already buy or make himself. Art was always an option. It ticked personality and showed care, but you didn’t really want something displayed. You wanted something that would be useful to him and his utilitarian housing choices showed his priorities. There was also the option of a plant, something that could be cared for, but how could it beat out the many little green babies that were growing happily above your head.

Doodling a little bow on top of the box, the song changed to one in a similar vein, but with a raising melody.

It ramped up in a way that you wished your mind would. Being honest with yourself, you really wished you could fulfill his impossible uranium dream. Sketching out radiating glow lines from the box, you could only think of how there was no way for someone like you to accomplish the task. If Donnie had never once been able to get his hands on the sum, what chance did you have?

His hands created technology far beyond what the world currently had to offer.

You could barely sketch out three dimensions to a square.

Etching shading that didn’t make sense, your pen made a blotch from a minor clogging. Frowning at it, you swept your hand over only for it to smudge on the page and your skin.

Grumbling, you brought the side of your hand up to lick it away.

Hand in mouth, you had raised up to see S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. hard at work.

Blinking once, you pulled your hand back to see the ink, only a faint purple mark on your skin.

You gave a widening smile.

“Hey, Shelly?”

“Hm?” He didn’t turn to you as he swapped two sound files back and forth, unable to settle on which should go first.

“Is there a place that stores Uranium in New York?”

Get home.

Dinner.

Hang out with your partner for a couple hours.

Work again.

Figure out how to explain that last bit.

Returning to the apartment and checking the first box, you greeted Donnie with what you hoped wasn’t too much enthusiasm. He didn’t seem out of sorts as he gave you a peck and returned to the mug he was nursing as he stared at lines of data. You inquired about it as you set your bag down and he muttered that he was having an odd error with no obvious culprit. You hadn’t picked up much in the way of the language, but you had a vague understanding that the whole thing didn’t allow for even the slightest mistake.

Letting him read it to you, he found it within a few minutes and the excitement of it had brought him over to scoop you up. A quick cuddle and a longer make-out session then gave way to a meal of reheated leftovers. Having been prepared in advance, it allowed Donnie to focused on the release of this program. As the very one he’d gone to see the investors about, the whole thing seemed to be a smashing success. From what you understood, his data would be integral for some worldwide implementation. He assured you it was all above board, but not something you’d notice as it was more of a work horse for other programs.

Taking his word for it, you made it through eating and chatting. Having gone over what birthday plans you had so far, Donnie then supplied a list of bakeries he was interested in. Together, you whittled it down to three options, with him ready to make appointments. Thinking that was all in the way of business, he then departed for what should have been your usual wind down routine. He wanted to be up bright and early so as he went to wash up, you stewed on the couch about how you’d never been able to reveal your ever approaching departure.

Water rushing and your window closing with each swish through it, your brain stalled as you tried to come up with a semblance of a plan. Each one combusted before it took form and you cursed the lousy flammable ground they formed on. Unable to prepare for even your boyfriend’s reaction, as it went left unimagined, you heard his voice before he touched you.

Spasming out of sudden fear, you shot away from his extended hand.

He stared at you with wide eyes. “The shower’s open.”

“Yup! Right!” Too loud.

“Y/N.” Donnie pulled at a towel around his neck, knowing this reaction all too well.

From where you were sitting on the couch, you crawled to the back of it as if you were standing at a podium. In the speaker’s role, you address your audience of one. “Birthday presents.”

He shifted his weight to one hip and evaluated you. “Yes?”

“They’re meant to be a surprise.”

His head tipped. “So I’ve heard.”

“Which means… I need to keep something from you.” Your gaze plummeted.

“An understood agreement.” He stepped forward and bent down to catch your vision. “We discussed the party being one.”

“That wouldn’t make sense.” You gave a nervous laugh as you turned your head. “You already know too much there.”

You sensed him waiting.

Picking your nails, you squeezed your eyes shut as you ripped the bandage off. “I have work tonight!”

You could almost hear his brain halting. “Your office is closed.”

“Yes…” You rose one lid at a time to find him staring down at you. “It’s not… at my office.”

Whatever patience waned with an edge of irritation. “Explain.”

That made it all the harder. “I… picked up a second job. It’s a whole thing and I hope you’ll understand, but it’s necessary to get your birthday present.”

Silence beat with the hollow of a drum.

Each percussion shook your core until you forced your attention to your partner.

Irritation now lined frustration.

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m not going to wash up.” You scrambled to get off the couch. “In a little under an hour, I’m going to need to head out for my first shift.”

You heard his padding against the ground and stiffened as you prepared for him to stop you. Instead, you found him near the front door, rifling through his things. Rounding the couch to get a better look, he turned and approached with some black in hand.

Blinking at him and then down, you spied a sleek credit card.

“If it’s money, please.”

“Donnie, that’s not-” You brought your hand up flat to push it away.

He pressed the edge of the card into your palm. “It’s in your name.”

“Donnie!”

“I know.” Worry laced his features. “It exists as a contingency. Under my account, but out of my control. Full access to all my funds.”

“Don-”

He stepped right into your space to show his insistence. “I understand there may be a custom that says you need to spend your funds and, in this way, they are.”

“It’s not about the money!” Your yell distracted him so that you could push his arm into his plastron.

His brow ridge came down like a stone. “I don’t understand.”

“I know and I can’t explain, but I think you’ll really love this.” You took your own turn shuffling forward which nearly pressed the two of you together. “Just for a little while.”

“How long?” He made no move.

“30 days.”

The left side of his face twitched. “How often?”

“Uh…” You resisted grabbing your phone. “I just saw my schedule, 5 days a week, three in a row for my first set.”

“Your normal job?”

You stared into his pectoral scutes. “Still going. It’ll be hard, but it’s only for a bit.”

“How long are these shifts?”

There was no good way to spin this part. “Eight hours…”

His hands locked onto your arms. “Y/N!”

“It’s not a lot of sleep, I know.” You were forced to meet his gaze.

“Full time!” Fury sat in his eyes. “That’s two hours of sleep at most!”

“It’s not every night!” You pressed.

“Whatever this is for, isn’t worth it.”

“It’s for you! You’ll see. You’ll-”

“No.” He released and stepped back from you. “Reconsider.”

You gave a withered exhale. “No, there’s a whole plan in place. I-”

His mouth opened to protest.

“Stop.” You shook your head and headed the other direction. “Listen, alright?”

He was quiet and trailed behind as you headed into the bedroom.

“It’s going to be miserable. I get it. I’m painfully aware of how exhausted I’m going to be and the amount of coffee I’ll need to keep it up, but this is important. You do everything for me.” You slowed, just shy of the bathroom and turned to address him. “I’ve finally figured out a way to return even one tenth of that and for such a special occasion? I need to do this, Don.”

You watched his eyes round to you multiple times as he searched for a shred to tear apart your words.

“I’m gonna wash my face at least.” You explained before stepping into the threshold.

He let you be which you took as a good sign.

Emerging a few minutes later, already a bit tired, but refreshed, you found him clothed and stewing on your bed.

Walking over to him, you tried to touch him, but he moved away.

Giving a sigh, you went to grab a snack to take with you. Finding little, you considered hitting a convenience store for that and some energy drinks. Trying to plot out exactly when to drink them so as not to disrupt the little sleep you’d get, time whittled away until you needed to head out. You gathered up your things and waited for Donnie to come to you. When he didn’t, you trailed slowly to find him laying down.

The picture of asleep, you approached his side of the bed cautiously. “Don? I’m heading out.”

He gave a little noise that he’d heard and turned over away from you.

You watched him with a sad smile. “See you later.”

Silence chased you as you exited the apartment.

You should have realized it was going to be a thing.

Returning that first night had caught him, still awake with ruffled sheets as a clear indication that he’d been angrily tossing and turning the whole time you were gone. Even then, he refused to receive you which you hadn’t minded because you were dead on your feet. Sweaty, you were forced to stumble to the shower where you boiled yourself before flopping into the bed still wet. As if to escape you, Donie rolled to the very edge of the bed and your lids fell on his form.

Breakfast was waiting for you when your alarm rudely interrupted what had to have been the second your eyes had closed.

What wasn’t there was your boyfriend.

Exhausted thoughts made you wonder if this was your first real fight as you ate the tasty balanced meal he’d left.

Sheer will power and a nap at lunch had gotten you through the day. Arriving home that night was nothing short of a miracle. Knowing you had to do it all over again created a sense of dread unlike anything you’d felt before.

It said a lot considering what you’d gone through.

Donnie passed you a single glance before he shifted to a new tantrum stage.

“You’re not leaving.”

“You’re not stopping me.” You were just exhausted enough that you had no control over your facial expression.

He took full offense to your bitter glare and tone.

What should have been your small respite quickly devolved into a screaming match.

Adrenaline had its own energizing prowess, but you sensed it was short lived.

Heat loosened nothing.

There were no daggers to be thrown.

With little more to argue other than you not going and you going, the matter had ended with you storming off ahead of schedule. It left you fuming as you rode over to the building and trapped as you plopped down in a locker room. Pressure releasing, you felt especially alone as you laid on a bench. Surrounded by the scent of starch and cleaning products, you crashed. An empty shell, your lids closed.

