#Botox and emotional blunting

[kanemedicalaesthetic]

The Truth About Botox and Micro-Expressions | Can It Fool a Lie Detector?

Botox is widely known for its ability to smooth wrinkles and fine lines, but its impact on facial expressions goes beyond aesthetics. By relaxing specific muscles, Botox can reduce the ability to make certain expressions, including micro-expressions—those fleeting facial movements that reveal true emotions. This has led to speculation about whether Botox could be used to fool lie detectors, influence social interactions, or even make someone appear more trustworthy. But how much truth is there to these claims?

Understanding Micro-Expressions and Their Role in Communication

Micro-expressions are involuntary facial expressions that last for a fraction of a second. Unlike controlled expressions, micro-expressions occur subconsciously and can reveal hidden emotions such as fear, anger, happiness, or surprise. Psychologists and law enforcement agencies often study micro-expressions to detect deception, as they can provide insight into a person’s true feelings.

Since Botox limits muscle movement in treated areas, it may interfere with the ability to produce certain micro-expressions. This raises the question: Can Botox be used to mask emotions or even deceive a lie detector?

Botox and Its Effect on Emotional Expression

When Botox is injected into facial muscles, it temporarily blocks nerve signals that cause those muscles to contract. This means that individuals who receive Botox in areas such as the forehead or around the eyes may struggle to express emotions like surprise or concern fully.

Studies have shown that Botox affects emotional recognition—not only in how people express their emotions but also in how they interpret the emotions of others. This is known as the "facial feedback hypothesis," which suggests that the way we use our facial muscles influences how we feel and perceive emotions. If a person is unable to make a worried expression, for example, their brain may also struggle to fully process feelings of worry.

Can Botox Actually Fool a Lie Detector?

Lie detectors, or polygraph tests, measure physiological responses such as heart rate, sweating, and breathing patterns rather than facial expressions. Since Botox does not directly affect these bodily responses, it is unlikely to help someone pass a polygraph test.

However, Botox might influence deception in indirect ways:

Reduced Telltale Facial Expressions – Since Botox can limit frowning or other stress-related expressions, it might make it harder for an observer to detect nervousness or discomfort. However, experienced interrogators rely on a combination of verbal cues, body language, and physiological responses, not just facial expressions.

Blunted Emotional Responses – If Botox reduces a person’s ability to feel emotions as intensely (due to the facial feedback hypothesis), it might help someone remain calmer under pressure. This could make them appear more composed during questioning, but it would not alter the physiological signals measured by a lie detector.

Impact on Social Perception – Some research suggests that people with Botox appear more neutral or relaxed, which could influence how others perceive their honesty. A face with fewer signs of stress may seem more trustworthy, even if the person is being deceptive.

The Ethical Implications

The idea that Botox could be used to manipulate perceptions or hide emotions raises ethical concerns. While it is unlikely that Botox alone could make someone a more effective liar, it does alter natural emotional expression. This could have implications in areas such as law enforcement, job interviews, and even personal relationships.

Additionally, Botox might have unintended consequences. If a person has difficulty expressing certain emotions, it could impact their ability to connect with others. For example, a lack of expressive feedback might make conversations feel less engaging or sincere.

The Limits of Botox in Deception

Despite the speculation, Botox is not a magic tool for deception. While it can reduce visible facial expressions, it does not eliminate all forms of body language, vocal tone changes, or physiological stress responses. Professional lie detection involves analyzing multiple factors, making it unlikely that Botox alone could consistently fool a polygraph test.

Conclusion

Botox can certainly affect facial expressions and emotional perception, but it is not a foolproof method for deception. While it may make micro-expressions less noticeable, it does not alter the physiological responses that polygraph tests rely on. More research is needed to fully understand how Botox influences communication and social perception. In the end, honesty and authenticity remain far more complex than just facial movements.

[sandwatersky]

A Small Beautiful Truth

Light spilling down over the upper lip of the courtyard. 

Orange rust on metal intentionally designed to rust. 

Encouraging entropy can be dangerous

but can have beautiful results. 

Sometimes you have to go with the grain

of the wood, when it comes to the 

unidirectional arrow of time. 

Plastic surgeons are on the wrong side of the battle, 

though Instagram Face will continue to boost Botox sales. 

Still, people manage to age 

gracefully, at times. 

Some small sense of humility, 

a grasp on the scale of the universe, 

and the ability to learn, adapt, and grow

seem to blunt the blow, let a 

rose grow into an invisible blossom 

of wisdom and emotional intelligence.

