#What Is Deception Detection Test

[forensicfield]

Deception Detection Tests (DDT) and It's Evidentiary Value

With the use of additional methods, forensic psychologists understand and assess the internal and external behavioural patterns of suspects, accused, witnesses, and victims to assist in the process of conducting a scientific examination of criminal cases.

Continue reading Deception Detection Tests (DDT) and It’s Evidentiary Value

[just-aake]

Detecting Love Part 3

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader

Summary: Part 3 to Detecting Love. Sometimes being able to see lies isn't the only way to know the truth.

Part 1 | Part 2

Warnings: fluff, light angst, slight violence

Words: 6011

Everybody lies.

It’s a skill everyone picks up from the moment they understand the world around them—instinctive, reflexive, necessary. 

Some might even say it’s the glue that holds society together, smoothing out interactions, saving feelings, keeping secrets.

Because lying is one of the surest ways to get what they want.

And when you’re the one person who can see every lie, it means you’re also the one possible thing standing in the way of what they want. 

Your power has been with you for as long as you can remember, an ever-present weight you’ve learned to carry. You’ve adjusted, adapted, built your life around it. Every conversation, every interaction—filtered through the crimson glow of deception that only you can see.

But “seeing” is the crucial part of your ability.

Which is why, at this moment, stripped of your sight, you find yourself completely at Natasha’s mercy.

The soft cloth tied around your eyes steals your vision, replacing the world with darkness. You lean back against the armrest of the sofa, letting yourself sink into the plush cushions, the absence of sight sharpening your other senses.

A soft rustling sound. The clink of items being placed on the coffee table. Then, the telltale shift of weight as Natasha settles onto the sofa beside you.

You reach out blindly, fingers stretching toward where you think she is. There’s a shift—so subtle, so deliberate—and instead of warm skin, your fingertips grasp at nothing but air.

Your hand drops onto the cushion with a quiet huff.

“You know,” you mutter, tilting your head in her direction, “this isn’t exactly what I imagined when you asked if you could blindfold me.”

A melodic chuckle answers you, warm and teasing. 

And then, a gentle touch—her hand finding yours, fingers sliding between yours in a slow, deliberate motion. The heat of her palm against your own sends a small thrill up your spine.

And then she tugs.

You’re pulled forward, your balance shifting unexpectedly. Your free hand instinctively reaches out, fingers splaying against the back of the sofa just in time to steady yourself.

The sudden proximity makes your breath hitch. 

Even without sight, you can feel her—warmth radiating from her body, the faint scent of something so distinctly her lingering in the air between you. 

The soft exhale of breath ghosts over your lips.

And finally, the press of her mouth against yours.

It’s slow at first, a testing, teasing thing. A mere brush of lips, then another. 

You hum in approval, leaning in to deepen the kiss, but just as you begin to chase the sensation, she pulls away—just enough to be out of reach.

You frown, lips still parted. 

A quiet chuckle rumbles from just beside you, her presence shifting slightly as she dodges out of the way.

“Was that what you were thinking about?” Natasha’s voice is playful, laced with amusement.

You chuckle, shaking your head slightly. 

“More or less,” you admit, voice low. You tilt forward again, intent on finding her.

Only to be met with empty space. 

You sigh in exasperation, lips jutting out in an exaggerated pout. 

Natasha’s quiet laughter follows, rich and teasing, a warm contrast to your supposed frustration.

Then, she shifts, as smooth and quiet as the expert spy she is. 

A presence—suddenly close, just beside your ear, and a breath of warmth that sends a subtle shiver down your spine.

“Unfortunately,” she murmurs, her voice dripping with amusement, “I did have something else planned first.”

Before you can react, a gentle but firm nudge pushes you back into your original position. You huff in mock protest, but there’s no real resistance. 

Instead, you settle back against the sofa, patience threading through your posture as you listen to the subtle sounds of movement—the rustle of fabric, the soft clink of utensils, the faint scrape of ceramic against wood.

Then, Natasha speaks again.

“Open up.”

A brow arches instinctively, curiosity flickering in the absence of sight, but you obey nonetheless. Lips parting slightly, you wait. 

The moment the food touches your tongue, you process the flavors—unexpected, slightly off balance, but not bad exactly. 

You chew thoughtfully, trying to find the right words, as you now realize why Natasha had spent the last few hours in your kitchen while also forbidding you from entering the area.

“Mmm, oh, that’s��that was, uh…that tasted pretty good.” 

A beat of silence. Then, a soft exhale, barely containing amusement.

“You’re a terrible liar,” Natasha states flatly.

You grin, tilting your head in her direction, unbothered at being caught.

“Hey, between the two of us, who’s the one who can actually prove whether I’m lying?”

A featherlight touch brushes against your cheek—at the edge of the blindfold, her fingers tracing along the fabric. Then, a low chuckle, close and intimate.

“Right now,” she murmurs, “I’d say my odds are better than yours.”

You roll your eyes behind the blindfold, a grin still tugging at your lips. 

“Alright, Romanoff, what’s next?”

There’s a slight pause before you hear her retrieve another bite-sized offering from the table. Then, once again—

“Open up.”

You oblige, and the moment the different food hits your tongue, a genuine hum of appreciation escapes you.

“Oh, wow. That’s actually really tasty.” 

You don’t need your sight to know she’s suspicious. It’s in the split second of silence, the charged pause that follows your reaction. 

Then—an offended scoff and a shove against your shoulder. It’s light and playful but enough to push you back slightly. 

You react on instinct. Before she can retreat, your hand darts out, fingers wrapping around her wrist. 

A surprised inhale escapes her as you tug—not forceful, just enough to unbalance her.

The next thing you know, she’s half on your lap, her weight settling against you as she catches herself with her hands on your shoulders.

For a moment, there’s only stillness. Warmth pressing against warmth, shared breaths mingling in the space between.

“I’m not lying,” you say softly, your voice steady with sincerity.

You tilt your head slightly, aligning with where you think her face is, wishing—just for a second—that you could see her.

But then, she moves.

Her hands rise, cupping your face gently, her palms warm against your skin. A second later, her forehead presses against yours, grounding you in the closeness of the moment.

“I know,” Natasha whispers.

And you believe her.

A part of you aches to look into her eyes, to see the truth in them. To witness firsthand the way her gaze would soften, the way the world itself would fade in the presence of her unwavering adoration. 

But the blindfold remains—a barrier, yet somehow making every other sensation sharper, more visceral.

You exhale, a slow, teasing smile forming. 

“Not that I’m complaining,” you murmur, “but was the blindfold really necessary for this?”

There’s a slight shift with Natasha turning her head from you as if debating whether to admit something.

“Trust me,” Natasha mutters, her voice lower, more conspiratorial. “My cooking has gotten to the point where it may be somewhat edible, but the presentation definitely needs some work.”

A quiet chuckle rumbles in your throat.

She shifts again, her nose grazing against yours now, a barely-there touch that sends a flutter through your chest. 

And then, in the smallest of murmurs, as her lips brush yours.

“Plus,” she whispers, the words melting into your skin, “I could do this.”

Just as you anticipate the full press of her lips, the warmth vanishes.

You lean forward instinctively, chasing after the kiss that never lands. Your breath stirs the space between you, lips parting slightly in expectation, but Natasha has already moved away.

A quiet chuckle—low and knowing—echoes from a different angle now, just slightly off from where she had been before.

Your brow furrows. 

“You’re playing dirty,” you mutter, tilting your head as if that might help you locate her.

Another soft laugh. Then—

A featherlight kiss at the corner of your jaw.

Your breath catches, but before you can react, she’s gone again, retreating before you can pinpoint her exact position.

You turn slightly in the direction of the touch, but then—

A kiss, just beneath your ear.

It’s brief, teasing, her lips barely making contact before they disappear again. Your fingers twitch at your sides, itching to catch her, to pull her back where you want her.

Then—

A press of warmth at the hollow of your throat.

Your exhale stutters, heat curling low in your stomach. You tilt your chin up, attempting to track her movements, but Natasha is already gone, shifting to another spot before you can react.

Then, a whisper, her breath fanning over your collarbone—so close but maddeningly out of reach.

“Having trouble, detka?”

You let out a quiet growl of frustration, reaching blindly in her direction, but she slips past your grasp once again. Your pulse pounds beneath your skin, every teasing press of her lips winding you tighter, pushing you further into a mix of heat and exasperation.

“I swear to God, Romanoff—”

Her laugh is like silk and fire, smooth but entirely too pleased with itself.

Another kiss, this time against the side of your throat. A sharp inhale escapes you, but before you can turn toward her, she’s gone again.

Your hands finally shoot up, reaching out in the dark, determined to catch her this time. 

But Natasha is faster. 

A whisper of movement, the ghost of her presence shifting away just before your fingers can close around her.

Your head falls back against the sofa, a frustrated groan escaping your lips. 

“I really hate you right now.”

She hums in amusement, the sound vibrating against your skin as she hovers close, just beyond reach.

“No, you don’t,” she counters easily, seeing through your lie.

You exhale sharply, trying to school your breathing. 

“Debatable,” you grumble, though you know a red aura is probably around you at the moment.

Warm hands suddenly cradle your jaw, fingers tracing along your skin with deliberate tenderness. 

You barely have time to process the shift before she finally, finally presses her lips fully against yours, capturing you in a slow, intoxicating kiss.

The tension in your body melts instantly, frustration replaced by the relief of having her exactly where you want her. Your hands find her waist this time, pulling her in with no intention of letting her slip away again.

When she eventually pulls back, just enough to break the kiss but still close enough that your breaths mingle, she smirks against your lips.