Opening them revealed your boss, glaring over you.

A stern and stout woman, you apologized profusely as she ushered you to change. Afraid of earning her scorn too soon as it was only your second night, you were served the weight task of cleaning an entire floor. Having barely shadowed another the night before for only one room, you had questions that she squashed it without a care.

This was what was expected of you.

It was in your job description.

You’d taken the position of night cleaner.

Changing into your breathable cotton uniform, you took your caddy as you hadn’t earned a cart yet. It meant more trips back to supply, but you focused on your tasks. From gathering trash to mopping, you put in the labor necessary. Exhaustion ate away at detailing which summoned your boss to reexamine your work. Putting in the effort to immediately clean each spot you missed, you heard her quiet as you scrubbed. A faint appreciation tracked you and you made sure to log the level you would need to maintain.

It meant you stayed an hour later to do the job right which brought you home to an even more furious Donnie.

The only thing that kept you from another fight was the lonely hour of sleep it left you with.

Blinking in bed, you woke to find yourself worse for wear.

Dead on your feet, you could barely raise your head as you headed toward the kitchen.

Another spread was laid out and this time the foods were ones you vaguely remembered Donnie once explaining were good for long term energy release. It showed kindness where his person had none and you took the meal to the couch, having not seen him.

Eating slowly and knowing you were losing precious seconds, you got the barest bump that got you back to your feet. Just as you were about to pass into the bedroom, you heard the door open and you glanced in that direction unconsciously.

It took only a second for him to fly towards you. “Look at yourself!”

“I will.” You didn’t have the energy to fend him off. “Mirror in a sec.”

He caught you by your chin. “This farce has already gone on long enough. What sort of employer would allow you to work in this condition!?”

“You think I’m the only one beat down working a night shift as a second job?” You scraped up enough to glower at him.

He released you; the barb planted.

“Probably don’t look as bad as you.” You turned and headed toward the bathroom.

“I’m worried!” He growled, not giving further chase.

You paused, grabbed the door jamb to keep from falling. “Not now, I meant 20s you, probably. I’m guessing.”

He puffed up with offense as you closed the bathroom door behind you.

Just before you flicked the tap you heard him punching clean through something soft.

Through your third night into work that next morning had been uneventful. On your last legs, breakfast passed with you picking at it as fatigue took everything from you. Left a husk, you ate little before departing. The commute came in stints that you recognized as micro sleep. Hoping those dangers were only for driving, you maneuvered white collar work with a sort of gratitude. Slacking days were easy to pass off and you finished out the day with little more than a single task done.

Ignoring all else to daydream about collapsing into your bed for what could finally be a full night’s sleep, you made your dreams a reality and slept through your stop. Thankful only that no one had robbed you, you scrambled to your apartment nearly an hour late. Donnie stood out on the street in front of your apartment. Taking full blame for this one, you collapsed into him as soon as you got close. He scooped you up and you fell asleep before he got you to the elevator.

You awoke with a start in bed, covered in a blanket.

He was waiting beside you with a piping hot mug.

He only offered it.

You accepted and looked over the golden liquid before giving him a curious look.

It was the most awake you’d been in 32 odd hours.

“I’ll move to begging.” He waited to speak until you’d drained half the cup. He then backed himself off the bed and onto his knees.

“Don-” The wafting scent of the tea wrapped around you.

He came all the way down until his head touched the floor. “Please quit.”

“Get up-”

“Please!”

It took some work and tea rushed down your wrist as you spilled, but you eventually tossed your legs off the side of the bed. “I’m not going to.”

“Why?” He came up, his face contorted. “Nothing could be worth this.”

“You act like I’m dying.”

“I-!” In a flash of malicious rage, you leaned away as he shot to his feet.

He saw the fear and recoiled with a nervous shake to his pupil.

Only when he got ahold of it did he turn to you. “No one knows the effects of exhaustion more than I.”

You slacked and stared at your mug.

“Death may be rare, but the precursor ailments pile up in an instant. It has lasting effects on your body!”

“It’s… one month…” You pressed. “Not even, at this point.”

“A few days shy and you already collapsed!!” He stepped into your space, but didn’t touch you. “If you won’t listen to me, listen to your body!”

“I am.” He’d left enough room for you to get to your feet and you passed him the mug which he took weakly. “Three days in a row is my limit. There’s some flexibility to my schedule so I’ll tell my boss that.”

“The groveling?!” He crowded you as you tried to head toward the bathroom.

“No effect.” You left him with the statement as you stepped onto linoleum.

He stomped off with enough fury that you were sure it was heard two floors down.

Refreshed only to a point, you caught that Donnie was quiet in a plotting sort of way. You might have given that more attention if you hadn’t been caught by what felt like starvation. Facilities returned with priority first, your day of barely eating meant you doubled calories on the next. Without a word you were served your larger portion which you paid for in only a vague stomach ache. Cleaned, dressed, and ready to depart, Donnie caught you by the door.

“Last chance.”

“To quit?” You asked him dully, settling into his hold. “Not happening.”

He simply hummed and released you.

You gave a sigh and tried to kiss him as you couldn’t remember doing so in the past three days.

He dodged you and took a calculated step back. “See you tonight.”

You opened your mouth to question the ominous flare, but he had already begun his retreat. Giving a frown at the omen, you slipped out the door.

Office work passed by and you gave twice the effort to make up for the light days. No one seemed to notice your workload and you only hoped that would continue in the coming weeks. At lunch, you ordered twice your usual portion from a local Thai place and chewed huge mouthfuls while texting your boyfriend. He left you on read which, if you weren’t already preparing for whatever stunt he was going to pull, would have put you on high alert.

With the rest of the day busy and the ride home mundane, you entered the apartment with your eyes peeled. Donnie was at his computer and turned to you, nonplused. “Carbs for dinner?”

“For energy?” You asked, wary.

He ignored you to move to the kitchen.

“Any warning about what you’re up to?”

Silence followed and you glared openly at his form until it was clear he wasn’t bothered by it. Shoving your bag off, you decided you’d join in his childish display and hung out as far away from him as you could. Lounging in the bedroom, he left your bowl on the bar when it was ready and silently headed to eat in the living room alone. Without warning, it took you far too long to notice he was done and, by the time you got to it, your food had gone cold. Grumbling at the microwave, you snuck angry glances at him which he continued to snub.

Already deciding what crumbs to spill on his half of the bed, you hit play on a video at full volume to twist the knife. His shoulders hiked as the only indication he’d noticed. A double edged sword, both you and your speakers dealt with the brunt as you stubbornly ate without changing the dial. Leaving the bowl for him to deal with, you then got ready for your night shift. It was in moving through the bathroom that you noticed Donnie curiously doing something similar. In clips, you saw him change out of his loungewear, but it took until the second he pulled a sweater over his head for you to stomp over to him. “Oh, hell no!”

“What?” His head popped through the turtleneck with smarmy malice. “I have things to attend to.”

“You’re going to follow me.” You hissed.

“Tracking is not allowed.” He offered with a slight turn of his head.

You smoothed your hackles a bit. You needed to take him on level headed or it’d be the same useless fight.

“Consider me an attendant.” He moved to get his coat.

“How is that any different!?”

“I’m not following. I’ll be beside you.”

“You think you’re so smart!” You stormed away from him to get a lunchbox from the kitchen.

“Think?” He openly mocked.

“We’ve been together over a year.” You opened the fridge and plucked out a few things. “You think I haven’t thought of this?”

His pause said he had, but your insinuation left him not wholly sure.

“I can’t take you on.” You responded simply, zipping the pouch up. “Not alone.”

It took a full second for Donnie to be set ablaze. “S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N.”

The ghost of the name off his lips had you smiling.

“My creation!” He roared.

“He knows the whole plan.” You shrugged, stepping out from the kitchen to show how unbothered you were.

“He-!” What struck Donnie was a knife to his back.

You hadn’t thought of how that could be a slight.

A display of your lack of trust in him.

A flaunt of who had it instead.

“W-wait!” You started to move, but he flung his body away from you as if you carried a deadly disease. “Don’t be so dramatic!”

“Me?” He seethed, fleeing the scene. “I should pass you off for torture!”

“You’re a child!” You threw your hands up and stormed towards the door.

He followed at a distance.

“Good luck.” You threw bitterly over your shoulder as you stepped out.

You pulled the door and felt him snatch it before it slammed.

He then gave a sharp yelp as it yanked closed on his fingers with neither of your powers.

“Thank you, Shelly.” You told the air and headed toward the stairs for a quicker get away.

Buzz!

“That isn’t going to hold him.”

Buzz. Buzz.

“You got a plan?”

You got a single prolonged buzz of excitement.

“Have fun!”

Coming home that morning, you found Donnie sitting on the steps looking like an absolute wreck. His shirt was torn, one of his sleeves were gone, and muck clung to the bottom of his pants as if he’d waded through a bog.

“Some night.” You remarked, cocking a hip to look over him.

“You cheated.” He glowered up at you with his pupils alone.