We try to get a handle on words

with slippery surfaces. Others skip across a 

body of water like smooth, flat pebbles. 

Ultimately, what we write down

has the potential to live on

though most gets lost in the surf, 

or rather, the riptide of tweets, posts,

shiny viral gewgaws, scandalous headlines, 

and ten-second TikTok videos.

But what’s the ultimate effect of crafting 

a sentence, a small beautiful truth,

a structure to crouch below,

if it falls in a forest with no one around?

Whoever wrote it

broke open a geode

and changed their own heart forever. 

The beauty is in the eye of the beholder

and no audience is needed to 

grow towards the light. 

[mimik-u]

The Princess and the Knight (A “Flower Child” One-Shot)

A/N: Lololol, I don't quite know how to explain myself, but last night, I suddenly got the urge to write "Flower Child" Blue and Yellow's first meeting... and so I did. Muse is such a wild thing, lol. The title and minor gimmick comes from Yellow's dream in Chapter 6!

AO3

—

Just because she knew it would piss her mother off, Yellow Diamond straddled the limo seat as though she had never seen a chair before, one knee at kingdom and the other at come. A daring smile languished in her golden eyes, on her lips, and in the haughty tilt of her aquiline nose.

White Diamond, magnificent as always in a shimmering backless number, was not impressed.

“You’re being impossible,” she hissed, all politeness (all thinly veiled anger). Her mouth did not say what her shining black eyes did. The fifty-nine year old CEO had long been masterful at the art of strangling all of her emotions into a voice so saccharine that it could have spun honey.

Yellow, on the other hand, meant every word she said.

Yellow, on the other hand, had a laugh like a bark—harsh, discordant, unfiltered.

“I thought we weren’t allowed to use that word,” she taunted. “Nothing is impossible for us Diamonds and all of that aphoristic nonsense.”

“You know what I meant.”

The twenty-one year old flicked a lazy hand through her stiff coiffure, causing her mother’s nostrils to flare slightly.

“I know only what I’ve been told.”

“Smart aleck,” White said primly, her gaze sharp enough to cut yourself on.

“I learned from the best,” Yellow retorted, her natural bluntness the weapon she brought to the table in return.

At a stalemate, they collapsed into an electric silence then, refusing to look at each other. Outside the black tinted windows, the modern part of the city gave way to the old-moneyed part of the city. Squared apartments became old Grecian buildings became manicured bushes became signs on every corner that let one know that this place was historic. A renowned senator attended school here. A President signed a declaration there. 

The damn street lamps were gold.

Across from her, White Diamond’s microscopic sigh demanded to be heard, tiny though it was. She pinched the bridge of her pointed nose and stared plaintively at her daughter from behind the intricate tangle of her long fingers.

“I know you’d rather not be here.”

“You’re right,” Yellow acquiesced readily. “I’d rather be working on my application for grad school.”

“But,” White continued on as though she hadn’t heard her, “this is the most lucrative social event of the season, Yellow! You’ll have the opportunity to rub shoulders with presidents and CEOs and princes and duchesses. You’ll get to prove your mettle as the incumbent heiress of Diamond Electric!”

Yellow’s face pinched itself together in the darkness. Disdain rolled off her shoulders in waves.

“You know I don’t care for any of those things, Mother. I know my own worth.” Her fists were clenched on her knees. “I know that I’m going to make a damn fine CEO one day.”

“It isn’t just about you, though,” White Diamond sighed again, and by some grand miracle, her forehead creased through all of the botox. “Crucify me for wanting the world to see who you are, too.”

Yellow looked away at this, looked out of the window.

The streetlights suffused across her face.

Orange in the hollows of her cheeks.

Gold.

“You’re my daughter, Yellow, and because of that, but also beyond that, you’re extraordinary.”

The sincerity pressed against Yellow’s skin.

It made her itch.

“Be a dear and let someone know it tonight.”

—

Blue Montgomery stood between her mother and father and tried very hard not to remember that she was a crown jewel. Pale and slender and draped in blue silk, she was a porcelain doll reconciled. And tonight, as was the lot of most porcelain dolls, she would be packaged and sold, would be auctioned off for charity.

You, sir—yes, you!—could win a lunch date with the Alistair Montgomery’s daughter if you throw money at this vaguely philanthropic cause!

Look at her!

She’s gorgeous and smart but too cold and distant to be a threat to your fragile sense of masculinity! You can call her sweet thing and then affably write her off as a heartless shrew when it’s all said and done!

She’s perfect!

The misogyny of it all was not lost on this young woman, but as she sipped champagne from a skinny flute, she desperately tried to make it so. 