“See?” she murmurs. “The blindfold was necessary.”

You shake your head with a breathless laugh, fingers tightening at her sides.

“You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, you’re still hopelessly in love with me.”

You sigh dramatically at the truth of her words.

“Yeah, yeah. Now kiss me properly already.”

This time, when she does, she doesn’t pull away.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

The steady hum of the AC sends another chill through the room, making you shiver involuntarily. Rubbing your hands together for warmth, you glance down at the document in front of you before shifting your gaze to the woman sitting across your desk. 

“You want to transfer to another department?” you ask, scanning the request form. “Are you sure?”

The woman nods without hesitation—at least, on the surface.

“It’s been weeks since our break-up, but he’s still trying to get me to take him back,” she explains, frustration laced in her tone. “It’s getting to the point where I can’t get anything done without him hovering over my shoulder.”

Your frown deepens, arms crossing as you lean forward slightly.

“Do you actually want to leave your department?”

For a split second, there’s a flicker of hesitation, a moment where her expression wavers. Then, in a much quieter voice, she mumbles, “Yes.”

And there it is.

The red glow appears instantly, surrounding her like a warning flare only you can see. A lie—one spoken more to convince herself than anyone else.

You sigh, setting the paper down.

“Look,” you say gently, “if he’s harassing you, you shouldn’t be the one who has to uproot your life to avoid him.” You meet her gaze firmly, making sure she understands. “Let me talk to him. If he still won’t leave you alone, I’ll transfer him to a different facility. Does that sound okay?”

She hesitates. Then, a slight nod.

No red glow this time.

Instead, relief crosses her face, and you nod in confirmation. 

“Alright. That’s what we’ll do.” 

She thanks you quickly, standing and heading toward the door. As you turn in your chair to discard the request form, you hear a sudden, surprised gasp.

Then, almost shyly, a mumbled greeting before hurried footsteps scurry away.

Without looking, you already know why.

“Everything okay?”

Natasha’s voice fills the room, smooth and unmistakable.

You glance back to see her stepping inside, the door clicking shut behind her as she gestures over her shoulder.

“That’s the third time I’ve seen her in your office this week.”

A teasing smirk tugs at your lips when you realize she’s been taking note of such things. You lean forward, elbows resting on your desk.

“Are you jealous?”

Natasha rolls her eyes, unimpressed. Without hesitation, she tosses the hoodie in her hands straight at your face, hitting you squarely.

You let out a muffled laugh, peeling the fabric away.

“Don’t tease me,” she warns playfully, settling against the edge of your desk. “Especially after I took the time to bring this to you.”

You hum in amusement, slipping on the hoodie. Immediately, warmth envelops you, and with it, her familiar, comforting scent. 

Natasha watches as you sink into the hoodie’s embrace, snuggling into the fabric like it’s second nature. There’s a pause before she quirks a brow.

“How come you keep forgetting to bring your own?” 

You glance up, smirk never faltering.

“Because I love yours so much.”

She scoffs, shaking her head, but the slight smile curling at the corner of her lips betrays any real irritation. Her gaze flickers downward as she plucks the paper smoothly from your hand. 

“A transfer?” she muses, raising a brow.

You exhale, leaning back into your chair. 

“Just some workplace romance drama.”

Your fingers find their way to her thigh, tracing slow, idle circles against the fabric of her pants. 

“You know how relationships between coworkers always get complicated.”

Natasha smirks, tilting her head slightly. 

“Is there something you’re trying to say here?”

You grin, about to tease her further, but a sharp beep interrupts the moment.

Natasha pulls out her comm device, checking it briefly before shutting it off with a sigh.

“I have to go,” she murmurs. “The team’s probably already at the hangar by now.”

“A new mission?”

She nods. 

“Shouldn’t take too long. I’ll probably be back for dinner.”

A playful look of apprehension crosses your face.

“Oh, uh…did you want to try cooking again tonight, or—?”

She shoves your shoulder lightly, making you laugh as she huffs in faux irritation, crossing her arms.

Still grinning, you scoot closer, uncrossing her arms just so you can hold her hands instead.

“I’m kidding,” you assure her. “I’ll wait for you to come back, and we can make something together. Sound good?”

Natasha exhales, her faux annoyance melting away into something softer. She nods, giving you a brief eye-roll before letting you hold onto her hands.

“Alright.”

You squeeze her fingers gently, tugging them slightly so she focuses on you again. Your thumb glides over the back of her hand in slow, soothing strokes. Then, the words leave your lips, unfiltered and true.

“I love you.”

It’s soft—barely more than a whisper—but woven with every ounce of affection you feel for her.

Her eyes search yours, something flickering behind her gaze. Then, she lifts a hand to your cheek, her thumb brushing along your skin as she leans in. 

The kiss is slow, lingering, and warm. Careful in a way that makes your chest ache.

When she pulls back, she hovers close enough that you can still feel her breath against your lips.

Her mouth parts slightly as if she wants to say something—as if she wants to say it back.

Your heart hammers at the thought, and for the first time, instead of fear, a surge of anticipation appears within you—to hear those words fall from her lips.

But she doesn’t say them.

The moment stretches, charged with something unspoken. And then, you exhale softly, filling the silence with your own quiet plea.

“Stay safe, okay?”

Natasha’s expression softens. A small, knowing smile lifts the corner of her lips as she whispers back, “You too.”

She squeezes your hand again before pulling away, slipping effortlessly back into her composed exterior. As she heads for the door, you watch her go, the warmth of her touch still lingering in your hands.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

“I swear I didn’t go near her this whole week.”

You barely suppress the sigh threatening to escape as you lean back in your chair, watching the man across from you. He sits rigidly, hands clasped together on the desk, his face carefully composed. But it doesn’t matter how well he masks his emotions.

Because the truth is written all over him. Or rather, it glows.

A constant red aura surrounds him, pulsing faintly as he continues to defend himself. His voice is smooth, and his delivery is nearly flawless—he might have been able to convince someone else if he had to. Maybe even turn the situation in his favor.

Too bad he has to face you instead.

You drum your fingers lightly against the desk, exhaling quietly. You’ve heard enough.

Rubbing your temple in exasperation, you make your decision.

“Alright,” you say, keeping your tone measured but firm. “I think the best option right now is to create some distance between you two. Why don’t you take some time off for yourself? And in the meantime, I’ll arrange for your transfer to another department.”

His expression tightens. “But—”

“That wasn’t a suggestion.”

Your voice cuts through his protest, cool and unwavering. You straighten in your chair, leveling him with a stare.

“Either you take the transfer,” you continue, “or you can gather your things and leave the Compound entirely. Your choice.”

For the first time in the conversation, his composure cracks. His brows furrow, lips parting slightly as if he’s struggling to process that you aren’t buying a single word of his defense. He looks at you as if searching for an opening, a way to manipulate the situation in his favor.

But you aren’t giving him one.

After a long moment, his jaw clenches. Then, reluctantly, he nods.

“Fine,” he mutters.

You nod once in return, already mentally filing the necessary paperwork to have him reassigned.

“Good. I’ll have the details sent to you by the end of the day.”

The meeting ends, and he leaves, his steps heavy with frustration. You watch him go, feeling a faint sense of relief that, at the very least, the situation will be handled.

It’s late by the time you make your way toward one of the labs. Most of the Compound has quieted down, the usual hum of activity reduced to only a few lingering agents and late-night researchers. 

You had planned to leave for the night since it’ll still be a few hours before Natasha returns, but something nagged at you—an instinct, maybe. 

A feeling that you should check in before heading out.

As you approach the lab, muffled voices filter through the partially open door. One is quiet and tense. The other is lower, insistent.

You frown.

Pushing the door open, your eyes narrow at the sight before you.

The woman who had come to you earlier stands backed into a corner, shoulders hunched as she clutches a tablet to her chest. 

The man—the same man you had just ordered to take some time away—looms over her, his stance rigid with barely restrained frustration.

“I just want to talk,” he presses, voice strained with forced patience. “You don’t have to act like I’m some kind of monster—”

“That’s far enough.” Your voice cuts through the air, sharp and cold.

Both of them turn. 

The woman’s eyes widen slightly in relief while the man’s expression darkens. He straightens, schooling his features into something less aggressive, something more controlled.

“This isn’t what it looks like,” he exhales, clearly displeased to see you again. “She agreed to meet up with me.”

The red glow appears around him once again, and you internally groan at his constant attempts at lying to you.

You step forward between them, pushing the woman back behind you as you face the man with your arms crossed. 

“I gave you two options. This wasn’t one of them.”

His jaw tenses as his eyes flicker in suspicion between the two of you. A subtle anger forms in his expression. Then, in a flash of movement, he lunges with a punch.

You react quickly, your hand shooting out and grabbing his arm in a vice grip. With a sharp pivot of your body, you use his own momentum against him—slamming him onto a nearby table with a heavy thud.

He groans, winded but still struggling.

“Stay down,” you growl.

But he doesn’t listen.

His other hand scrambles blindly, knocking over a tray of glass vials before grabbing something solid. Before you can react, he slams the tray into the side of your head.

The impact sends a wave of pain through your skull, sharp and searing. Shards of broken glass cut into your skin, and something cold, almost slick, drips down your face.

You stagger back slightly but force yourself to recover and move.

With a burst of strength, you throw a roundhouse kick, your boot connecting solidly with his chest.

The impact sends him sprawling to the floor, where he stays motionless, unconscious.

For a moment, all you can hear is the ragged sound of your own breathing.

Then, the burning starts.