“I played your game.” You said and reached out a hand.

He snuffed it and stood. Trying to reclaim any dignity, he then uselessly brushed himself off before heading towards the door.

Tired, but amused, you followed him.

The door opened for him before he pulled it closed right behind in a casual move as he went on.

With it closed almost in your face, you gave a puff at his display before opening the door for yourself.

Beating you to the apartment, he took the first shower, which actually irritated you. It meant you were losing precious seconds of sleep and his prolonged soak ate into your time. When he emerged, you were twice as steamed as him. “What happened to my health!?”

He looked you over, lazily. “You’ll live.”

Your shoulders rose in irritation and you stormed past him to slam the bathroom door.

Saturday.

You knew it before you awoke.

You knew it in your sleep.

It was your day off from your day job.

You’d both slept in.

Exhausted from the farce, you groggily took notice of the space between you on the bed. It felt like miles as you stared at Donnie’s covered shell. Turned away from you, he was clearly still asleep. It stung all the more knowing how hard he had tried to get to you last night. Even if his actions were muddied, his motive was still the same.

He was worried about you.

The mentality that it’d be alright in the end felt more distant now as you closed the gap. Edging up to him, no matter how childish he had been, you felt bad because you were the root cause. Keeping the sheet down to protect the modesty of his carapace, you got as close as you could without pressing to him. Thinking of how it could both blow off the pent up steam and also affirm your bond, you raised up to press your lips to the bulb of his shoulder. Kissing your intent there, you traveled toward his neck as you felt him stir. Nuzzling comforting affections, you neared his clavicle when your vision blacked out.

Trying to blink it off, it came through cracks and you realized he was using the whole of his hand to catch your face. “Wha-?!”

“I think not.” He said simply and began to rise.

With you in his clutches, he forced you down by his grip alone as he sat up. He then released, but you could tell he was ready in case you tried something.

“Not interested.” His tone said it wasn’t a withdrawal of consent, but something else.

You frowned, still feeling a phantom pinch. “I don’t believe you.”

He shrugged. “It cannot be helped then.”

“So… what?” You watched as he got out of bed and strolled towards the kitchen. “No sex!?”

“Nope.” He popped the plosive.

“That’s your new game?” You crawled up to the end of the bed and parted the drapes. “No sex until I quit?”

He gave a languid nod as he grabbed some juice.

You openly scoffed. “Not only is that totally ridiculous; it hurts you too!”

He shrugged, moving forward to lean on the counter to await the rest of your complaints. “I’ve gone three decades without a single positive touch. What’s less than a month?”

You bristled. “No touch?”

“Oh, was that not obvious?” He righted and rounded the counter with the juice bottle in tow. “No sex, no hugs, no kisses…” He stopped just shy of you with a wicked grin tipping so high, it nearly met his eyes. “Nothing.”

“You’re going to hurt both of us, just because you’re upset I’m doing a little extra work to get a gift, for you.” You sharpened the words as they came out.

“What can I say? You inspired me.” His head hung to the side. “’Play your game.’ It should have been obvious”

“You can’t seriously be comparing the two?!”

Anger flared in him, but he refused to let it on his face. “What’s more childish? Denying affections to a partner for whom has asked in all manner of ways to keep them from hurting themselves or a person damaging their health in pursuit of a gift that their partner patently doesn’t want?”

You sat, lips parted.

“Exactly.” His lids lowered, knowing his point got through. “You have work tonight.”

It wasn’t a question, but it was.

It just wasn’t the one he asked.

You stared at him and saw the lengths he was willing to go.

He was as stubborn as he was petty.

You narrowed your gaze.

One of his brows inched up.

He’d labeled you the same for a reason.

“I’m going.”

He turned his snout up.

“Our relationship is more than sex.”

It tipped his head right back down where he gave a bitter bark of laughter.

You squirmed. “You don’t think so?”

You could tell he was resisting leaning into your space. “Oh, I know so.”

Your hands lifted to show your confusion.

“It may not be the basis, but we partake to an alarming degree.” He sneered with a sharp edge. “Comical coming from the one who recently wondered if we were becoming addicted.”

You inhaled sharply, a correction on your tongue.

“Only one of us has struggled with true addiction and withdrawals. An easy triumph.”

Your lip threatened to curl so you flattened it.

“Observe.” He tipped the juice container to you and you watched on with milk confusion. He then shook it which made little sense to you until he lifted it to his lips. It had been a show that it was almost empty and he planted his feet. In an exaggerated tip, he threw out his hips and tossed his head all the way back. It accentuated each gulp as he downed the liquid with a roll of his Adam's apple. A streak of juice broke free from the corner of his mouth and then rolled down said throat. You hadn’t realized your jaw had dropped until a breathy exhale came out. It leaked in almost the same way the bead of liquid threaded down to his plastron.

He resurfaced and caught the tail end of you squashing your stare.

“Right.” Swiping his tongue low and slow over his bottom lip, you felt the earlier idea for the morning stir in your lions. Before you could obliterate them, he flicked his tongue as a finishing move over his canine before attending to the juice bottle. Adding insult to injury, he crushed the thing flat as if it held no resistance.

You were slamming the door to the bathroom before you knew it.

It was on.

What you had hoped to be a comfortable afternoon felt like the oncoming location of war. Ripped to either side of the apartment in what felt like strategizing, silence signaled what was sure to be oncoming doom. Unable to compete with a genius’ forethought, you instead rested and prepared yourself for whatever he had to throw at you. Your only tactic seemed to be exhaustion, which you banked on staving off any real effect. Alright with that for now, you eventually went through the motions of dinner and preparations for leaving. Donnie, lost to whatever his research was, barely passed you a parting as you left for your night shift.

Coming home wasn’t near as abysmal, but you could tell your internal clock was spinning wildly out of control. It was only after a shower and collapsing into bed that you realized your partner was completely gone. Feeling particularly alone, you snuck his pillow under the blankets with you. There, you cradled it to your body and tried to focus on your goal.

It had to be worth it in the end.

Waking around 1pm, you groggily could smell something had been cooked. Blearily raising up, you saw the back of Donnie’s head as he sat casually on the couch. Chest steeled, you slipped out of bed with the intention of scoping the situation out, but within a few steps you decided that war paint would be necessary. It constituted nothing more than you brushing your teeth and washing your face, but it still allowed you to exit at the ready. Approaching slowly, Donnie was reading in his usual spot. Ready, but lowering your metaphorical gun, you glanced around to find the source of the smell.

“Chili spiced oysters, grilled asparagus and artichokes, and chocolate covered strawberries.” He said, turning the page.

You made a startled noise and wandered toward the kitchen. “That sounds fancy, what’s the occasion?”

He didn’t respond and you sighed entering the space. Feeling warmth, you found the oven was set low to keep the veggies ready. A quick peruse found the oysters on ice in the freezer and the strawberries similarly kept in the fridge. Making a plate, you leaned against the counter and tried to remember what about this meal struck you. Picking up a shell, you tested it with a swish before downing it. The commingling oil accentuated the fresh flavor that said his morning’s absence had been because he went to the fish market as it opened.

Softening a little at that, you moved to eat next to him on the couch. Enjoying the flavors of the spread, as unique as they were, you eventually moved on to genially pluck a strawberry. It took two tries to get a successful bite with everything but the stem, but their flavor was downright bursting. A little blown away, you went to thank your boyfriend, regardless of his attitude, only to catch him watching you. As soon as your eyes met, he raised a brow before turning his attention back to his book.

Immediately suspecting foul play, you stared over the plates. He’d once mentioned something about you only ingesting things you were aware of so there was no way he’d laced your food. Fearing how potent an aphrodisiac made by his hands would be, your eyes widened. Eyes shooting to the trash where you’d thrown your shells you scrambled back to the bedroom in a full run. Donnie’s soft laughter chased you which only solidified your decision to fumble your phone. Finally gathering and unlocking it with shaky hands, a quick search found he’d gone the all natural route.

Every single thing you’d consumed was said to be an aphrodisiac.

The thought shot straight to your toes and you threw your anger towards the offender. “Donatello!”

No matter how tepid his hum was, it was clear he’d been waiting.

“What the fuck!?” You stormed over to him, phone outstretched in hand.

You’d have no recourse.

Everything was frustrating enough.

With low lids, he flicked his gaze at the article and back to you. “A fascinating coincidence.”

“Bullshit! You did this on purpose!” Jittery you pulled your device back to your body. Pressing it to your stomach, you considered how long you had.

He took his time marking his place and closing his book. “Me? Support pseudoscience? Hardly sounds right.”

“Pseudo or not!”

“True.” He tilted his head as if it were interesting. “The placebo effect.”

“Wha-?”

He rose up and above you. “The mind is quite powerful.”

You took a cautious step back.

He followed you in a slink.

Your back bumped the counter causing you to look over your shoulder at it.

The predator was in front of you.

In the fateful return, he was looming overhead and your stomach flipped. “How, even plied with dummy remedies, one can still feel as though they are reaping benefits.”

You fisted your phone, trying not to let your hiked breathing become too obvious.