She was a Montgomery.

And that meant something around these parts.

At the very least, it meant that she had to perform.

So when old men came up to them and called her charming, she smiled, all teeth, and took it; they kissed her on the hand and cheek. Their hands sometimes fell from her waist to her ass.

She politely affirmed that she was Ivy League material, but dared not talk about her own ambitions lest they were too ambitious to belong to the likes of her.

She held her head high, even though the weight of the diamonds around her neck felt like a noose.

Blue Montgomery was perfect in every conceivable way.

(She was extraordinarily miserable.)

“Oh, Alistair,” Vivian Montgomery whispered cattily under her breath, “look who’s heading this way.”

As her mother quickly rearranged her haughty disdain into a socialite’s politeness, Blue followed her father’s austere gaze to the pair of people now approaching them, and was promptly surprised to find that she immediately recognized the older of the two. Even if she hadn’t been in a sweeping silvery dress, White Diamond, founder and CEO of the fastest rising company in Empire City, was unmistakable.

Nowadays, she often smiled sultrily at you from the covers of Forbes and Fortune, magazines that were the bread and butter, the Bible and Catechism of the Montgomery household. She had spiky white hair and glittering black eyes and a plump smile that was about as safe as an unsheathed knife.

Blue’s parents didn’t much care for her.

Didn’t care for anyone really who wasn’t already born with a gold pacifier in their mouth.

“White!” Vivian exclaimed as though they were all dear friends.

“Vivian! Alistair!” White Diamond gamely played along, extending her pale arms outwards for an embrace with her mother.

The two women hugged like two women who hate each tend to do—quite warmly—and as the CEO withdrew, Blue noticed that her finely manicured nails were blacker than night, pitch.

She extended one of these ink tipped hands towards her companion, whom Blue had quite forgotten to notice, so distracted by the positively peacocking White, but now, she afforded a closer look.

(“You remember my daughter Yellow, right?”)

It was rather difficult to make an impression next to the nigh ethereally striking White Diamond, but Yellow Diamond almost came close, Blue thought, studying this slender statue of a CEO’s daughter as their parents exchanged passive aggressive pleasantries about them over them.

(“My Yellow just finished an undergraduate thesis!”)

(“Our dear Blue was recently accepted into Yale for graduate school.”)

There was something almost Grecian in Yellow’s aspect, with her sharply defined jawbone and ultra straight nose. The taut muscles in her creamy neck ran smoothly into her crisply ironed button down. She wore a suit vest and matching dress pants the very color of her mother’s nails. Her hands were tucked somewhat insolently into her pockets, but a frown was tucked more subtly in the firm press of her plump lips.

These little quirks aside, she very well looked like the future CEO of Diamond Electric one day.

So Blue Montgomery did what Montgomerys do.

She performed.

“Hello,” she ventured politely. (Yellow’s golden eyes raked her appraisingly, but at least she didn’t try to grab Blue’s ass, which was a nice change in pace all things considering.) “Are you enjoying the night so far?”

(“White,” Alistair crooned and lied, “you have to come out to the estate sometime.”)

(“Of course!” White crooned and lied in courteous return. “That would be lovely.”)

“I suppose I’m compelled to say yes,” Yellow answered drolly, her gaze subtly sliding over to her mother. “And you?”

It was the honesty that was so surprising to Blue, for honesty was so rare in this picture perfect life that she lived.

She arched an eyebrow.

Something small quirked at her lips.

She made sure that her parents were still wrapped up in out-politing White before she replied.

“Likewise.”

The golden-eyed heiress only grinned.

—

As they walked away from the Montgomery trio, Yellow Diamond couldn’t quite leave one Montgomery behind.

Blue Montgomery.

Blue.

Her long, brown hair spilled across her back in silky waves. There were oceans in her delicately shaped eyes, seas in the midnight blue gown that poured down her body.

Something secretive in that little smile of hers.

Something that suggested that discovering her would be a treasure all on its own.

Of course, White Diamond, because she was White Diamond, knew instantly.

As she sashayed through the spillage of gowns and tuxedos, outshining them all, she admonished her daughter lightly.

“She’s a Montgomery,” she warned, a party ready smile still slashed across her face. “Her empire is oil, and the very same has run through her blood for generations upon generations. Her parents look down on us for being what they refer to as new money. Assuredly, she does, too.”

Alistair Montgomery was the richest oil tycoon on the East Coast.

Just like his father before him had been.

And his grandfather.

And his great-grandfather.

And—

“And you know”—White waved airily at some senator and some prince and some other important person and still found time to belabor the point—“she’s probably not inclined the way you are.”