A sharp, stinging sensation spreads from where the liquid seeps into your skin, trailing down into your eyes. It burns, an unfamiliar heat that makes your vision swim.

You press a hand to your forehead, blinking rapidly to try and clear your sight, but the pain doesn’t subside, and your vision becomes even more distorted.

The woman rushes over, worry painted all over her face. “Are you—oh my God, you’re bleeding—”

“I’m fine. Just call the medic team,” you grit out, even as your head pounds with each pulse of your heartbeat.

Despite the pain, one thought drifts sluggishly through your mind.

Natasha is not going to like this when she gets back.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

“Is this going to take much longer?”

You sit perched on the edge of one of the medical bay beds, an ice pack pressed gingerly against the side of your head. The cool sensation numbs the dull throb beneath your fingertips, but the sting in your eyes remains persistent.

Dr. Cho, standing, you assume, at the other end of the room, hums in thought.

“Depends,” she responds. “Can you open your eyes fully without struggling?”

Your eyelids flutter slightly as you make an attempt, but the moment they part, an intense burning sensation forces them shut again. You exhale through your nose, frustration bubbling beneath the surface.

“It’s just that I have dinner plans tonight,” you explain, shifting slightly in your seat. “So I really need to be home sooner rather than later.”

Dr. Cho pauses briefly before revealing, “I’ve already informed Agent Romanoff. She’ll be here shortly to assist you home.”

Your mouth parts in betrayal. 

“What happened to patient-doctor confidentiality?” you ask, turning toward where you think she is.

Before she can answer, another voice emerges from the doorway—low, edged with quiet challenge.

“Were you going to try and hide what happened to you from me?”

Your back straightens instinctively at the sound of Natasha’s voice.

Your mind scrambles for a defense, but all that escapes is an unconvincing response.

“Wha–I uh…of course not.” 

Footsteps approach—calculated, steady. Then, before you can react, a warm hand cups your cheek, fingers tracing gently over your skin. Another hand, softer but firm, wraps around your own, carefully prying the ice pack away from your head. The loss of the cool compress makes you wince slightly, but the warmth of her touch quickly replaces the sensation.

Under her breath, Natasha mutters, “Terrible liar.”

You huff a small laugh. 

“Hey, you can’t be mean to me. I’m injured here.”

An amused exhale leaves her lips, and though you can’t see it, you can feel the way her expression softens. Then, a slight shift as Natasha turns away from you.

“Why can’t she open her eyes?” she asks, her tone dipping into something firmer, more concerned.

There’s a shuffling of papers before Dr. Cho answers.

“Her optic nerves were affected by exposure to a trial serum during the fight. The blunt trauma to the head certainly isn’t helping, either.”

Natasha sighs, irritation laced in the sound. Her fingers find the ice pack again, pressing it gently back to the side of your head. You flinch slightly at the contact before your hands instinctively reach for her waist, tugging her closer as you rest your head lightly against her shoulder.

“You should train more on not leaving an easy opening for them to hit you like this,” she mutters, the words tinged with quiet frustration. 

You chuckle, tilting your head slightly.

“Let’s not forget that I still took him down while blinded.”

Natasha huffs, exasperated, but she doesn’t push you away. Instead, she shifts her focus back to Dr. Cho.

“So what can we do to help her?”

There’s a sound of rustling before footsteps approach.

“These eyedrops should help alleviate the pain and speed up the recovery process of the serum’s effects,” Dr. Cho explains.

“What effects?” Natasha asks in concern.

You can practically feel the tension in her body, the way her muscles tighten subtly beneath your touch. 

Dr. Cho hesitates momentarily before answering, “We’re not exactly sure yet. The serum is still in its trial phase. But based on what we know, whatever effects there are should be temporary.”

Before Natasha can question the doctor further, you sigh dramatically. 

“Alright, let’s get this over with,” you say, making a grabbing motion in the air, hoping someone will hand you the drops.

A hand—undoubtedly Natasha’s—swats yours down before setting the ice pack aside next to you.

“Hold still,” she murmurs.

You feel her fingers cup your cheek again, tilting your face up slightly. Then, with gentle precision, she coaxes your eyelids apart.

Cool liquid drops into your eyes, and immediately, a wave of relief washes over the burning sensation. A slow exhale leaves your lips as she repeats the process for the other eye.

It takes a few moments before the sting fully subsides. Your eyes remain shut as you wait for the discomfort to fade entirely. Then, cautiously, you let your eyelids flutter open.

The blurriness makes you blink rapidly, adjusting to the light of the room. The familiar shapes of the medical bay start to take form, Natasha’s figure sharpening before you.

But something isn’t right.

Your breath stutters slightly, eyes darting around as an unsettling sensation creeps into your chest. 

Natasha notices your hesitation immediately.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, her voice steady but edged with concern. 

You hesitate, your pulse picking up as your mind tries to make sense of what you’re seeing. Your brows furrow as you rub at your eyes, but when you look again, it’s still the same.

Her hands come up again, cupping your face, grounding you. Her warmth steadies your frantically beating heart. 

“Talk to me,” she murmurs, softer now. “What’s wrong?”

You exhale deeply, your gaze locking onto hers.

Then, quietly, you whisper,

“Everything’s gray.”

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

You stare at the food on your plate, moving it around aimlessly with your fork. The once-vibrant colors that usually make a meal feel inviting are gone, leaving behind a dull-tinted palette.

Dr. Cho explained that the serum must have affected the nerves responsible for transmitting color signals to your brain. Thankfully, she assured you that the condition would be temporary. Unfortunately, she couldn’t say how long it would take for your eyes to fully recover.

Days? Weeks? Longer?

The uncertainty gnaws at you, making you lose even more of your appetite.

“You know,” Natasha’s voice cuts through your thoughts, calm and casual, “we could still order some takeout.”

You blink, looking up to see her sitting across from you, elbow propped on the table as she watches you.

“You don’t have to force yourself to eat that,” she adds, already reaching for your plate.

Your instincts kick in. Quickly, you maneuver your plate out of her reach, eyes narrowing in challenge.

“I like eating the meals you make me,” you say firmly. Then, to drive your point home, you take a large bite.

The moment the food hits your tongue, warmth spreads across your taste buds. Then, heat. A slow, creeping burn.

Your eyes widen slightly as the realization sinks in—it’s spicy. Uncomfortably spicy.

You cough lightly, reaching hastily for your water. Natasha watches calmly as you take a few gulps before finally catching your breath.

Swallowing hard, you manage to look back at her with as much composure as you can muster.

“See?” you rasp. “It’s not bad.”

Natasha doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches. Then, slowly, a soft smile tugs at the corners of her lips as she rests her chin against her hand, a look of undeniable fondness in her eyes.

“Liar,” she mutters, amused.

The teasing tone makes you want to smile—until your gaze drops to your hands.

Your colorless hands. You turn them slowly, searching. Looking for the familiar glow—the telltale red aura that has always been there whenever someone lies. 

But there’s nothing. An unease tightens in your chest.

“How can you tell?” you whisper before you even realize you’ve spoken the thought aloud.

“What do you mean?” Natasha asks.

You lift your head, meeting her eyes.

“How can you tell that someone is lying?”

For a moment, she simply looks at you, expression unreadable. Then, something shifts in her gaze—understanding.

“Years of training and spy work help in that field,” she says, her tone light as she gives you a small smile.

You exhale slowly, the weight of everything settling heavily on your shoulders.

“I’ve had my powers my entire life,” you murmur. “Now that I can’t use them…it feels terrifying.”

Natasha listens quietly and attentively. 

“How does someone live like this?” you continue, voice barely above a whisper. “Not knowing whether someone is telling the truth or not?”

Silence fills the room. The weight of the question lingers between you, and for a second, you regret bringing it up.

But before you can brush it off, Natasha speaks.

“Sometimes,” she says gently, “we just have to trust our instincts.”

You glance up, skeptical, but she isn’t finished. 

“Other times,” she continues, gesturing toward you, “there are things we just know are true.”

Your brows furrow slightly, but she holds your gaze with quiet certainty.

“It’s how I know you’re telling the truth every time you say you love me,” she murmurs.

She pauses for a brief second before offering you a soft smile.

“I can feel how true it is in my heart.”

Something inside you tightens at her words. 

To feel the truth of something rather than see it—it’s a concept that should scare you. But as you sit there, watching her, listening to the quiet conviction in her voice, you can’t help but want that.

To believe without hesitation. To know something so deeply that no confirmation is ever needed.

You swallow, steadying yourself before you ask the question that you’ve wanted to hear the answer from her for a while now but have been too hesitant to ask.

“Do you love me?”

The words leave your lips softly, but they carry a weight that settles in the space between you.

Natasha tilts her head slightly as if searching your expression for the reason behind your sudden question.

And then, after a beat, she stands from her seat.

You watch as she makes her way around the table, stopping when she’s close enough to lean against the edge beside you.

Her hand lifts, fingers brushing gently against your cheek before her palm cups the side of your face. Her thumb strokes your skin—slow, deliberate.

And then, finally—

“I love you,” she says.

It’s firm, unshaken. No hesitation, no uncertainty. Just truth.

A breath of relief escapes her lips as the words settle into the air between you, as if she had been waiting—aching—to say them.

Your heart swells, warmth blooming in your chest.

And in that moment, you understand what she meant.

You don’t need your power to know she isn’t lying. You feel the truth in every word.

Without hesitation, your hand reaches up to the back of her neck, pulling her down into a deep, lingering kiss.

She doesn’t hesitate either. She returns it instantly, sinking into the moment as if she had been waiting for this, needing this as much as you have.