His brow cocked and said it was. “Take now.” He leaned down into your air space and you fought to ignore his hot breath near your cheek. “You simply ate a meal and yet, in a single moment, you came to think of yourself a soaking, needy mess because of it.”

“I’m not.” You breathed, desperate for air and clenching your legs just in case.

The slick sensation there said his tale was a truth he’d already scented.

“No?” He turned inward to you. “Then you're drenched from what exactly?”

You leaned away, thinking only of cleaning up in the bathroom.

He took a lengthy inhale. “It’s been just shy of a week since your last orgasm. Did you dream of me or are you simply that desperate?”

You shoved him away.

He allowed it, chuckling on his way back to the couch.

Miserable in the spot, you plodded toward the bathroom to wipe up your shame.

You wouldn’t be caught again.

“Watermelon arugula salad and a fig tart tonight!”

You didn’t need to look those up to know you’d be ordering out.

Surviving the night and the mild ire from Donnie when you wouldn’t touch what he had cooked, you slept through until Monday which had a regular work day and one more free night before you went through another three-day back-to-back gauntlet. That meant if you had a comeback, now was the time to execute. On your lunch break you researched, looking over your shared calendar. It indicated that Donnie would be harvesting crops today so dinner might be safe. It also noted that tomorrow he had an important enough meeting that he’d blocked out the space as opposed to lumping it into a work category.

Leaning back in your chair, you pondered over how to ration your time. You still needed to rest so there had to be a way you could schedule out ideas. You needed plans at the ready, but with Donnie a powerhouse of premeditation, there was no way to keep up. You had to play the game with your own flare. It was one of the things that attracted him to you in the first place. Snapping forward, you smiled over the calendar still up on your phone. You’d be relying mainly on luck, but that was something Donnie hated counting.

Riding high and hoping the universe had you in its favor, you made it through work and then home in a rush. Barely edging out the commute, you threw a thank you to whoever would hear that Donnie was still on the roof. Only half wondering if he thought you’d bring him a drink for toiling under the sun, you shot to the bathroom. Touching up errant oils with targeted blotting and messing up your hair in a more deliberate way, you began to peel off your clothes.

Your top draped with the slightest cling so you tossed your bra in favor of letting it outline what was underneath. Kicking your pants aside, you appraised in the mirror, snapping a few shots, before prancing out of the bathroom. Phone in hand, you traipsed around the apartment taking pictures. Ending with no clothes and hearing a telltale knob click from where you were sprawled out on the bed, you rolled right off and scampered off into the bathroom indelicately on all fours. There you threw on something comfortable and emerged to find Donnie a mess.

Taking him in, you approached more curious about the huge basket of vegetables he set on the counter. He had dirt smudged over his face and arms where he hadn’t opted for his usual wraps. Assuming he’d ditched them for heat and mobility, he was stripped down to a shrink wrapped tank, his sunhat, and a pair of sweats that had been relegated to yard work.

“Good haul?” You saw greenery peaking over the small bar.

“Yes.” Donnie nodded, a bit out of breath.

“Hot?” You tilted your head and wondered if he’d take such easy bait.

“Quite.” Ignoring you out of what you figured was dehydration, he turned and reached into the fridge for a glass of water.

Taking his distraction, you snuck closer to examine the basket. “Want me to cook tonight?”

“You can.” He offered, coming away from the ice box with some reluctance.

“You’ve done your share. I’ll wash and store.”

He only nodded and moved out of the way.

Freeing up the sink, you found him off to the side with the glass bottle pressed to his head. “Want a towel?”

“Why?” He lowered the drink to pop the top.

“You got a little something…” You pointed at your cheek.

“Ah.” Setting the bottle down on the counter, he pulled off his hat in a fluid motion. You stared on, moving vegetables and watched as he leaned forward to catch the hem of his tank top. He then yanked the fabric up with an arch of his back to use it to smother his face. Eyeing his plastron and slim waist as if he’d put abs on display, your lips parted and closed. The sound must have snagged his tympanum because he lowered a fist of black cloth to peer at you with a knowing eye. “Something the matter?”

“No!” You turned away, flicking on the tap.

“Hot is a double entendre.” You could sense him sliding over.

“Eh, yard work doesn’t really do it for me.” Setting a cleaned stalk into an awaiting colander, you felt him comb you for how honest that statement was.

“I see.” He decided eventually.

His tone said he’d dropped it so you offered him a glance while grabbing the next head.

He stared openly. “Might I ask why?”

“Maybe from a distance.” Cool water ran over your fingers as you parted leaves. “But up close? So sweaty.” You stuck your tongue out as you added the next veggie to the done pile.

He made a noise on how he found that interesting and got even closer.

You could feel the latent heat wafting off him. “Please? I just changed and don’t want to again.”

“I have no interest in dirtying you.” He reached out and stabilized himself with one long arm to the counter.

Turned away, you gave the air an eye roll for his innuendo. “Go shower then.”

“Soon.”

You returned to the sink to find that arm he’d plastered now right beside your head. Looking it over with disinterest, you traced it back to the owner in a turn. “Your new ploy isn’t working how you’d hoped.”

“Texture or scent?”

“What?” You turned off the tap and folded your arms to give whatever this was attention so he’d move on.

“The sweat. Which bothers you more?”

“I don’t know about bothers.” You gave it genuine thought. “It’s like if you’re dry and someone sweaty touches you. That stickiness is gross.”

He nodded, his face one that said little.

“As for smell? Some really funky BO competes with those wafts from the sewers. Again, that’s probably universal.”

“There are many factors.”

“Here comes the science.” You teased, going for the tap so he could infodump freely.

His hand shoved and his arm curled to block you.

“Don.” You sent him your genuine boredom.

“Hormones, food, bacteria, even medication.” He had a look that said he knew and begged your time.

You leaned back against the sink. “Deodorant, sure. You feel gross, don’t you? Why are you prolonging this?”

“You like my scent.”

“Sure, that’s science too, right? Pheromones and what not, latent smelling of potential partners.”

He flicked his gaze to his arm and back to you.

You did the same, not gleaning much. Returning to him, you waited until the lack of clarity brought your brow down. His raised incrementally in time and you broke the silence to guess. “You want me to smell you?”

He tipped his head towards his limb as if it were an offering.

You made a face. “Ew, why? You’re clearly sweaty, which if you must know, I wondered if you could get. So question already answered, check.”

Leaning his head over, he let his cheek land on his bicep to keep watch.

“That bad?”

“Humor me.”

You held eye contact to search.

He appeared as an open book.

Unshielded with a tint of curiosity and a call he wished you’d pick up on.

“Fine, but I caveat?”

“Go ahead.”

“If you like smash my face into your sweaty body, I get a free punch.”

“Nothing of the sort. I said I wasn’t going to muss you.”

“Agreed then.”

“Agreed.”

Pouting, you gave an exhale to clear your lungs before leaning up to his arm. Ending up around his elbow, your nose hovered over the warmth of his skin before you took a slow, metered inhale.

Like tasting notes, it came in waves.

His natural musk sat at the forefront and was pleasant.

Then came earthen soil as a lush base.

Next were clippings where oils had inadvertently brushed him giving a distinct grassy finish.

All of it rounded back to his natural scent though this time you felt your salivary glands kick into gear.

Instantly confused by the sensation, you leaned back while licking your lips to swallow down the excess.

“In hand with hyperosmia, turtles have specialized glands.”

“To pick out females and what not?” You looked up at him, genuinely curious though a pounding in your chest made for a faint distraction.

“Chemical communication.” He slid his hand further, putting his arm closer to you.

Not to be backed into another corner, you stood firm as that cocktail wafted up only a couple of inches from your face.

“Unique but not ubiquitous to amphibians and reptiles are mental glands.”

The name seemed obvious enough.

“Usually found near the mandible.” He pointed to his jaw.

Reviewing his arm, that isn’t where you’d smelled. “Not on you though.”

“For most of my life, I hadn’t given it much thought as my brain tunes out my own scent. Realization came about when I encountered the others.” He edged his chest closer.

You glanced over his plastron with little attention as you wondered where he was going.

“’Fear stink.’ They have appalling naming sense.”

“How you can smell fear?”

“Different.” The whole of him was so close that you were being engulfed by the outdoorsy musk. “Theirs and mine.”

“You can…” You tried to piece together what he’d offered. “Read each other’s scents, like your own language?”

You watched Donnie try not to roll his eyes. “If we were inclined, I suppose.”

“Not that then.” You gave a little giggle.

He shook his head. “How do you feel?”

“Fine?”

He gave a hum and you saw a sliver of disappointment as he reigned his arm in. Almost wanting to ask why, you watched as he slid his hand over his snout and up under his mask. Continuing through the motion he pushed the fabric back to where his hairline would be and closed his eyes.

Still closed in by him, it opened up his armpit. Edging away as chances were unsightly labor induced smells now released there, you were instead assaulted by a different scent. Body aching, it trickled through your nose hairs as if diffusing directly into your bloodstream. There, it sped through your veins, heating your skin up and dulling your neurons. Nearly drunk on it and close to drooling, you wobbled slightly as you threw dizzied confusion up to him.