Yellow scowled.

Deeply.

“Thanks, Mother.”

White posed for a camera just as her daughter deftly stepped out of the frame. 

“I’m only trying to spare you the heartbreak, dear.”

—

Before the auction, there was a silent auction, and rich people meandered from white-clothed table to white-clothed table to bid on items such as artisanal doorknobs for ten thousands of dollars. 

(Vivian Montgomery was one of these people, and surprisingly enough, her daughter was, too. Granted, she chased a different kind of stupid commodity to blow money on.)

After extracting herself from the attentions of a senator’s son—who was more interested in her cleavage than her personage—Blue found herself at a table where rare books were being auctioned. Folio copies of Jane Eyre and The Iliad and The Scarlet Letter. Signed Hemingways and first edition Joyces. A full, antiquated set of the Oxford English Dictionary. 

A lover of all things literature, a delicate smile adorned the twenty-one year old’s features.

A connoisseur of Greek mythology, she found herself drawn to the folio of The Iliad.

The highest bid was currently $450.

Without the slightest hesitation, in her sweeping handwriting, Blue topped that number with $1,000.

“That seems excessive,” came a dry voice at her shoulder.

She bristled at the closeness of the voice and turned to confront it, only to find herself face to face with Yellow Diamond.

Her golden eyes were edged in playfulness.

And insolence.

And arrogance.

She looked like a shark amongst men.

Next CEO of Diamond Electric, Blue reminded herself, forcing her indignation into some semblance of a polite smile. She didn’t mean any harm.

“We’re all wealthy here,” she said, intimating a shrug with her voice (for ladies did not shrug). “Excess is the playground we thrive in.”

“I thought this whole charade was supposed to be for charity?” Yellow teased. As the night had worn on, the hairspray which had held her coiffure together had seemingly given up the ghost, leaving her golden hair to spill around her head like a crown of feathers.

“Mm”—Blue pretended to be deeply invested in the list for her beloved book again—“that’s the keyword, isn’t it, though? Charade.”

The heiress laughed. 

It was a harsh, clanging sound.

It fit her like a glove.

“Charade indeed.”

—

Yellow continued asking questions, and Blue continued to answer them as they went from table to table without really looking at anything… except for each other. (They passed glances, back and forth, gold meeting blue meeting gold.)

“Why do you prefer Greek mythology so much?”

“Because it’s nice to be swept away on the wine dark sea with all kinds of flawed heroes and villains, goddesses and monsters. Their tragedies are poignant because they’re human.”

“What could you have been doing tonight besides being here?”

She sighed wistfully, the sound trailing through the air like dandelion dust. “Literally anything.”

“Is this… okay?” Yellow gestured somewhat awkwardly to the charged space between them. Perhaps the better question to have asked would have been: Am I okay being here? But one query was certainly more vulnerable than the other, and dammit, Yellow would endure so many more things before she would ever admit to vulnerability.

Blue tilted her head, and a curtain of her thick hair swept to the side, leaving her slender neck exposed. Yellow’s pulse was somewhere in the column of her throat. 

“I don’t see why not.”

They continued in this manner—on and on—and would have done so all night had Mrs. Montgomery not interrupted them as they were discussing trickle-down economics in the shallow way that only twenty-something-year-old capitalists could.

Mrs. Montgomery appraised Yellow with a cold politeness before just as coldly shutting her out of the conversation.

“The auction will be starting soon,” she said, straightening Blue’s necklace. “Perhaps you should take a reprieve to freshen up in the bathroom?”

It was a question, but it was also not a question. 

Yellow Diamond was well familiar with the art of the implicit command given her own mother.

“Of course, Mother,” Blue replied with a smile that never quite reached her sapphire eyes. Seemingly satisfied, Mrs. Montgomery heeled away, and Yellow leveled a frown at her companion.

“You’re going to be part of the auction?” Oh, there was certainly some horror in her voice.

A fair dash of indignation, too.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Blue snapped and then blanched when she realized she did.

It was the first time she had risen her voice all night, for she was remarkably self-possessed.

But she was also only human.

(It was kind of hot, but it was more so infuriating given what she was raising her voice for.)

Narrowing her eyes, Yellow took the bait.

“Why not?” She asked scathingly. “Pray tell why shouldn’t I be concerned that you’re about to get up on that stage and be sold like a pig for the slaughter?”

Blue looked wildly around for ears and eyes that were too obsessed with their own selves to care about the conversation two spoiled heiresses were having.

“Keep your voice down!”