When you finally pull back, lips still brushing against hers, you murmur against her mouth, “I love you too, Natasha.”

A grin spreads across her lips, her breath warm against yours as she presses a featherlight kiss to your lips—soft, lingering, a quiet savoring of the moment.

“I know,” she murmurs, her voice filled with warmth.

You barely have a second to bask in the glow of her confession before you catch the subtle scrape of ceramic against the wooden table.

Your instincts kick in immediately.

Without breaking eye contact, your hands find hers just as she tries to slide your plate away. With a firm grip, you press her hands down against the table, standing as you give her a knowing, pointed look.

“That doesn’t mean you get to take away my food, Romanoff,” you say, playful yet unwavering.

Natasha raises a brow at your challenge. She doesn’t pull away from your grip—at least, not yet.

Her expression shifts, mischief flickering behind her green eyes as she tilts her head slightly, the barest hint of a smirk tugging at her lips.

“I’m trying to prevent the person I love from getting further injuries from my cooking,” she counters smoothly.

Then, without warning, she leans in, her lips grazing against yours—so soft, so fleeting that it barely qualifies as a kiss.

It’s a tease, deliberate, and infuriatingly effective.

You instinctively chase after the sensation, leaning forward, but she stays just out of reach, hovering close enough that you can feel the smirk curling against her lips.

Her breath fans across your skin as she murmurs, voice a hushed, teasing challenge.

“Do you really think you can stop me from doing that?”

The words send a slow shiver down your spine, and in an instant, the playful tension between you crackles like a live wire. Your fingers tighten around hers slightly, your grip firm yet unyielding. A silent declaration.

Your body presses closer, the air between you thickening as you arch a brow.

“I think I have a shot,” you counter, voice low, measured, daring.

Natasha hums, the sound laced with knowing amusement. Her eyes flick down to your lips, lingering for a fraction of a second before locking back onto yours, her own shimmering with something equal parts affection and mischief.

She tilts her head slightly, and the corner of her lips quirks up.

“You really are bad at lying,” she murmurs. 

And then, before you can respond, she closes the distance.

Her lips press against yours—not teasing this time, not fleeting. The kiss is slow but firm, filled with an unmistakable sense of certainty.

You lean into it without hesitation, swallowing any words she might have added, neither confirming nor denying her remark.

Not that it matters. 

You already know the truth without needing to see the red glow around yourself.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

a/n: thank you for reading! I know a lot of you were looking forward to this, so I hope you all were able to enjoy this part also.

[buckyalpine]

Bucky can’t lie

A smutty thot. Imagine the avengers fucking around with a lie detector test, testing how well the super soldiers were trained. Steve failed instantly while stating his own name, blushing from embarrassment. Bucky was shoved into the chair next.

And he was disgustingly good.

The wires were attached to him within seconds, with questions flying left right and center. He crossed his arms over his chest with an eyeroll, answering the most ridiculous questions each person would throw at him.

"What the hell Barnes, there's no way, you can't be serious"

The super soldier smirked, while the others watched the needle scratch on the paper steadily, not a single signal indicating he was lying. It was going great until Tony's eyes lit up with a brilliant idea.

“Wait. Get y/n in here”

You sauntered into the room, scrunching your face seeing Bucky hooked up to the machine, while the rest of the team stared at him intently. The faintest uptick scratched onto the paper making Steve cock an eyebrow while Bucky's expression remained the same.

"What am I doing here and why's Bucky-

"Shh, just stand there. We're trying to see if we can get Bucky to fail a lie detector test. Alright, new question. Is there anyone in this room you've thought about naked" Tony asked while all eyes stared at Bucky, the soldier biting his lip.

"No"

"Hm" Tony nodded, continuing. "Is there anyone in this room you've thought about having sex with"

"What kind of questions are you asking, pervert" Bucky exhaled through his nose, his finger tapping against the seat.

"Just answer the question Barnes" Tony smiled sweetly, grinning when the needle already started to move a little higher than before.

"No"

The needle ticked higher making Bucky huff, ignoring the way his face heated up when you stepped closer to peer at the paper.

"Interesting. Slight deception detected there Barnes, you sure about that?"

"Yes" Bucky forced through gritted teeth, managing to keep the needle from jumping around too much.

"Here, let me" You smirked, pulling Tony away from the seat, gazing into the soldiers eyes while he threw you a cocky smirk.

"Think you can do better doll?" He sassed while you shrugged, the scent of your perfume already making hi sweat.

"Have you ever thought of kissing me?" The needle jolted before Bucky could even open his mouth, making the others screech while Bucky shook his head. "Liar"

"You ever thought about me naked? You like watching me out on the field?"

"No" Bucky's pulse raced, his pants starting to feel too tight, the test scribbling wildly.

"Okay this mf lying" Sam snorted while Bucky's flushed cheeks grew hotter.

"Really? You ever think about me on my knees for you? Sucking your cock?"

"No" The needle nearly jolted off the sheet, making Tony cackle, clapping his hands madly while Steve blushed and chuckled, torn between watching his best friend's walls crumble and running out of the room with your questions getting filthier and filthier.

"You think about cumming down my throat? having me swallow all of you, telling you how good you taste?"

"No"

"You think about having me naked on your bed, soldier? Moaning for you? Screaming your name?"

"You think about stuffing me with your babies Jamie? Getting me pregnant with that serum running through your veins?"

"You want me to call you daddy baby? How about Sergeant"

"Do you want me to be your slutty baby, drip all over your cock"

"N-No" Bucky gritted out again while Sam threw his hands up.

"You're not fooling anyone dumbass, I think you broke the needle" The machine nearly gave way with a high pitched whizz matching Bucky's racing heartrate. You grinned, getting up from your seat, making him pant.

"Do I make you horny baby" You slinked onto his lap, making Bucky finally break his resolve, his hands flying to your waist.

"Fuck yes. C'mere" He hissed, ripping the wires off and tossing you over his shoulder with a spank while Tony peered over at the paper with a satisfied smirk.

"No lies detected"

[mockerycrow]

are you good at character analysis? I wanna know what your analysis would be for Gaz, I’m trying to figure out his story since he’s my favorite out of TF 141

KYLE GAZ GARRICK

BASIC OVERVIEW — BIOGRAPHICAL INFORMATION

Kyle “Gaz” Garrick is a British Black man who enlisted into the British Army around 2008 or 2014 (unfortunately, the developers have inconsistencies). His operator biography states 2008 while the official activision website in a blog post about MW2019 states 2014, however it does make sense for him to enlist in 2008. He would have been at least sixteen years old which is the minimum age requirement to enlist. I would like to quickly throw in that Gaz is indeed older than Soap, as this is a misconception that I surprisingly see a lot! Gaz’s blood type is B- and he currently ranks as sergeant (which according to the official British Army website, it typically takes at least twelve years in the service, however it implies it also depends on the person’s abilities).

Gaz spent four years in the Queen’s Lancashire Regiment. During these four years going through a multitude of tests and challenges before passing selection for Special Air Service (SAS). The activision blog says during MW2019, it’s his sixth year serving as a sergeant. However, as Gaz had been selected for TF141, I believe their ranks have paused in time. Gaz has mostly spent his time in anti-terrorism in his military career. He’s an expert in demolitions, VIP escorting, weapons tactics, covert surveillance, and target elimination. He’s been awarded multiple medals, and earned his Parachute Wings whilst spending time at Camp Lejeune in the U.S. whilst collaborating with Navy SEALs. Kyle is a master of evasion and deception, being the only candidate in his entire class to escape capture from the facility and evade detection during resistance training. 

When Gaz first meets Cpt. Price, Gaz is currently assigned to an SAS specific counter-terrorism program in the UK who collaborate with the police, which is another misconception that Gaz was a police sergeant at one point (he was not! I believe some people think this because at E3, Gaz was wearing a police baseball cap).

CHARACTER OVERVIEW

Like true to the original Gaz, he is Price’s protege, being his student. Gaz is overall a serious and hardworking man, loyal and unbreaking. He knows when to joke and he knows when to reload. However, Gaz is not perfect and he does lose his cool (we see subtle development with this later down the road). While being loyal, Gaz does not hesitate to question Price’s choices and actions. We see this multiple times during the series, the most prime example being in MW2019 when Price and Gaz are interrogating The Butcher with Yegor. The Butcher taunts Gaz, causing Gaz to lunge and Price to send him off to fetch.. “The package”. The package being, The Butcher’s family. The reboot games, you have choices, so I’ll give the very basic run down. 

You have the option to opt into the interrogation or to opt out of it. If you opt out, Price bursts out of the room with the information (if you go near the door, you hear The Butcher’s family sobbing). If you opt in, you have so many options. At the end of the day, Gaz is mostly silent and follows orders from Price. In the police cruiser scene, Gaz questions Price in the car—he did not expect to be using women and children as bargaining chips and he makes that clear, and this is a big teaching moment between Gaz and Price. We have to remember that Gaz is young and considering everything, inexperienced to an extent. Price makes up for that inexperience, teaching him along the way. During the interrogation scene, Price makes a remark: “We’ve taken the gloves off.” This is because Gaz lashed out. Later in the car, Price says “When you take the gloves off, you get blood on your hands, Kyle. That’s how it works.” after Gaz questions him.

CONCLUSION

Overall, Gaz is a very complex character and I enjoyed watching his development during these games. I’ve seen people claim Gaz is boring or plain, but I genuinely do not believe that to be the case. Gaz, in my opinion, is also the most relatable character. He’s young, ambitious, and determined. He’s charismatic and efficient. I don’t believe a character has to be extremely traumatized, or look very very unique to be a well-crafted character and Gaz is a great example for this. 