He stood in the same position, elbow out and hand to his head, smirking down at you lethally.

“Wha-what… is?”

“Mental glands.” He reminded, scrubbing back to push his mask off.

“I d-don’t…?” Your skin felt inflamed and you had to grab the counter for a weakness in your knees.

“It was safe to assume that I had control over the scent.”

“You trained…?” Feeling fuzzy you brought a hand up to both block the smell and wipe your wet lips. “Controlled your smell?”

“Only today.” He grinned, wickedly. “Again, inspired by you. I pushed my sweat glands to the absolute limit with only one thing on my mind. I’d almost written it off, a failed experiment.”

You searched his face, covering your nose and breathing in your own breath. It helped a little, but you now felt how the heat had settled. Molten core in your lower abdomen, you pressed a hip to the counter for even more stability.

A pheromone.

In a single day he’d trained to express something potent for your nose.

If it was just you?

You had many questions, but one took forefront.

“What… one thing?”

“You.” His arm dropped like a bar to your side and, in a single step, he trapped you. His face leaned in lethally as he craned down with carnal intent. “I thought of fucking you. I thought of you sopping wet just for me. I thought of how you scream my name. Of feeling you. Being inside you. Finally, finally impregnating you.”

One of your hands fumbled back for something and you heard the wayward clatter of vegetables falling from their basket and all around.

You couldn’t pull your eyes away.

They were caught in the inferno that was his gaze.

You could almost see straight into his head and all the scenes he’d mentioned.

You weren’t even mad.

He’d gotten you, but it didn’t feel like it.

You wanted nothing more than to demand he take you right there on the counter.

You had a feeling he might do it.

Break the agreement for this because of what he’d done.

Toiling hours in the sun, running replays on your sex life all to tempt you.

Delirious with need at his moronic lengths, you stepped in as close as your bodies would allow.

It meant centimeters shy of actual touch.

There you inhaled deeply, taking a cue from him in a long swing of your neck to drink in that scent.

A perfume for you.

Then he was gone.

You stared at the space, his musk swarming and the slam of the bathroom door knocked you only enough out of the stupor to blink.

Taking another deep breath of the tapering scent, your knees gave out. With the counter close, you used it to sink down slowly.

The shower turned on and you could only picture him pathetically jacking off against ice cold, unforgiving tiles to assuage the damage he’d done.

11am Tuesday morning caught you swiveling at your desk. It had been business as usual after the pheromone incident and what you’d normally consider a nice evening. Though a little early, you were flipping through photos of yourself as you waited for 5 after. Then it would finally be time for your revenge.

Rocking left and right to triple check the payload loads release schedule, you saw the counter on your computer tick over. Double checking the calendar to see that indeed his meeting had indeed started, you swiped over to your gallery. There you picked the first photo of the set and sent it off.

A tasteful start, it had you in your slinky work top from a high angle. It poured down your half-cocked amused face in the top right, chasing your body down to the opposite left. As it had in your tests, the clear chiseling of your not even erect nipple was clearly etched into the fabric.

You didn’t expect a response to this one.

It was tame.

He might not even check it.

You did, however, remember something he may have forgotten:

Your messages were pushed through.

The Darling Protocol was engineered for his downfall.

He didn’t even know it.

Another thing you were proud of was your composition. Outside of being alluring, your body took up most of the frame so there’d be no way he’d know it wasn’t taken from your office. He’d think you were scantily clad without underthings at work. You clucked as you spun around in your chair. Humming to yourself and, with only a quick check to your cubicle door, you checked the time.

11:07 time for the next one.

For number two, you pulled back. Perching yourself on top of the counter, you had done quite a bit of maneuvering to get both your legs up there. Legs doing work masking your apartment’s unmistakable sink, you had begun unbuttoning your top. What it revealed was the stark nature of your shoulder and the part of one breast which you blocked with an arm curled inward, tucked into your thighs. The other shoulder strap held on for dear life and with a tempting arch of your body, the phone covered your eyes as you used the mirror to take the photo. A transition to mark your lack of pants, a chill tickled your back like a phantom as you sent the photo off.

Your smile was the real star in this one.

You were proud of the coy thing you’d plastered on your lips.

Swiveling side to side with your feet tucked under the wheels of your chair, you were going to let this one stew.

If you hid the details in the way you’d hoped, then he’d really come to believe this was just taken.

It’d mean you were out of an apparent stall and in the open.

He’d hate that.

You watched in real time as the timestamp was replaced with one that recognized the message as seen.

Within milliseconds percolating bubbles then chased it.

Zero to boiling in less than a second.

Now that was science.

DON’t: Muting.

Yeah, right.

You: Guess I’ll have to take care of myself.

DON’t: Do you think you’ve found some loophole?

You: To what?

DON’t: Phone sex doesn’t require touch.

You: I don’t know. I seem to be touching myself just fine.

The pot stewed.

Tipping forward to pour over your desk, you wondered just how important that meeting of his was.

DON’t: You’ve barricaded the door, I hope?

You snorted.

Not very.

You: Where’s the fun in that?

DON’t: Y/N!

You: We’ve chanced worse.

DON’t: With the safety net of my senses.

You: Yeah, I’ve had my fill of those.

DON’t: Pushing it.

You: I’ll leave you be then.

The reply came quicker than you thought.

DON’t: What do you need?

“Too easy!” You nearly dropped your phone to cover your mouth.

Shrinking down and only barely keeping from ducking under your desk, you waited out to see if anyone would acknowledge your outburst. Finding none, you pulled your phone back to see three missed messages.

DON’t: Y/N?

DON’t: Or

DON’t: Was this your plan?

Another came as you read.

DON’t: A ripple at best.

The last of what you considered the ‘at work’ set, you shot off a classic mirror pose that showed the length of your nude torso along with a ‘v’ for victory highlighting your mating mark.

DON’t: When this is over I will smother you.

DON’t: Coat you.

DON’t: Then take photographs.

DON’t: Real ones.

You were already planning it, but the dig at the end pushed your thumbs.

You: What are you? Gravy?

You: Seriously, your game is weak and forever immortalized.

You: So bad it literally…

You pulled the camera back and took a selfie sticking your tongue out and making it very obvious you were in a different outfit and in your cubicle.

Sending it off as his response boiled, you rushed yours.

You: …put my clothes back on!

You: I cannot believe I tricked you that easily

You: I thought you were going to be this big bad brick wall that wouldn’t fall for nothing!

You: Huff and puff all you want!

You: Little pig got you, wolfie!

Watching his response bubble and pop over and over, you chewed your lip to keep from laughing. You could envision him hunched over his desk, tacking out response after response, without a single one able to save his dignity.

Allowing a small bob to your chest, you checked the time.

11:18.

Two more minutes until the next text and, though things hadn’t gone how you thought, this turn had been so much better.

His typing ended and you smirked at how he’d chosen to childishly ignore you.

He was probably humiliated.

You sort of liked that.

Flicking your eyes back and forth between the text screen and the time, you waited for 11:20 before adding to the chain.

You: Took those yesterday.

You: Which you may be thinking

You: That’s obvious

You: Which yeah, you should have known

You: I mean that quite literally

You: You must have accidentally covered it up with your sex stink

You: You know

You: Because you were laying right on this last night

Attaching what was now technically the fifth image, you hadn’t bothered to get your face in. Instead the image slid down your bare ribs to your underwear which had been left on from the previous shot. On your knees the important bit was being straddled amongst kicked up sheets. His pillow, which you were just shy of rubbing your crotch on, sat obviously between your legs.

Catching the tail end of the message successfully making it through the data streams, you smirked when it clicked as seen. You imagined he was probably up a bit, cycling through the messages until he stopped dead. It was there, without a response, that you sat with a budding excitement.

Would he leave the meeting?

Go inspect the pillow to see if this was another diversion?

Would he bury his face into it and try to get a lick of your musk?

Chewing on the possibilities, you sent the next image as a quick succession. It had you rolled over onto your back where you’d almost managed to get your full body in frame. Rotated with your hips up but your torso turned, you had your arm slung around his pillow bringing it in close. With parted lips, your head was tilted so you were staring straight into the lens while almost kissing the down. Amongst the sheets you’d basically torn up, you looked the picture of ready.

A single bubble appeared and burst as if he’d slipped onto the keyboard.

Lowering your screen, you craned your neck to look both ways out of your cubicle.

Either no one had passed or you hadn’t noticed.

Still good on time, you did a final scan before spinning away from the door. With the back of your chair as a shield, you prepared for the final two. The most risqué yet, the last was then one you were ultimately betting on. A good hand was nothing without its final card and checking the time on your phone for 11:23, you sent out a shorter preamble.

You: Or did you think I stopped there?

Seen.

You: Are you wondering where else?

You: Sniffing around to figure it out?

You: What else I ruined?

Read. Read. Read.

You: How about right where you’re sitting?

The words were an unplanned gambit, but you sent the penultimate image. Having set up a timer and taken a few tries, you got an image with you sitting in his computer chair. Rotated to face the phone with your legs crossed and your head tossed back, you looked the picture of a Fortune 500 mogul. It had the kind of power that if this exact image was leaked, it would only raise the price of stocks in your company. Blocking only what was to be revealed in the next image, each of your arms lay against the same of his chair, waiting.