“Fine,” Yellow hissed. “I’m still not impressed with what you’re about to do, though.”

Blue’s dark hair seemed to frizz around the outline of her face.

“You don’t have to be! I barely know you!”

“Hell, I don’t have to know you to know that auctioning off women is screwed up.”

Blue Montgomery recoiled where she stood, a ship upended in the sea, and it was then that Yellow knew they were on the same page.

That horror was rising in them both like storms.

“It’s just a lunch date,” she whispered.

Justifying it.

Convincing herself.

Stomaching something unimaginable.

Yellow shook her head, her mouth pressed into a thin, exacting line.

“I’ll believe that when you do.”

—

Blue Montgomery stood on the stage, swollen in white spotlight, and could not forget that she was the crown jewel of this auction. Pale and slender and draped in blue silk, she was no embroidered golf bag, nor three day vacation to a ski resort. She was something better—flesh and blood and a pipeline to Montgomery family oil. She was a porcelain doll reconciled. The auctioneer saved her for last.

“And now we have Blue Montgomery, who has so charitably agreed to go on a lunch date with the highest bidder! Give it up for our dear Alistair’s lovely, brilliant daughter!”

Applause sweltered below.

There was a hunger in the air.

“Let’s start the bidding at $50! Do we have $50? Yes, we have $50!”

The senator’s son whose eye line was permanently drawn below her face.

“Oh, sorry, son! Looks like we have $100! $150! $200!”

An older man with a walrus mustache.

He smiled up at her with all of his shiny teeth.

Blue was going to be sick.

“$300! $350! Goodness, you men are amped up! Ahaha, but there’s no question as to why! $400! $450!”

It was the senator’s son again.

“$450 going once!”

A couple of tuxedoed companions slapped congratulations on his smug back.

“$450 going twice!”

It was sickening to watch.

It was impossible to comprehend.

All of the blood drained from Blue’s face and pooled in her throat.

She was drowning in it.

Suffocating.

“Sol—hold on, lad!” The auctioneer suddenly placed his hand over his eyes as a visor against the harsh spotlight. Blue couldn’t quite make out what he was looking at, the world dancing across her eyes, swaying and blurring.

“$1,000 from the young man in the back!”

The crowd gasped. (They all liked a good drama.)

“$1,000 going once!”

Senator boy petulantly hurled himself back into his chair.

“$1,000 going twice!”

His friends promptly slapped condolences on him.

“Sold! Congratulations, sir! You’ve just landed a date with a very special lady this weekend! C’mon up and meet her!”

Tuxedos and gowns and gasps and whispers parted down the middle to let the dumbass who just spent $1,000 dollars on a date through.

Her head was held high.

Her grin could have rent the world in two.

Blue’s lips parted in a soft oh of surprise as Yellow Diamond ascended the stairs, two steps at a time.

What a dumbass, that knight in shining armor.

What a wonder.

—

Backstage, the princess awarded her savior with a softened glance.

And a thank you, quietly spoken.

Meant.

“Listen, it was either this or me punching that guy,” Yellow shrugged, quite obviously embarrassed. Even her pointed hair seemed to be in shock, standing up on end.

“Seems excessive,” Blue batted back, a wry tilt at her lips.

Yellow Diamond didn’t miss a beat.

“We’re all wealthy here,” she grinned. “Excess is the playground we thrive in.”

But then, just as quickly as she had lightened, the heiress’s face became all seriousness again, harsh angles and even harsher lines.

“I’m not going to hold you to that date, though,” she said with an emphatic shake of the head. “You’re not a damn trophy to bought and sold, Blue, and besides”—she laughed that singularly dissonant laugh again—“you’re worth way more than a thousand dollars.”

Blue thought she would have been more relieved to be freed from the obligation.

But she wasn’t.

And it confused her.

Somehow, she mustered some semblance of a smile.

“That’s very generous of you,” she murmured. “Thank you.”

Yellow Diamond dragged a self-conscious hand across the back of her neck; red popped across her sharp cheekbones in what very well may have been a blush.

They weren’t standing very far apart from each other.

There was electricity in the air.

Potential.

Blue wondered what it would be like to run her fingers through that lush, golden hair.

(And forgot to wonder why she was even wondering such a thing.)

“Anytime.”

—

“What the hell, Moms?” Pink Diamond protested, slapping her hands on the marble countertop before turning on Blue. “I grew up half of my life thinking Momma opened a trapdoor and, like, found you or something!”

“Language,” Blue only chided, but the smile softening her lips betrayed her.

(Love did.)