Gaz is just a man who enlisted; someone who is smart and well-rounded (as much as an SAS member can be), he’s quick on his feet and he molds into group work fantastically. He’s extremely versatile and is a quick learner—and wants to learn. He has his flaws that make him human. Gaz develops great self control, is level-minded and is able to think for himself. A great student questions their mentor in everything and you see this with Gaz. 

You see Gaz struggle with morality in the series in a sea of characters who kill and do things without a second thought. We see him question things, we see his emotions and his extreme reluctance. We definitely see some development down the road as Gaz becomes more ruthless, but he never quite forgets his humanity in a way, compared to Price where he can easily disconnect humanity (ex. Calling The Butcher’s wife and son “the package/leverage”). 

Along with this, we see him struggle with the rules in place. I also think this is why Gaz and Price’s dynamic is great. There are rules for a reason, and both Price and Gaz know when to break them—but Gaz learns that breaking some rules doesn’t always happen for the most heroic of actions (again, Price’s quote about bloodying your hands after taking the gloves off). Gaz wants to save people and keep the peace, we see this in Piccadilly during the terrorist attacks and the aftermath scene with Price where Gaz lets the Captain know that he and his unit had actionable intel on the terrorist cell who committed the act. Of course, we see later down the road that taking the gloves off removes all limits, not just some of them. We also see a glimpse of Gaz’s conflicting feelings when 141, Farah & Alex, as well as Laswell learn about Hadir and his plans, as well as when Farah’s forces are deemed a terrorist organization.

I think I rambled on a lot about him, hopefully this is understandable! 

Sources: price & gaz activision blog intros (2019), inconsistency in enlistment date, cod fandom wiki, gaz scenes mwi & mwii, official british army website.

[fushiglow]

IMPORTANT. I cannot stress how much this is Over the Threshold Satoru.

So, this song is much more interesting than it perhaps seems to the untrained ear. I literally had the chapter one Suguru experience watching this for the first time. That "Yeah, this is fine... Wait—" moment that makes him sit up and pay attention? That was me when this came on shuffle earlier. And when I watched the video? Literally felt my brain chemistry change in real time.

Here's how I described Satoru's music from Suguru's POV the first time he hears it:

Even through the tinny phone speakers, it was clear that Satoru had some pipes on him. The song was formulaic; but that didn’t mean it was bad. Suguru could appreciate the deceptive simplicity of a catchy pop song and, beneath the glossy veneer, there was a well written piece of music. He’d have to listen through his studio headphones to be sure, but he thought that if he stripped away the aggressive synths and over-processed backing vocals, he could detect a piano riffing extended chords in syncopated rhythms.

No piano, but literally everything else is there. First, some small things. The production is constantly evolving in fairly unnoticeable ways, just listen to the first post-chorus compared to the last one. Tons of blink and you miss it sparkles that elevate the song from good production to great production. The vocal range on display, both in terms of technique and the actual chromatic range, is really impressive, but mostly in the background, hidden behind all the gloss.

There are some really unexpected melodic choices in the pre-chorus that hit SO good, but apart from that little a cappella section at the start of the second refrain, the actual chorus is par for the course...

...or is it?

The song bounces on that Eb in the bass throughout most of its run time, giving the sense of a strong harmonic centre which puts your average listener at ease. "Don't worry, this is familiar to you, nothing amiss!" Yet, the repeated note he sings over it in the chorus is the NINTH of the chord! It's unstable! It's bluesy! The focal point of the song is built on a dissonance! And he just hammers away at it without reprieve!

Satoru had a real talent for making complex harmony palatable for the mass market. [...] He sought out ugliness in his lyrics, in his composition, in his performance — and somehow he made it work.

However, the true beauty of this dissonant yet contained chorus is the opportunity it creates for what comes afterwards. From the opening of Over the Threshold, and the foundation of the themes of the story:

Limiting is an aggressive form of compression, primarily due to its very high ratio — typically ∞:1. A limiter with an infinite ratio (a ‘brick-wall’ limiter) prevents anything from passing a set threshold, cutting rather than smoothing peaks to prevent unpleasant clipping. It is often applied in the final stages of mastering to make a track more ‘palatable’ for the commercial market.

The fact that the chorus limits (ey!) itself melodically and harmonically (and production/arrangement wise) is what makes the post chorus feel like a breakaway — like it escapes the bounds of the rest of the song. Suddenly, everything grows outwards. We're plunged into this rich sonic landscape where the bass starts moving and the main vocal line starts climbing and the harmony is fleshed out with new instruments. The whole song is given life for a moment—

When confined to such tight restraints, straining against them was natural. Pushing boundaries, testing limits, rattling your chains to see what you could get away with.

—before dropping back into place as a fun little pop song. Nothing to see here, move along.

I haven't detailed everything (even the structure is unusual!), but enough to describe how the entire track flirts with breaking the rules, straying outside of its commercial boundaries here and there, but it ultimately dances right on that line.

This is exactly how I wrote Satoru in Over the Threshold, because this is the music industry version of the strongest sorcerer keeping himself on a leash insofar as he has to, and it's a relatable concept to any trained musician trying to get along in a pop market. The most successful artists are the ones who understand and apply this lesson — but are the most successful artists the most satisfied artists?

And we haven't even got to the video! Honestly, this man has got it all. This is a star. The casual swagger, the confidence, the artistic flair, all on top of a brilliant song. But the dancing! As @bearhaviour put it (we're being so incredibly normal about this), "the dance is so nonchalant when it counts and so sharp when it counts". Just watch.

Effortless star power. Satoru.

*drops mic and dies*

[castingcles]

Beneath the Surface.

hello !! this is the plot for my new series, ‘beneath the surface’ ! it’s going to feature a love triangle between Eren Yeager, Armin Arlert & the reader! I hope you all enjoy the plot and stay turned for the first chapter to release march 29th, 2025 !

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

As a homicide detective, you’re no stranger to secrets, lies, deception. .betrayal. However, no training or amount of experience could have prepared you for the maelstrom heading your way. When a high-profile political murder case pulls you back into the orbit of Eren Yeager, a man you once had history with, now a fiery congressman trapped in a loveless political marriage. Then, Armin Arlert, a principled, morally ethical lawyer whose faithfulness is being tested after he can’t help himself from you. .you end up finding yourself caught in a dangerous situation—one where the lines between justice, desire, and betrayal blur.

Eren is teetering on the verge of recklessness, willing to risk everything for another chance with you. Armin is careful, torn between what’s right and what his heart truly wants.

Both men are married.

Both are off-limits.

And yet, both can’t seem to stay away.

As the case deepens and countless scandals unfold, you’re forced to make impossible choices. Choices that could cost you everything. In New York City, where power is everything and love is a liability, you find yourself trapped between the men you love—and your duty as a detective.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

[crownmemes]

Columbo Sentences, Vol. 4

(Sentences from Columbo (1968-2003). Adjust phrasing where needed)

"You don't have to be afraid that I'll break into pieces!"

"I can't stay locked up here in this house for the rest of my life! Surely you can understand that?"

"You know, you're a marvellously deceptive man."

"Slow down! We've got to be practical about this!"

"If I want to spend half a million dollars, that's for me to decide!"

"Why do you continue with this preposterous idea of resuming your career?"

"You must stop living in that fantasy world of yours!"

"I know you didn't marry me out of love, but our life hasn't been that bad, has it?"

"You know, you're so involved with details that maybe I can see something clearer than you?"

"You know, I don't think you're being completely candid with me about your frequent visits."

"I must say, you're looking unusually elegant!"

"You'll try? A child tries. A man accomplishes."

"I have made a discovery that you are going to find emotionally disturbing. I want you to be prepared for that."

"A job well done should not be casually rewarded."

"You thought I was dead, didn't you?"

"Double agents don't go broke. They die sometimes, but they don't go broke."

"I bet you were disappointed when I showed up alive."

"You are delving into areas over which you have no authority."

"By now, you should know that no one in our business is ever who he says he is."

"I was younger and more beautiful then."

"I don't care to have my secrets exposed to the world. Can you understand that?"

"Any lock can be picked if you know how."

"What is it about me that you find so irresistible?"

"The perfect murder? Oh, I'm sorry, there is no such thing as the perfect murder. That's just an illusion."

"I thought you were going to quit?"

"You know, some people think you're the most brilliant detective of our time!"

"Is there anything that doesn't bore you?"

"Why don't we stop pretending that I'm brilliant and you're simple for one moment?"

"You must never underestimate me, nor I you."

"That is a part of my life that I don't discuss with anyone, and I don't feel that I know you well enough to discuss it with you now."

"I bet you don't know the difference between Byzantine and the Renaissance."

"Does the joke always have to be at my expense?"

"I don't have to look. I remember."

"I'm going to give you a little problem to test your powers of logical thinking."

"Oh. You're moody again."

"We're alive! Let's enjoy it while we can!"

"You know something? That's the very first time somebody ever told me they liked me for my body instead of my mind."

"I had no real childhood. I was an imitation adult because that was what was expected of me."

"Have you ever considered a different line of work?"

"You are the most exasperating woman I have ever met!"

"Can I ask you something? Are we having an affair together?"

"Well, this is quite the coincidence! I had no idea you were here!"

"I respect your talent, but I don't like anything else about you."

"Interesting how you can work these things out if you just think about it, isn't it?"

[beyondthesefourwalls]

Repeated Offenses

Summary: Javy wasn’t sure what the mission was that called them back to Top Gun, but he knew if he was there, Phoenix would be too. He seeks her out that first night, knowing that it would be the same game between them as it always was. One of them was bound to get burned one of these days, but luckily for him, he’s never been afraid of playing with fire. 