DON’t: When?

On screen it held no wait, but you could feel his urgency.

Had he gotten up?

Was he huffing the fabric?

He would be soon.

Ignoring his message, you did a final review of the last image. In it, you’d brought your legs up in the chair and parted them. Fingers slid down your body and into your exposed sex, you’d accidentally caught yourself licking your lips in this particular shot. It had inadvertently made it all the more tantalizing and you waited out 11:28 before sending it.

With that, you put your phone away and went back to work after a quick trip to the restroom. Somehow buoyed even though you hadn’t gotten a response, you got quite a bit done before you’d be presumably useless again tomorrow. You acquired an earworm from someone's ringtone and hummed the tone all the way through your commute home. Walking into the apartment on sunshine, you took in Donnie behind the fridge door and a very glaring piece of furniture now absent. He spied your joy with a look of pure outrage, which you brushed past to ask.

“Hey, what happened to your chair?”

Work.

Your night shift boss griped at you for fussing over using someone else’s keycard.

Home.

Sleep.

Work.

You barely caught an error in a client proposal right before it was supposed to go out.

Home.

Work.

There was a hot debate over whether paper or a shammy were better for cleaning windows.

Home.

Sleep.

Work.

You had three meetings today, but one canceled last minute.

Home.

Pushing past the door, you only had one more night shift left before a reprieve. Tomorrow you’d have your regular day shift and then crash for the most sleepy Friday night in existence. Until then, you just needed to stay conscious enough to force some food down and prepare for another night of scrubbing. Though it had been just under 2 weeks, you still couldn’t make sense of the mess in the building. You only saw it under a darkened sky so its emptiness felt eternal. Why then did the floor get so dirty? Who filled the waste baskets with discarded wrappers and notes? Why were there always water spots on the bathroom counters?

Unable to put faces to these miscreant slobs, you slung your bag and missed the shelf you were supposed to set it on. Staring at it as it laid limp on the floor, you felt like it was a match for your form. Slouched and soggy without moisture, you turned out to find the living room quiet. As you predicted, your partner hadn’t tried to mess with you during the most intense parts of your week and for good reason. You already could barely eat; even the thought of sex sounded exhausting. With another shift coming tonight, you just wanted to wear your own chosen clothes for a change and sit, unmovable, until you were forced to.

Rounding the partition into the bedroom, you found the bathroom door closed. You usually hoped to wash a little of the day’s grime before changing, but in reality the order no longer mattered. Dragging feet over to where your lounge clothes sat ready for you on your bed, you threw something over your shoulder, “I’m home.”

It wasn’t loud, but any noise would be enough for his tympanum.

Just as you got a shirt into your hands, you heard the bathroom door click.

It would take precious energy to divert now, but a clean face nearly sounded worth it.

“Almost done.” Donnie spoke.

There was a thick note to his tone that felt like it caressed your ears.

You hadn’t talked much lately.

You missed his voice.

Turning to relay this, you froze on contact with the sight.

Leaned with his back against the door jamb, Donnie was slowly pumping a fist over his erect cock.

No longer collapsed like a bag, someone had scooped up your strap and held you at wound to attention.

“You can use it.” He gave a parting nod before he pushed off the wall. Lazily, almost with a yawn, he continued to stroke himself as he headed over to the bed. Gone was the usual waddle he did around his hard member as his smooth strides took him around the perimeter. Worse than him making it an obvious display, he instead seemed to not care for your existence at all as he paused, clenching his knot, to plop down on his side of the bed. There he laid back, craned a free arm under his neck and sped up, comfortable.

In the quiet as you gawked, you could hear the squishing sounds from lubrication. With them chasing your heels, you turned and made the slow trek to the bathroom with the noise ringing in your ears. Closing the door behind you, they were audibly gone, but their sound continued to chime like a bell. Turning the tap for white noise, you pulled your hand back and caught a glimpse of the bottle of lube left behind. Its location on the edge of the counter said he’d been sitting on the toilet as he stroked himself. In some world it made sense, the load could be easily flushed, but the teenage mentality of it all struck you.

The shame of puberty haunted you like a ghost as you finally splashed ice cold water on your face. It was like a shock and you hadn’t remembered moving into the position that got you there. Trying to wake yourself up from the dream, you scrubbed hard with soap, but didn’t give into the luxury of temperature. Trying to ice the sore, each blink brought the image of his pulsing cock.

You’d never seen him masturbate.

Assaulted by the knowledge, you finished and stared blankly at the door. Straining, you listened for those lewd noises. Hearing nothing, but feeling the rigid wood of the barrier, you grabbed the knob a little too fast. Flinging the door open with a sudden burst, you caught your partner in the throes. Knees bent as he chased his pleasure, his lips parted and his eyes closed. Strain sat in his brow as his fist moved up and down in practiced rhythm. Not quite a blur, streak lines followed green skin as it engulfed and revealed pinks and purples. Hand pushing all the way up against his spread, he curled the skin into a cup upon each upward stroke and let it bounce freely as it fell.

Though he wasn’t looking at you, you felt very seen.

Your clothes were still laid out beside him.

It meant you had to creep closer.

A peeping tom, each step felt like a journey as you watched your partner pleasure himself. The sounds returned and wrapped around your throat to whisper directly into your ears. Slick with smooth glides, his work continued until he could no longer lounge. Pumping against some unseen upper limits, his free arm came down from his head as his torso raised. Core tight, his eyes cracked open as if he needed to make sure the job was being done right. A foreman of his own design, you neared the halfway point to the bed when he caught your presence.

Turning to you without hurry or care, you watched as his lowered lids bounced as he fucked himself. Streams of pre mixed in with the lube and gave a milky opacity to the squelch. Hips now rocking to meet his appendage, he tracked you up the bed. Torn between watching that lurid look of approaching ecstasy and the main stage show of his fat cock, you reached with timid fingers to get your clothes.

Would you change in front of him?

Unsure, but still in motion, quaking fingers reached for cloth.

It was only then that he broke eye contact. Thinking he might give you modesty, you instead saw that they flew to your hand. His lips closed and opened with some unsaid need. Slapped with the thought that he might be imagining your hand instead of his, he gave into a single buck that bobbed his vision. The way he forced it back open said your hypothesis was right and as soon as you twisted it into the cotton of your shirt, he gave a stunted breath. Lids closing and a twitch starting in the corner of his mouth, he bit down on his lower lip as he came.

Gaze flying southward, you stared as he encompassed his glans as best he could. Cum flowed on in obvious ribbons that exuded out between three digits. With an ooze, he handled the spray and what leaked out was slow and of a thick viscosity that you could only think was due to having been pent up. Impossible in such a short time, the tacky quality meant it only slid so far. That’s what you usually took. That spunk clung to your insides. That seed was supposed to leak from you.

Mechanical, your neck rocked as you had to lower your entire head to pull your gaze away. Falling to your clothes, you picked them up as if you had to get as much of them in your hands as possible or else they wouldn’t make the journey. Trying not to let them spill, you turned and heard a breathy voice chase you.

“Can you toss me a tissue box?”

You didn’t respond and locked yourself in the bathroom.

All night.

As you scrubbed floors and wiped window sills.

All morning.

On the dreary bus ride home.

Into the apartment.

Where Donnie lay more peacefully asleep then you’d seen him.

In the shower.

You turned the water up to a ridiculous degree.

To bed.

Lying, eyes open, until the alarm seems to shove a crow bar into them.

To the kitchen.

As your partner stirred for his own day.

To the couch.

Eating something that had been pre-prepared for you.

To the bathroom.

Where you stood and looked in the mirror.

His cock.

You couldn’t see anything else.

It haunted you playing in a never ending loop. You could sense where he’d been, when you’d caught him a few feet away, jacking it in the doorframe next to you. On the bed, sheets bundled around his hips where he pushed himself into his fist. Pearls of cum, leaking in a release he tried to capture.

Over and over.

Grabbing the sink, you wanted to scream.

You weren’t horny.

You were exhausted.

With every blink you could see his manhood.

Each vein pulsed.

The stretch of his skin.

The bounce of his glans.

The flexing of his knuckles.

Jade skin.

White cum.

You dropped the lid of the toilet and scrambled to catch it before it clattered. Barely saving it and waiting to see if you’d been found out. You couldn’t hear anything and tore off your clothes. It wasn’t until you dropped down, nude, onto the lid that you realized how cold it would be. Wincing and senses flared all the more for it, you pulled your feet up alongside your ass and spread. An awkward position without near enough room, you grunted as both your hands dropped to your sex. One push released the built up slick and you nearly sobbed as you stroked yourself.

The photos had been a sham.

Posing with the sense of action.

He’d actually done it.

You hadn’t.

There’d been no time.

Unceremoniously starting with two fingers, you shoved them in hoping for an outright moan.

It didn’t come.

They slid too easily.

It wasn’t enough.