Leaning against the fridge, arms crossed over her chest, Yellow’s laugh was like a bark—harsh, discordant, unfiltered.

“I didn’t slay any dragons per say,” she smirked, “but you should have seen the look on pretty boy’s face when I outbid him.”

“It was quite the sight,” Blue agreed, a mischievous tilt in her dark eyebrows.

“Damn straight.” Yellow’s golden eyes shone with the memory.

Looking between her parents, Pink only laughed and clapped her hands together. The freckles scattered across her cheeks bunched up and then expanded with each humor-stricken breath.

“And so the princess and the knight…” she grinned with an inviting tip of her head towards Blue.

“And the little elfin poppet,” Blue added, reaching across the countertop to brush a smudge off her daughter’s pointed nose. (Pink always had some smudge on her face or another. Paint. Makeup. Glitter.)

“Lived their happily ever after,” Yellow rolled her eyes, like she was above their sugary nonsense, though she was quite obviously perfectly content to inhabit it all the same.

In that kitchen, Pink Diamond was seventeen years old.

By then, she had already lived out most of her life.

[ko-fanatic]

Colours: Pink

Rating: Teen and up

Fandom: Ouran High School Host Club

Relationships: Tachibana & Kyoya, Kyoka & Kyoya, Yoshio & Kyoya

Trigger Warnings: Depression, suicidal thoughts

Summary: Pink lipstick smudged around his father’s lips and neck, bruised hickeys laying bare for all to see with the haphazardly buttoned shirt. It wasn’t the first time, wouldn’t be the last, and wasn’t that just depressing?

Other fanfics in this series: Grey / Blue / Yellow / Green / Purple

Kyoya had stopped crying by the time Tachibana pulled into the Ootori estate’s driveway, eyes sore and his breathing still a little shaky, but a weight was taken off his shoulders. Tachibana knew, and he cared. He cried alongside him, tried to reassure him, and it was… a little more comforting. He felt guilty for making the man cry, but it felt like a safety net; Tachibana would never let him leave.

Still, it wasn’t enough to fix him. He knew that, really, but he seemed to put his hope in stupid, nonsensical things when things got bad; and this was the worst they’d ever been. Still, some odd sense of melancholy calm was over him; an overture for the colour, perhaps? A step towards wellness, where the grey would be ignored once more, and he’d be happy.

It was a complete denial of responsibility, putting himself in the older man’s capable hands, but perhaps he could do what everyone kept saying… Going to a doctor. Still, he didn’t want pills, and he knew he wouldn’t take them. Side effects, some of the stories he’d heard, his own mother… That, and it was something that would either confirm or deny his mental illness; both were horrifying. Confirmation was scary, because it made this thing all too real, but being told that he wasn’t depressed… It’d be the revelation that he’d been self-sabotaging this whole time, that he’d just peaked, and this was how he really was.

There was no point launching himself into that now, only just getting his feet back on the ground once more. He couldn’t do it, not again; he’d be sick if he panicked anymore, nose bleeding from the pressure in his head, his eyes pouring from their sockets as he cried them out. He knew that last one was impossible, of course, but the image didn’t leave him alone. All he could do was curl up into a ball, feet on the luxury upholstery like he’d been told off for a million times, hands pulling at his hair in some attempt to ground himself.

A gentle stop, door open and closed, gravel under fairly expensive shoes, his door opening. All those sounds were real, it was all real. He should stay in the here and now, with Tachibana worriedly saying his name and gently easing the clutch he had on his hair. Looking up at him was slow, painfully slow, but aided by the gentle stroked Tachibana’s large, calloused hand made through the black, greasy strands.

“If you’re up to it, you should have a shower when you get in,” He suggested, an option rather than a commandment, and Kyoya had to stop himself from crying again. It was all too emotional, too soft, too perfect, “It’s alright if you… don’t want to be alone. I’m here Kyoya, we’re all here; Hotta, Aijima and I, your brothers and sister, your father… We all love you, and we don’t want you to hurt yourself, alright? We want you here.”

Tachibana helped him out of the car, his knees feeling a little too weak to work properly in that moment, just in time to see something that sunk like a stone in his gut.

“Come on, are you kicking me out so soon, Yoyo-chan? So mean,” His mother whined as his father tried to get her out of the door, her hair mussed and clothes rumpled. Unfortunately, over the years they’d been divorced, this was something of a common phenomenon. His mother would travel for months at a time, come back, and if her toyboy of the moment didn’t give her enough attention, it was a quick trip back to the Ootori estate for an equally quick fuck. He was basically desensitised to this shit, in the sense that his parents having sex didn’t disgust him as much as the average child.