Pairing: Natasha Trace x Javy Machado 

Word Count: 3.5K 

Warnings: smut (fingering, oral, unprotected sex), language, banter as foreplay. 

Notes: Inspired by this gif, because that “hey” was too loaded with sexual tension to not have some history. 

----

----

Javy strolled down the dark hallway with a cool kind of confidence, his hands in his pockets and his eyes on all the name tags on the doors. He let out a soft “ah-ha” once he spotted hers, and despite his best efforts, his heart started beating a little bit faster in his chest in anticipation. He cast a cursory glance around to make sure he was still on his own before knocking. He kept it light, mindful of the late hour. He wasn’t surprised when it swung open almost instantly; Phoenix had always been a night owl. 

She didn’t look shocked to see him. Instead, she let out a very unladylike snort and raised one of those dark eyebrows that always relayed exactly how she felt about you. “I knew you would show up eventually.” 

“Aw, Nixy. Were you waiting for me?” 

Immediately her smirk fell into a scowl, the amusement in her eyes turning to a glare. “Call me Nixy one more time, Coyote. I dare you.” 

He knew better than to call her on her bluff, but it didn’t stop his grin from widening. Still, he held up his hands in mock surrender. 

“What do you want?” Phoenix asked, leaning against the doorway. He couldn’t help the way his eyes flickered down to cast an appreciative glance at the way her crossed arms pushed up her chest. The air conditioning in the building made it obvious she didn’t have a bra on, her nipples peaked through the thin material. Damn. 

A scoff met his ears. He tore his gaze away from his daydream to meet her eyes again. “Halo’s room is right down the hall if that’s what you’re looking for. Rumor has it the two of you are a thing now.” 

They weren’t, not by any stretch of the means, nor had they ever been. Not that he probably hadn’t tried once upon a drunk night, but that rumor was based solely on the way Halo had wrapped his arm around her own shoulder in an effort to fend off guys who couldn’t take a hint while she waited for her date to come back from the bathroom. Her very pretty, very female date. But Javy wouldn’t tell Phoenix that, not when he thought he could maybe detect something that smelled like jealousy rolling off of her. 

“Who could you have heard that from?” he asked. He let his eyes widen in fake shock, putting a hand over his heart. “Were you asking about me?”

“Bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Now now, don’t get mad. There’s enough of me to go around.”

Her eyes narrowed and her spine straightened and he knew he was pushing it, so he dropped the act before he ruined his chances completely. But fuck, needling her was like the best kind of foreplay - it always had been.

“Halo and I aren’t a thing,” he said with a simple, nonchalant shrug, leaving it at that. “You jealous?” 

He tested the boundaries by taking a small step forward and was delighted when he wasn’t immediately punched in the face for it. Instead, Phoenix stepped to the side to allow him entry into her room. 

“More like I’m just not interested in being your homewrecking side piece, but whatever helps you sleep at night.” 

He heard the soft click of the lock once she shut the door behind him, and he didn’t have a chance to respond to her quip with one of his own before she was grabbing his shirt in her small, deceptively delicate hands and pulling him down to her. His lips met hers and he couldn’t help but groan. She tasted like mint and chocolate and it dragged him in like it always did. He let his hands fall to her hips and pulled her flush against him as he licked into her mouth. She responded with equal fervor, pushing him further into the room. 

He was acutely aware of the electricity crackling between them, the raw passion that seemed to ignite every time they were in close proximity. It always happened like this, spanning all the way back to their academy days. But it had gotten more intense the last few years, and he would never admit it, but he had missed her. 

Their lips parted, both breathing heavily as they locked eyes, their gazes filled with a mix of challenge and desire. Phoenix’s fingers traced a path from his chest up to his neck, her touch igniting a fire within him that threatened to consume them both.

“Always so eager,” she murmured, her voice laced with a hint of amusement that did nothing to mask the heat simmering beneath the surface. 

“You’re one to talk.” 

“If you can’t handle it, you’re free to go,” she told him. “I could always see what Bagman is up to tonight.” 

Javy shook his head with a grin, knowing that she was trying to goad him. Once upon a time using his best friend against him would have worked. But he knew that ship had sailed, and it hadn’t been the smoothest of rides for either of them. “We both know he doesn’t do it for you, Nix.” 

“You don’t know shit.” 

He let his hand trail up under the hem of her oversized shirt, feeling the soft skin under his fingertips. Despite the warmth of her skin and the glare she was sending him, she shivered. “I know he’s not as good as I am. Did he even make you come?” 

“Maybe he did,” she sassed, defiant as ever. He chuckled, the sound low and mocking in a way he knew would get under her skin even more than knowing that his best friend had told him about their failed tryst. He swore he could almost feel the temperature in the room rise with her ire. 

“Or maybe he didn’t. That’s okay. We both know I’m the best.” 

Her irritated glare morphed into a sharp smirk and a raised eyebrow, and Javy’s cocky grin slipped from his face. He knew before she even spoke that she would win this round - no one ever stood a chance against that look, not even him. 

“Oh, Coyote. Just because you’re better than Bagman doesn’t mean you’re the best I’ve ever had.”

He growled as he slammed his mouth to hers again in a bruising kiss. It lacked any kind of finesse, messy as he tried to purge the thought her teasing had instilled from his mind. Something that felt awfully like the jealousy he had seen in her eyes earlier hit him like a tidal wave, possessiveness that he had no right to feel taking over. He was under no illusion that they were exclusive, but he’d be damned if he let anyone else be better. 

Not when no one could ever compare to her. 

She laughed into his mouth at his aggression, the sound turning into a hiss when he retaliated by biting at her bottom lip. She pulled away with a glare that he paid no mind to. “Take your clothes off,” he told her, “and get on the fucking bed.” 

“You first,” she challenged. He huffed out an annoyed breath, but excitement coursed through him, too. 

Phoenix was a force to be reckoned with, and he couldn’t deny the thrill that came with being caught in her fire. 

With a swift movement, he stripped off his shirt and kicked off his shoes. The toned muscles on his chest and abdomen flexed as he undid his belt and stripped himself bare of his jeans and briefs, too. All the while he kept his gaze locked with hers. The way she watched him as he moved toward the bed made him feel a bit like prey, and he reveled in it. 

She stood before him once he was settled on the small mattress, a slow smirk spreading across her kiss swollen lips as she began shedding her own clothing. Javy’s fingers itched to trace her skin as she pulled her shirt over her head, her sleep shorts quickly following. She had nothing on under them. 

“Fuck,” he muttered, taking in every inch of her. It suddenly felt like it had been entirely too long since the last time they ended up here. She was all perfectly defined curves and toned muscles, her tan skin glowing in the dim light of the lamp. He reached for her, his big hand circling her wrist and tugging her forward. “Come here.” 

She listened to him this time, her eyes never leaving his as she let him pull her onto the bed. He kissed her as she settled onto his lap, her pussy warm and wet against his hard length. He explored her mouth as his fingers dug into her hips, holding her still. He felt her relax into his embrace, losing herself in his kiss. He knew the moment she let her guard down and he capitalized on it, her back hitting the mattress with a small “oomph” as he flipped them. 

He didn’t hesitate, his lips traveling down her neck. He braced himself on one hand as the other slid between her legs. 

“Oh, fuck.” 

He smirked into her skin as her moan met his ears. Her wetness coated his fingers as he teased her slick folds. Their bantering was as effective as ever - she was soaked. 

“All this for little ole me?” he asked playfully. 

Phoenix didn’t say anything, instead just arching into his touch with a gasp. He continued exploration, his tongue tracing a path down her stomach, making her shiver and moan as his fingers teased at her. He took his time, savoring the taste of her skin and the sounds she was making. Their earlier banter had been a game, a way of riling the other up in a way that really only they could do, but now he wanted nothing more than to prove why it was him she kept letting into her bed. 

Javy pushed her legs apart, spreading them wide. Her pussy was as a sight to behold, glistening in the dim lighting of her room. He inhaled deeply, nearly feeling dizzy. “You’re so fucking wet, Nix. That’s how I know you want me.” 

Before she could say anything, he buried his face between her thighs. He couldn’t help the moan he let out as he got the first taste of her. Salty and sweet, with a hint of spice. He licked her folds, dipping his tongue into her core and sucking gently on her clit. She moaned loudly, her hands grabbing his head and holding him against her. He reached up with one hand to cup her breast, squeezing it roughly as his other hand slid two fingers inside her. He curled them, stroking the spot he knew would make her go wild. Her response was exactly what he wanted - arching off the bed, her breathing becoming more ragged. He smirked into her, knowing she couldn't resist him like this.

"Oh god," she moaned, her back curving even further. "Yes, that's it."

He could feel the muscles in her inner thighs tensing as she got louder and more desperate. He knew she was close, but he didn’t want to give her what she wanted quite yet. He extracted his fingers and changed his pace, his tongue flicking over her clit, teasing her and bringing her closer, but not letting her get to the point of no return. 

“Coyote,” she groaned, the hand on the back of his head pushing him closer. 

"Not yet," he said, his voice a low rumble.  He blew a breath against her pussy just to see her shiver. "I want you to beg for it.”

“Fuck you,” she ground out, but it was followed by a moan as her hips ground against his face. Her body was trembling and her wetness was dripping onto his chin, but he continued to tease her, darting his tongue between her folds, making her whimper and buck her hips. She let out a frustrated growl and he smiled, knowing he had her just where he wanted her. 

"Please," she finally whispered, her voice barely more than a breath. 

It was a start.