Adding a third, you moved wrong and a wet squish seemed to reverberate off the walls. Ignoring the percussion, you pushed deeper. Weakness in your wrist from overwork kept you from the necessary speed. That ever present phantom fisting of his ran on its usual relay and you tried to time your stroke with his. Not fast enough, not full enough, not deep enough, you wanted to cry.

Did you want to get off or did you just want him?

One leg sliding right off the toilet, you sat a broken doll at the thought. Your foot hit the tub and the shake seemed to pale in comparison to the flash bang in your mind. A mental tinnitus drowned it out as you leaned against the tank. Pulling your fingers out bitterly, you stared at your own slick and parted digits just to see it string.

A knock.

“Y/N?”

“Yeah?” You turned your hand over and felt the cool air tinge the moisture.

“Are you… alright?”

Could he smell it through the door?

No.

“Why?” You pushed to stand and only stumbled a little.

You could hear his hesitation as you stepped over to the sink. “It sounded like you fell.”

“Just bumped the tub.” You turned the tap.

The soundless noise of him lingering continued as you wet your toothbrush and got paste. Minty foam taking root in your gums, you scrubbed and saw the wreck of yourself in the mirror. Dark eyes and puffy tear trough, your skin had a ruddy quality from lack of nutrition and general care. Dropping your gaze to the swirl of water going down the drain, you felt Donnie’s loitering weigh as if he were scratching at the wood.

The door was thrown open and you stepped out, toothbrush hanging out the side of your mouth. “Wha’?!”

Already having stumbled back from your sudden movement, you watched his eyes triple in size at your state.

Having nearly forgotten you had to look down.

Nude with desire smeared between your thighs and minty foam around your lips, you felt rabid as you brought your gaze back to his face.

“You were…” He hitched, the mix of scents presumably leaking out of the bathroom.

“So?” You yanked the tooth brush out and weren’t proud of the spittle that came with. “You did! Can’t I!?”

He didn’t respond so you stepped back into the bathroom and slammed the door.

Work brought you home, where Donnie had your favorite dinner ready. He seemed apologetic which pained you as pity. Logically, you knew it wasn’t, but you couldn’t shake the feeling. The food was delicious, but you scarcely thanked him as you showered and crashed. Sleeping nearly 17 straight hours, you awoke at almost exactly noon on Saturday. Not feeling refreshed or much of anything, you kept to yourself until your night shift.

Things moved around you as you cleaned, easily losing yourself to the task. The bus jostled you on the way home as if making sure your waking slumber was a real one. You slept through most of Sunday until, in a blink, you were in that cotton uniform again. The building you cleaned became purgatory. You’d go there, slipping through the crack of reality for the passing of time.

The game of not touching one another kept on, but the acidity from it had been tempered. A sorry version of its former self, you vaguely recalled something about Donnie with morning wood. Unreliable memories as the culprit, it had occurred during an obscene four night double shift. Whatever had happened before, you faintly remembered him growling awake and storming away with a waddle into the bathroom. Time lost again after, but you didn’t smell the telltale scent of jizz when you’d taken your turn next.

Your rebuttal, another happenstance, occurred when you’d forgotten to throw any clothes on after showering. You’d simply buried yourself in a towel, atop dry sheets in what must have been an afternoon. You had awoken, a naked sprawl where fitful dreams had caused you to kick the towel away. Hair dried wrong and laid out on the bed. Donnie had returned from wherever he’d gone and stared with a package under his arm at the sight of you through the sheer draping of the canopy.

You’d simply sat up, gave him a passing glance and fumbled to get a shirt on. He’d departed with little fuss to his desk and the sigh you’d given was what you remembered most. Loud and dramatic, you hadn’t meant to communicate anything. You only felt alone and stuffing that deafening expanse into something audible felt as though it would dispel it.

It didn’t.

The last week wrung out like a towel.

Time dripped from it in a rush while moments were trapped and in need of another twist.

Those lingered in passing glances of your partner of whom you felt you barely knew. He was a roommate that took care of things. You no longer looked at your shared calendar as his moving didn’t matter. Your schedule accounted for everything you had and what was left was piss poor maintenance of sanity. The only planned outings that occurred had something to do with cake. You were ushered into shops that were overly frosted and making up for something. Gilded trays served little morsel went uneaten. You went from location to location like a numb little bug gathering bits of food that in no way would help considering the size of the colony.

At the same time, you were hyper aware of Donnie’s existence.

The moments you held close and refused to let run were the ones of precious calm, occupying the same space. Occurring exclusively on the couch or bed, you were so keen that you felt that you could give an accurate measurement of the space between you, down to the millimeter, without a tool. You knew exactly how much oxygen inflated his lungs and you could tell each time his cells were renewed. The discrepancy between how little you cared about his conscious existence and how much you knew of his physical one strung like a burn. It had passed the stage of concern and wasn’t an open wound, yet still it begged for attention with throbs of red skin.

Moving around each other like two oppositely charged magnets, the electricity was palpable. You knew him best when you weren’t looking and you imagined his form in sonar blips. He was a green shape whose outlines were marked by waves and his exact quantities were taken to be sent back to home base. He was a threat signed away by a peace treaty, but both approving parties kept their watch towers just in case. Looking for the slightest slip up, there was none as a cold war waged on your very soul.

It was a cloudy evening, when you returned that penultimate night. Apropos of nothing, you still had some terms with the sun. You’d spend lunch outdoors when possible to soak up what you could in an abysmal attempt at some circadian chemtrails. They had done nothing and you were vaguely aware that readjusting your schedule would be another bout of misery as you arrived at the apartment. Entering, dinner smelled good and there was the snap second of awareness from whenever you were near one another.

For the first time, you seemed to notice he felt the same, but it wasn’t necessarily a revelation. Dropping things on the way to the couch, your listless form was fed and eventually you were off to work. Your boss had some kind of pride and had slapped your shoulder multiple times, but no matter how hard you looked at her, she only seemed like an apparition. She’d be gone when you’d turn to address her and the bus ride home was amongst a sea of haunts.

Did people get on?

Did they ever get off?

Did you?

The apartment door opened at the same time as the bus door did and you stepped both onto the street and into your home.

It was dark, both because of the clouds and the hour as you went to shower. You had office work in only a few hours and you hadn’t washed the shampoo out of your hair as much as you could have. Laying in bed, you turned over out of necessity and with a flick measured 533.4mm between you and Donnie’s shell. The sheet was pulled over his shoulder and he too was another shadow that would presumably disappear the moment you opened your eyes.

They’d have to close first and with a heave, they did.

They also opened.

There was no sound, so it wasn’t the alarm.

Had it been seconds?

Had it been minutes?

Movement caught your eyes.

Across from you, slow and carefully, Donnie was half turned and adjusting his blanket.

Before you’d hit deep sleep, he’d awoken you with jostling.

It seemed odd considering how tired you were.

Why care?

For no apparent reason, he then froze.

Staring at him as he was in front of you, you watched as he rotated his head to see you.

There was something about his gaze.

Heavy.

Smooth.

When he looked away, it was with immense sadness.

For the first time in over a week you felt your heart thud in your chest.

With his covered shell still towards you and a hand bent over holding his shoulder, his two fingers slid into the sheet. Curling them inward to catch it, he then turned his head away as he pulled the covers down. Gaze dropped into the bed as he unfurled himself, you watched as a honey amber glow appeared.

Looking up and bypassing him for the window, the sun had risen and was entering through the window. Squinting as the black out curtains should have been drawn, you could instead see the unusual sight of the building across from yours through the sheer inner layer. Blinking away what must have been a dream back to your partner, golden hues caught the texture of his carapace. Shaking the glance off viscerally, you brought a question up to the back of his head. Instead of responding, he pushed a little more onto his plastron in what was the opposite of a belly up maneuver.

He was showing you his carapace.

Suddenly very awake, you rose up incrementally. “Don…nie…?”

He gave a single nod.

“Are you sure…? You don’t have to… I mean… Why…?”

Flat on his front, he then turned his head 180 to view you.

His gaze held a thousand pounds.

Worry.

Anguish.

Pain.

Apology.

Loneliness.

Each one hit you and reanimated your corpse.

You felt them all to an aggravating degree.

It brought you to him. Closing the space without moving, you were beside him and your knees brushed his hip. He turned his head back into the pillow and the sun rose just a bit higher, throwing shadows differently. Reaching out, more nervous than you’d ever been handling him, you brushed a single fingertip to his softshell.

Unlike its name, it had a leathery quality and was not smooth. Instead, there was a pebbled perimeter that felt one activated gene away from spikes. Sliding your digit out into the expanse, it immediately dropped into a hovel and you had to pull back your focus to see his shell as a whole. Across the width of it sat three angry horizontal scars. Tears running deep, it created crevices where the darkened green color had never returned. A hateful muddy pink instead, there was then another, not as deep scar that ran the exact opposite direction. Tracing it with a weighted finger, it ran along what must have been his spine.

“I had spines.”

You didn’t look at him and instead followed the same line back down.

“They were pruned.”

It was such a specific word choice.