It just made him upset and angry.

“Come on, Kyoka; Kyoya will be home any minute, and he’s –”

“Right in front of you,” Kyoya interrupted his father, his expression grave as the two adults turned to him slowly. His mother’s pink lipstick was clearly smudged around his father’s face and neck – she always did wear too much of the stuff – and his own appearance was just as dishevelled. If he was planning to hide it, he wasn’t very convincing.

“Kyoya, baby boy,” His mother cooed, shoving Yoshio away and almost making him fall on the floor. She moved just as gracefully as ever, swanning to him and cupping his cheeks, “Oh my, Kyoya; I think you’re getting your father’s cheekbones, you’re becoming a man. I always thought your squishy cheeks were adorable, though – you suit something softer.”

Yet, she failed to notice how ill-fitting his clothes were, how he’d lost weight. How he looked sick and barely able to stand. He was just too tired and upset to deal with her, though; it wouldn’t do to take everything she said to heart, but he would, because it wasn’t something that was really his choice anymore.

His hands balled into fists at his sides, clenching his teeth so hard that he feared his teeth would shatter. He just couldn’t swallowed his anger down, like he always did. He just couldn’t keep doing it, he was too exposed and raw and real. It was too crushing, like when Yuuichi had to explain that, just because he walked in on his parents having sex, didn’t mean they were getting back together. He’d yelled, called him a liar, and stormed off only for his brother to be proved correct.

He was done, and he was upset. Of all the times his mother came around for a little attention, it had to be today.

“Get off,” He nearly growled, voice low, and she let go of him in shock. His mother was used to her baby boy, the one who’d follow her around like a puppy and ask about her latest trip, acting more like a bestie than her son as she gossiped about the men – and women – who were so generous. Generously endowed, too; she never had a filter when it came to that. It was like she didn’t even know how to act around a child, and she probably didn’t with how little time she’d spent around him.

He was sick of it. He was really, really sick of this entire situation.

“Kyoya,” His father began, hand reaching out to him as he tried to stride passed, but he just side stepped the small act of affection and worry. He was obviously worried, Kyoya wasn’t acting like himself, and he knew it, “Kyoya, come here. It’s not my fault –”

“Did she rape you, then?” He asked, interrupting and jarringly blunt. He couldn’t stand it when that line always seemed to come up. He didn’t care about seeming like his polished perfect self, that illusion was long gone, rusting in dusty darkness, “If she held you down, father, then we should go to the police.”

“N-no, of course not!” Yoshio bristled, shock written across every line of his face.

“Then it’s your fault too, don’t pretend otherwise,” He snapped, turning to look at his mother. That strapless, all too tight dress was something that would have every man at the event cast their eyes over her curves, admit to themselves that while she was tall and loud, and all those things Japan found unattractive, they wanted her. Hemlines at midthigh, like a teenager, necklines low and revealing, face full of Botox and the latest makeup trends.

It was like a pretence had been stripped away, like he really was seeing her for the first time, and he just let himself speak, “Just because mother dresses like a whore doesn’t mean you have to fuck her like one.”

“Kyoya!” Tachibana scolded, looking scandalised and just a bit angry despite how red his eyes still were from crying, “How dare you speak like that! It’s not -”

“Not like me? How the actual fuck would any of you know that?!” He yelled, snarling, but his eyes were still burning though there were no more tears left to cry, “I don’t care! I hate you! I always have to be perfect, do you know how stressful that is?! Yet she gets a free pass! Why?! If she gets one because she’s sick, then I should too! But no, I still have to act like I’m okay!”

“Baby boy… What’s wrong? What happened?” His mother asked, voice as faint as it was on the days where she wouldn’t leave her room, shaking herself from her dumbfounded state for a moment.

“Your baby boy is dead and rotting,” He spat, looking at her with seventeen years’ worth of buried contempt, “So just go. Unless you’re trying to get him to give you another round; in which case, just try and be fucking quiet for once.”

Kyoya made his way upstairs, his mother, his father and Tachibana staring at him in utter shock for a long moment. He was almost away when Tachibana ran after him, taking the stairs two at a time, snatching his wrist as soon as he was close enough.

“Get off me!” He seethed, head whipping around to glare at his bodyguard, “You’re always… there, and I’ve had enough! I’m not a child! Just leave me alone!”

“But Kyoya, I can’t –”

“Please,” He whisper was broken, his voice shaking and thick, “Please, I just… I can’t… I need to be alone…”

He was let go. He walked to his room, locked the door behind him, and sank to the floor.

He broke down.