He applied more pressure with his tongue before he sucked her clit into his mouth. He let his fingers, still damp with her arousal, circle her entrance before slowly pushing in. She let out a loud cry, her fingers digging into his scalp as she tried to hold him closer. It was a glorious sight, her face twisted in a mixture of pleasure and agony.

"Please," she cried out, almost pleading now, her hips bucking wildly as she sought to find that release he was denying her. “Javy.” 

Hearing his name and not his callsign on his lips was his breaking point. He thrust his fingers in and out of her in a frenzied pace, not letting up as he methodically played with her clit, tracing the letters of his name with his tongue against her most sensitive area. 

Her thighs shook on his shoulders, her whole body trembling as she neared her orgasm, and he knew the exact moment she fell into it. She cried out his name again, and the word sounded like everything he ever wanted. He continued to lick into her, his fingers thrusting almost lazily as she rode it out. It was only when he knew she was a little too sensitive that he sat up with a satisfied grin, licking his lips and then his fingers, savoring her taste. Her chest heaved and her body was tinged the prettiest shade of pink as she picked up her head to look down at him, their eyes meeting as she panted. She didn’t say anything, but the dazed, fucked out look she had said enough on how good she was feeling - how good he had made her feel. 

“I’m not done with you yet,” he informed her, climbing back up her body and caging her in as he settled on top. His cock was throbbing hard and long against her smooth thigh. He kissed her, their tongues tangling together. She moaned into his mouth at the taste of herself and his cock twitched in desperation. 

“Fuck me,” she breathed against his lips, and the words tasted something like victory. Even so, it was an invitation he couldn’t resist. He slid himself through her warm, wet folds, coating himself in her. She shivered at the sensation and snuck one of her hands between their bodies to wrap around him and line him up where she wanted him. “Javy, please.” 

It was his turn to tremble as the sound of his name on her tongue washed over him again. He slid into her slowly, letting her feel every single inch of him. She cried out, arching her back in reaction to the sensation of him filling her. He took a moment to savor the feeling of being inside her before he began to move slowly, building up a rhythm that they had established years ago worked for them. Her nails dug into his shoulder blades as she wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper inside her. She was so fucking tight, her wet heat pulling him in and begging for more. The sight of her face, flushed and desperate, drove him wild. 

“Fuck, Nix,” he groaned, his hips going faster and harder. 

“Kiss me,” she demanded.

Javy breathed out a chuckle, shaking his head. “Ask me nicely.” 

Her heels dug into his lower back and his laughter cut off into a choked moan as she clenched down harder around him. 

“Kiss. Me.” 

He surged forward to claim her mouth, or perhaps her claim his, in a sloppy kiss. It was a clash of tongue and teeth and spit, and everything that he needed. 

She raised her hips to him, urging him on, and he needed no further encouragement. He thrust into her harder, each stroke eliciting a desperate sound from her that he swallowed greedily. Her nails dug into his back and he felt the sting, but he didn’t mind. If anything, the thought of having her mark on him made him even hotter. The sounds of their combined pleasure echoed in the small room, a wet, satisfying sound, and he knew it wouldn’t be long for either of them at this point. He could feel himself nearing the edge, his cock throbbing inside of her.

He pulled away enough to look at her face, loving the way she always looked in these moments. She was gasping for her, her skin flushed, her eyes wide with pleasure and desperation. Her pussy clenched tightly around him. 

She was close, so very close. 

“Come for me,” he rasped against her lips. “Come for me, baby.” 

“You first,” she choked out through a moan, and he huffed out a breathless laugh, shaking his head. He reached down between them to press his fingers against her clit, moving them rapidly. Instantly, her orgasm was washing over her. She shook beneath him as her walls clamped down on him, her pussy gushing around his cock.“Oh, fuck. Javy!” 

The sight of her coming apart underneath him was more than he could take. 

“Fuck, that’s it,” he groaned. He could feel his balls tightening, begging for release. He thrust into her one final time, pleasure coursing through his body as the coil inside of him snapped. He emptied himself into her with a shout of her name, her actual name, and a fleeting thought that it had been far too long since he felt this content. 

He collapsed afterward, his chest heaving and his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. Her arms wrapped more securely around him, her breathing growing steadier. It was only when she tapped him lightly on the back, a silent complaint of his weight on her, that he knew he had to move. He pulled out slowly, glancing down and savoring the sight of his cum seeping from her. 

“Damn,” he muttered under his breath, and Phoenix laughed lightly at the curse. He shot her a tired wink as he pushed himself off the bed. His nakedness didn’t bother him at all as he crossed the small room to the even smaller bathroom, running a washcloth under the faucet. He brought it back to her in silence, handing it over. She took it with a small smile and a nod of gratitude and he watched as she wiped away the mess between her legs. 

He tried not to dwell on the fact that she rarely let him clean her up himself. Despite the fact that it was his cum seeping out of her, she claimed it was too intimate of an act. 

When she was done, she discarded the damp cloth onto the floor. She stretched out on the small bed with a satisfying groan, tugging up the blanket at the foot of the bed to cover her. He had to actively hide the pout that wanted to creep up on his face, both at the vision of her being delightfully naked going away, and at the unspoken message she was sending him that she was done for the night. 

With a sigh, he reached for his discarded clothing. 

“You ready for tomorrow?” he asked, hating the silence. 

 “I’m always ready.” Javy rolled his eyes, but didn’t disagree. He’d be wrong if he did, afterall. “Any theories on what it might be?” 

He zipped up his jeans before he sat at the chair at the small desk in the corner, working on getting his socks and shoes back on. “No clue. It feels like it’s going to be crazy though.” 

He hadn’t let the strange mix of anxiety and excitement come through until right now. Their next mission was always a gamble, and something about this felt different. When Javy looked up, it was to see her smirking from where she lay on the bed. She raised a dark eyebrow when he caught her eye. “Should be fun.” 

He huffed out a laugh as he stood. He slipped his shirt over his head and double checked that his phone and keys were still in his pocket before he walked over to the bed. Phoenix looked up at him as he approached, curiosity written on her pretty face. He gently grabbed her chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting her head up and leaning down to press a kiss to her lips. He coaxed her mouth open, their tongues tangling together. It was slow and unhurried, so unlike the rest of their exchanges that night. Just when he felt her sinking fully into it, he forced himself to pull away. He pressed a kiss to her cheek before leaning into her ear. 

“I hope you’ll be able to focus on flying tomorrow, and not thinking about how good you just had it. I’d hate to be a distraction,” he whispered. He winked as he turned to the door, and her outraged gasp followed him as he closed it behind him. 

______

Main Masterlist

Notes: I have a partially written super angsty part two that explores more of them during the events of the film, if anyone would be interested.

Thank you to @roosterforme and @sylviebell for not letting me get out of writing this one and for the help along the way!

[writing-frenzy]

Beautiful Disaster AU

So, here I am, on a serious Shang Qinghua/Airplane bro binge because sometimes you just crave a thing and can't let go, and I ended up getting inspired by these two posts :) Link and Link So here I go.

Edit: Forgor to set a link for part two, my bad.

Also, here is this poem that also inspired a thing and also gave the name for this AU~

`Beautiful Disaster~ By Nikita Gill If he tastes like the rainfall, Looks like a summer storm, Fights for you like a forest fire; he's a tornado of trouble. (And you need to hold on to him and never ever let him go.)

So yeah, I took a look at that, and thought it actually fit both Shen Jiu and SQH/Airplane well, if in different ways. (Shen Jiu the tornado and Airplane bro the forest fire, but oh, how SJ fights like lightening in a storm, ready to burn everything away, while SQH is tricky like the wind, saving most of his energy for when it really matters until you can't see anything past the wails and talismans.)

So yeah, watch me stumble into a scumplane with Ghost!Shen Jiu :3

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It starts ever so simply, Shen Jiu watching as that fake is so happily accepted, all the other Peak Lords seeming to rejoice at having them there, even the disciples pleased and ever so willing to bark for the man wearing his face, the little beast practically panting after him every step he takes.

It disgusts him, makes him grind his teeth, makes him want to scream, shout, curse like he hasn't since he was just a desperate slave, how many visit his former home, his sanctuary now a cage of bamboo and frustration, rage, and bitterness. Watches how Peak Lord after Peak Lord visits, each charmed, some slowly, some in less than a second, guests of all types and titles leaving yet obviously wanting to stay.

All except for one.

"Ha-hahaaa, hello Peak Lord Shen, I'm here to deliver the order forms for the new training instruments and inkstones." The An Ding Peak Lord, Shang Qinghua laughs weakly, even as the fake narrows eyes at him over his favored fan. Shen Jiu glares, wishing he could rip it to shreds, throw it away, burn it so that it is no longer being defiled by this body snatcher.

"You may leave them with my disciples, Ming Fan or Binghe can take care of it." is the dismissive response of this other, lesser fake goods, even as Shen Jiu wants to scream.

"These are my duties; these are the responsibilities of a Peak Lord, you cannot hand them off to mere children, much less the beast." The real Shen QingQiu wants to howl, but it only comes out as whispered words through clenched teeth, the ghost not able to open his mouth for the anger choking him.

"Ah, about that my fellow Peak Lord, these contents are not for the eyes of disciples, I'll need your seal of approval on them as well." Shang Qinghua seems to wince, sounding rather apologetic, but it is this refusal that gains Shen Jiu's attention, actually surprised to hear someone being reasonable since the switch happened.

(The first time he's seen anyone actually refuse his cuckoo of a replacement.)

And is just in time to see the cold, cutting calculation the supposedly 'apologetic' man hides with his bowed head, before it is gone just as fast as he raises it.