Stopping only because his waistband hid the bottom, you looked up his shell with a new perspective. The light was throwing shadows in a way that allowed you to tell directionality. From this angle, you could see that something had been taken from the base of his shell and then run straight up, pruning whatever spines he referenced. “A sword.”

Donnie nodded into his pillow.

Suddenly in need, you moved to straddle his lower half. He turned his head to watch out of the corner of his eye. You hovered, quaking digits, before you placed two hands onto the expanse of his shell. Checking in with him, his expression hadn’t changed and instead seemed to be one of composure. Now with further purpose, you refocused and spread out to map. With each rough dip and curve, you found all manner of cuts. Carved in a thousand senses, there was barely more than an inch at a time that remained without damage. Along with the huge obvious four, you also located two perfectly circular ones near each top edge.

“Punctured.”

Caressing the craters, the angriest blotch of them all sat not as obvious in the dead center of his carapace. Long scarred, it didn’t have the surface level rip and tear. Instead it had a marked entry point where the blade had then been turned for what had to be the deepest perforation. Instead of touching that one, you covered it and applied pressure with your palm. “This is where he tried to paralyze you.”

“Yes.” Donnie sounded both very present and equally far away.

Spreading your digits, you swiped palms outward before dropping down. You pressed the length of yourself to what was available and the rest you covered with your arms. The only part untouched was right at your face and there you pressed a kiss into that egregious wound.

A faint little rumble rolled like there was a storm outside though sunlight continued to pour in.

When you rose up, you watched little plops of tears land on the gnarled surface.

He was moving and you got off of him. He caught you with his own streaked cheeks and pulled you in. The power of magnetism gave out and reversed. Clinging to him as if you had no choice, you rooted as close as you could. Little strips of angry sky skipped around you as you weaseled your face up against his throat. The contact whetted your parched soul and you suddenly felt faulty of bursting from the overflow. Not a drought, but a dam broke and the two of you palmed each other as if each touch could repair the damage. Finally able to wrap your arms around his middle, you shamelessly groped his carapace which wrangled a chuckle out of him.

You looked up at his blurry smile and leaned in.

Meeting in messy vision, the kiss you shared was soft but held a sweetness unlike any other.

The distraction shattered because of it and you went limp as your body reminded you it had been put through the ringer. Happy in spite of it, you reluctantly released his shell to caress his cheeks and commit them to memory.

“It was never the scars.” He explained with a voice quiet and loving.

You looked into his eyes to translate your curiosity.

“It’s my most vulnerable part.”

Kissing him as a gratitude for sharing, you had to shake your head.

“No?” He stole another press of lips and waited for your answer.

“Your heart.” You whispered against him, drinking him in.

Lips moving in tandem, you weren’t sure if they tapered off or you simply succumbed during. The alarm woke you where you were still safely cuddled into his body and, though you weren’t even close to any sort of rest, peace made getting out of bed easy. His arms trailed you as you slipped free of them and you heard his groggy voice gravel something out.

“Day 30.”

“The last day.” You cooed back and tucked him in before going to prepare for it.

Your office job was work.

Your apartment was home.

Your cleaning job was work.

Returning home, you felt oddly buoyant as the door unlocked for you. Thanking S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. in your mind for always being on standby, you found Donnie waiting in a lean against the sofa. At the sight of you, he straightened up and you couldn’t help but go over to him. He caught you as you got close and pulled you flush to him with a squeeze. “You're done.”

You nodded.

“Please say it.” His voice muffled into your hair.

“I’m done.” With some resistance, you got away enough to look up at him.

He kissed you and you had to break it with a pressure to his chest. “I know your party is in a few days, but I need to give you your present now.”

He had to maintain some contact and settled for your elbows. “You have it?”

“I told you it wasn’t about the money.” You gave a tired smile and semi-patient stare as you needed to step away.

He pouted momentarily before letting you go.

Stepping over to your bag, you slipped out the little box you had purchased to go with it. “Did you ever figure out where I was going?”

“No.” There was a deep disdain to his tone.

You gave a puff of laughter as you returned to him.

As excited as a puppy, he latched back onto you before he even noticed the gift.

“It was an office building.”

He gave a slow nod, readying himself for information.

“Cleaning, but I told you that much.”

“I hate the way the solution clings to your hands.”

“I wore gloves…” You looked up at him with surprise.

He shrugged as it was simply a fact.

You shook it away. “Weird, whatever, but the building doesn’t matter as much as its tenants do. One of a bunch of skyscrapers, certain floors had an insane amount of security.”

He leaned in a little, studying you.

“Funny though.” You offered a half-cocked grin. “They do so little research on who cleans up. Like they don’t care. Like they aren’t as smart. Like they aren’t a threat. Beneath them.”

You could tell Donnie was frustrated since he wasn’t foreseeing the point.

“The background check was a joke, especially with the papers Shelly forged.”

Donnie gave your arms an astonished squeeze.

You cradled the box and lifted it a little as an offering. “Takes only 30 days to get access to all floors which is hilarious because I don’t think I’d earn caddy rights until like 90.”

Sensing you wanted him to, he again forced himself to let go of you again, this time in exchange for the present.

You placed your hand over top of the lid. “You said they flag everyone who enters their system.”

His entire body jolted.

“Which is true, but they only give a shit about some of them.” You looked right into his eyes. “Not the ones who come everyday. Not those-”

“-Beneath them…” He was short of gasping.

You took the top off revealing a small keycard. “They don’t even have facial recognition. You could literally use anyone’s card. It’ll get you right up to the special vault. Obviously we don’t clean in there, but it looks like it’s literally a keypad at that point. Shelly scanned and said it isn’t even hooked up to the internet. That means as long as someone entered when they expected, at night, you can get in.”

“You got me-!”

“Uranium.” You finished his sentence.

You hit the floor before you could even register his movement. The entire fall cushioned, his mouth was upon you and you were drowning in a veritable sea of kisses.

“Ack! Donnie!”

“You!” He caught hold of your head and his smile threatened to crack his face wide open.

“Do you like it?” You teased.

“You, I-” He choked, his lip quivering around an unsaid word. “I-you. I-”

“It’s okay.” You found your hands and cradled his face with a sweep over his bottom lip. “You don’t have to say it. I hear you.”

“For my birthday!?”

“Yes.”

“You staked out a location!”

“Yes?” You giggled.

“Accomplice to breaking and entering!”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” You squeezed his cheeks.

“Plausible deniability.” He glanced away and returned with an expression that oozed pride. “Downright villainous.”

“I learned from the best…” You swept a thumb over his smile lines.

“That was not worth what you did in the slightest! However-!” He forced through his closing throat, a few tears breaking free.

“I don’t know. Look at you.”

He tried to kiss your grin away.

There was no way he could.

Breaking only for air, he continued to pepper you as you tried to explain the rest of the necessary information. “So, you can go in whenever you want though I’m quitting without notice. The me that went in doesn’t even exist so who cares. You’ll want to go before they shut the card off though, so not long. I also have the routes of how the cleaners disperse each night along and all the building’s cameras and sensors.”

“How?” He couldn’t pull his mouth from you, but you could feel how enamored he was.

“Shelly pulled all the starting weight; I took over from there, but the idea of it all was a hunch of mine that happened to pan out.”

“Magnificent.” He finally broke free to look at you. “Incredible.” He brushed back your hair and took you in. “There aren’t enough words to describe how I feel for you.”

You looked away and then back. “There’s a few but…”

You saw him stiffen and his lips part.

You covered his mouth with your whole hand. “You know I want that, but that was a joke! When you’re ready, Donnie. Geez!”

He kissed your hand once, twice, and then gave it a nudge.

You removed it. “Yes?”

“Take a sick day.”

“Haven’t I had enough of those?” You stared at him with dried incredulity.

“They’ve been worried?”

You sighed, pretending to be put off. “Yes.”

“Take it.”

“But…” It was tempting.

“You need to recuperate.” He wasn’t wrong.

“... Fine.” You gave in and came up to kiss him.

He pulled you a little closer and deepened it for one long massage before pulling away just enough to speak in scorched puffs. “To get you the rest you need I fully intend to eat you out until you come apart at the very seams and fall in the most satisfied rest of your life.”

You squeaked.

“In which case I might, might consider myself forgiven for my transgressions.”

A shudder ran through you and you tried to kiss him, but he just barely resisted.

“When you wake, if I’ve done my job to an adequate standard, then maybe, maybe, again twice the emphasis, I will allow myself coitus proper.”

“Allow yourself?” You could already feel yourself devolving into a needy mess. “What about me?”

Nudging your cheek, his lips graced your skin. “Hence the timing. Rest assured your satisfaction is guaranteed by one of my defining characteristics.”

You reviewed him through lashes.

“My sharp tongue.” With another press, he caught your lips and demonstrated with a lick that winded said heat around yours.

In a few flicks, his moistened point soaked somewhere else.

“Monster.” You breathed as he broke the lock. More than agreeable, he gave an indicative growl before scooping you up to run you over to the bed. You squealed at his speed and heard a few happy chirps pop from him in the journey until you crashed into the sheets and he finally answered, “Without question!”

I would be nothing without my betas @tmntxthings and @thepinkpanther83

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