[vegetadentata]

.

[kanemedicalaesthetic]

How Does Botox Affect Facial Recognition and Emotional Expression?

Botox is widely known for its ability to smooth fine lines and wrinkles by temporarily relaxing facial muscles. While its cosmetic benefits are well established, Botox also brings subtle—but significant—changes to how the face moves. As a result, researchers and practitioners have started exploring its impact on two nuanced aspects of human interaction: facial recognition and emotional expression.

Both are vital to how we connect with others and understand social cues. So what happens when facial movement is limited? Does Botox influence how others perceive us—or how we perceive others?

The Role of Facial Muscles in Emotional Expression

Our faces are equipped with dozens of muscles that help us express emotions. Smiling, frowning, raising an eyebrow—all of these motions communicate how we feel without saying a word. The contraction of specific muscles sends emotional signals both outward and inward, which is why you might feel happier after smiling, even when you’re not in a good mood.

Botox, by design, inhibits these muscular contractions. In areas like the forehead, glabella (between the eyebrows), or crow’s feet, Botox relaxes the underlying muscles so that dynamic wrinkles don’t appear. However, this can also dampen the full range of expressions, particularly micro-expressions—those tiny, involuntary facial movements that play a major role in non-verbal communication.

Botox and Emotional Expression: The Science

Several studies have examined how Botox affects emotional expression. One key finding is that people with Botox in certain areas (especially the glabella and forehead) may have a reduced ability to display emotions like anger, surprise, or sadness. This isn’t to say that the emotions themselves disappear, but rather that the facial signals used to express them are muted.

For example, someone who’s upset might not furrow their brows as visibly as they did pre-Botox. This can make it harder for others to interpret what that person is feeling, leading to miscommunication or reduced empathy in social settings.

Interestingly, the feedback loop works both ways. The "facial feedback hypothesis" suggests that expressing an emotion helps reinforce it internally. Inhibiting facial movement through Botox may slightly blunt the emotional experience itself. In short, if you can’t frown easily, you might actually feel less sadness or anger.

Facial Recognition: Can Botox Affect How You Perceive Others?

Facial recognition involves identifying individuals based on their unique facial features and expressions. While Botox doesn’t interfere with your ability to recognize someone’s physical appearance, it may influence how accurately you interpret their emotional state.

A 2011 study found that individuals who received Botox had more difficulty identifying emotional expressions in others, particularly subtle or ambiguous ones. This could be due to reduced mimicry—our natural tendency to mirror another person’s expressions during a conversation. When Botox limits this mimicry, it becomes harder to "feel into" the other person’s emotional state.

This doesn’t mean Botox makes you emotionally detached or unempathetic. Most users don’t report dramatic changes in their emotional understanding. But there is evidence that Botox can introduce a small dampening effect, especially in people who rely heavily on facial mirroring, such as therapists, actors, or teachers.

Social Implications and Perception by Others

One of the more fascinating aspects of Botox and facial expression is how others perceive someone who has had injections. A face that moves less may be interpreted as calm, unreadable, or in some cases, aloof. Some people may mistake limited expression for disinterest or even arrogance.

This perception may depend heavily on context. In professional settings, a composed, smooth expression might be seen as polished and confident. In personal or emotional situations, however, it could create a barrier to intimacy or emotional resonance.

Does Botox Always Dull Expression?

Not necessarily. Skilled injectors today understand the importance of preserving natural movement. Techniques such as "Baby Botox" or microdosing aim to soften lines without freezing the face. Strategic placement and dosage allow clients to retain a full range of expression while enjoying the aesthetic benefits.

Furthermore, Botox effects are temporary. If a patient feels their expressiveness has been overly diminished, the results will naturally fade in three to four months, allowing for adjustment in future treatments.

Emotional Wellness Benefits

While Botox may slightly dull certain expressions, it can also contribute to emotional well-being. In people with depression, Botox has been shown to improve mood—likely due to the disruption of negative facial feedback loops (such as frowning). In fact, clinical trials have explored Botox as a potential adjunct therapy for major depressive disorder.

This paradox—that Botox can both dampen expression and improve mood—highlights the complexity of how facial movement and emotion are connected.

Conclusion

Botox doesn’t just smooth the skin—it alters how we communicate emotionally through our faces. While this effect is typically subtle, it can influence how we’re perceived by others and even how we experience our own emotions. For most users, these changes are manageable and often outweighed by the confidence boost Botox provides. Still, understanding the social and psychological nuances of Botox can help individuals make more informed decisions about their aesthetic care—especially in roles where facial communication matters deeply.