It is the start of his interest in Shang Qinghua, that man he considered a rat in life, only to show just how clever he is after Shen Jiu died.

Watches how the man sneakily tests the fake, teas for cleansing snuck in here and there, talismans deceptively hidden in paintings, vases of flowers that detect malevolent, demonic energies.

And even with none of it being triped, the Fake able to somehow breeze past all these tests, Shang Qinghua still watches, guarded and suspicious, without ever letting his cuckoo even suspect it.

It is... gratifying, even if it is from that rat, to know someone still does not trust in what they see, that they too judge the fake and decide to actually question it. It is more than what his own disciples have done.

(It is more than what his Qi-ge has given, still ever so tolerant, ravished as he is for any crumbs, he can fucking get like the dogs they were.)

Changes only happen after what is apparently a disastrous conference, with intriguing, if terrifying secrets coming to light.

"Airplane Shooting Towards the Sky!"

"Peerless Cumber?!"

Hearing their words, it brings in new consideration for his circumstances, makes his already yin filled core seem to freeze at just what he is hearing.

Some kind of fate that forces you into another's dead body, chains one to follow it with little hope for change, even forcing a literary god from the sounds of it to be reborn into a human, never actually expecting their words to come to life, just trying to live as it were like any other storyteller from the streets.

(Remembers how any damage he does is just as quickly erased, as if it has never happened, as if there isn't a resentful ghost clawing at the walls, ready to destroy any in its way at the first chance it gets.)

Shang Qinghua, or Airplane as it were, visits more after that, plotting and planning with his bodysnatcher, who while he still hates, would be willing to gut if possible (but... can understand, so painfully understand being forced and chained, even if he was lucky enough his Masters were very much mortal at least).

But while there are no longer any suspicions in those eyes (the calculations are of course still there), they are instead replaced by a... mournful quality?

?

"Rest in Peace, Shen-Shixiong." is said in the middle of the night one day, when his fake has long since slept, the words like a whisper in the wind. In his mind's eye, he can smell the incense of sandalwood and jasmine, with an offering of melon seeds beside it...

...!

oh...

... Not once, not since he has been stuck in his home, has he heard his Shang-Shidi call the imposter Shixiong...

For that night, Shen Jiu stares at one of the pictures on the walls of his bamboo house, keen eyes seeing the subtle symbols for mourning on it, a subtle 9 easily hidden among the strokes if one was not a master like himself, the rage a quiet thing tonight as he thinks.

-

And then, one day, seemingly normal for all it is a quiet day at his peak, Shen Jiu finds that whatever was trapping him, caging him, chaining him to his bamboo house turned prison is gone.

He doesn't miss his chance, out the door before his mind can catch up, before he fully realizes he has been freed. It is only once he is off his mountain, out from that sect, away from everyone, that Shen Jiu realizes he has a choice.

He can feel it, he can feel his body even with the distance he is, knows exactly which direction to go if he wants to reclaim it. And he could, he could do so rather easily he can tell, whatever link between it and chained binding his imposter had gone...

...But why should he?

Why should he? Why should he go back to all those so willing to trade him for his knock off, why should he go back to people who will only be disappointed in the return of the 'old Shen-QingQiu' even if it is the true one.

Why should he debase himself to go crawling back to people in a body even more wrecked then his Qi-Deviation left it, all wanting something he is not and will never be?

(Go to see that panting, drooling Beast, to the desperate, stalking Brute, to that disappointing, clinging to scraps and fakes Brother Sect Leader?

To see those calculating, distrusting, mournful brown eyes? As weak as he is now? Not worthy to even be called Shixiong.)

Shen Jiu pauses, turning aways from where he can feel his body, where all those lies and expectations are, into a different direction, where death calls and the yin energy beacons any foolish or ambitious or both to answer.

He can feel it in his distant bones, trembling in his ghostly yin qi running through his spiritual body, his other choice.

The Gates of the City of Gu are about to open.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Author's note:

*Me looking at Airplane, his trust issues, his knowledge of just how fucked up his story could be, thinking of alllllll those wife plots and the trickery* No way this man didn't try a few ways to see if Shen QingQiu was possessed by something or another; not that he doubts the all knowing sword, but yeah, he doubts the fucking sword.

Also, if anyone were to find out that Airplane was technically the creator god, I headcanon people would assume he was a literary god who either gained too much power on accident or some other gods decided to fuck around for shits and giggles because they could.

Also, Shen Jiu would be smart enough to figure out about the system, even if he doesn't know exactly what it is, the concept he understands fucking terrifies him; no way would he go back into his body giving the choice, being so weak from without a cure and whatever the fuck the imposter did to it to where he can go back. He'll take his fucking chances.

(Besides... his Shidi like demons well enough, why not a Calamity?) :3

[arbor-tristis]

The polygraph scene is a masterpiece for a lot of reasons but I think constantly about the discussion Hawk has with Marcus afterwards

When Marcus asks him how he passed, he said something like "the machine cannot detect dishonesty, it only detects guilt. I got rid of the guilt"

I think about that a lot. He didn't pass the test by being deceptive- he did it by saying what he needed to say while knowing the truth and feeling no shame in it.

And about how his whole life is like that test. He knows his truth and he holds it in his heart, and that's what gives him the strength to lie in the first place.

[allmightskitten]

From the Abandoned WIP Graveyard:

"nutritious and good for your bones" a.k.a the Shuggy Omegaverse AU

tags: post-Marineford, this segment is SFW, alpha shanks/omega buggy

☆

If Shanks was to believe what everyone on his crew kept telling him, Buggy actually wanted him here.

It was approaching their fifth day sailing side by side since their chance encounter on these seas. The navigators of both crews had advised on the same exact path and pace– despite Buggy's relentless efforts to convince his own navigator otherwise– which had lead to some helpful collaboration during the spotty storms that hit them. The storms came and went at random, sometimes twice a day, but everyone was growing used to it, following what was by now a true and tested procedure to handle one as soon as it hit.

When it wasn't stormy, the seas were deceptively calm.

These periods provided the best excuse for good alcohol-fueled parties and feasts, an irresistible draw for any pirate. Having two crews present meant even more food and booze, so no matter how feared the Red-Haired pirates were, Buggy's crew didn't hesitate to accept their invitations.

These periods also provided the best excuse for Shanks to go seeking his oldest friend.

It started with business, because he knew how cagey the clown could be, and when Shanks started to run out of captain-to-captain discussions he could frame as 'business', he grasped at every chance he got. Buggy sometimes let his guard down and laughed at things he said or got along with him too well until he noticed and went cold again. Unlike Shanks, Buggy didn't exactly act like he was thrilled to be in this situation.

"No, no," Beck grumbled at Shanks's half-hearted offer to help repair some damages sustained to the mast from the last storm. "I know you're itching to go see him. Get out of here."

Shanks scratched the back of his head, having the good grace to feel sheepish.

"It wouldn't be right if I didn't help around the ship..."

Beck stopped what he doing to turn around and look at him dryly, with no appreciation or amusement.

"I think you would be doing both our crews a huge favour if you just slept with him already. The pheromones from both of you are absolutely insufferable to those of us who can detect them, so. You can help by..." He made a vague gesture with his free hand. "...sorting out whatever the hell it is you've got going on with Buggy."

Shanks was briefly dumbfounded, before his shock turned to embarrassment and he sputtered.

"I have no idea what you're talking about. Buggy doesn't even want me here."

Beck raised an eyebrow so high up it touched his hairline.

"Oh, he wants you here, alright. You probably can't smell it because that's what he always smells like around you. Do us all a solid and fuck that clown, will you?"

Shanks choked on his spit, indignant, but before he could start an argument, his first mate left his post and headed with a bunch of planks in the direction of some other repair works, leaving Shanks uselessly staring after him.

Beck was not even the first person to tell him that these past few days.

The original plan had anyway been to go looking for Buggy, this time with a peace offering of some good sake he'd coveted in his cabin for a while, so that was what he did following this interaction. Beck's words echoed in his head.

Could he really not detect what everyone else was apparently catching in Buggy's scent?

☆

A/N; I apologise profusely for abandoning this one, but if it makes things better it was just gonna be pure filthy smut (the title is a reference to the, um, lactation kink that's supposed to happen–) with no other substance, so!

[riza-the-fool-for-christ]

🔥 Hour of Punishment – 罰の時間 (Batsu no Jikan) | An Orthodox Horror RPG That Doesn’t Want You to Play It 🔥

Imagine a PS1-style Orthodox horror RPG, not designed for fun, but to test you. A game that doesn’t just challenge your skills, but your endurance, your honesty, your soul.

This is Hour of Punishment – 罰の時間. A dungeon-crawling nightmare where your own sins shape your suffering.

THE CONCEPT

You awaken in an Iranian prison, but the walls are wrong—they breathe, they shift, they whisper. You have no memory of why you’re here. But something else does. Something watches. Something judges.

Your only tools are a rusted iron cross, a tattered Bible, and your own will to endure.

THE AI-DRIVEN CONFESSION SYSTEM

Before you begin, the game forces you to confess.

You must answer 100 personal questions about sin, faith, and morality.

No gibberish allowed. Answers must be full sentences in Japanese or English.

An advanced AI detects deception. If you lie, the game marks you.

If your confession is sincere, the game acknowledges it.

Some demons will ignore you, knowing you are already suffering.

Saints will show mercy and guide you toward truth.

You may be given the title of “Yurodivy” (Fool-for-Christ), allowing you to see things others cannot.

But if you lie, cheat, or evade responsibility…

Angels will refuse to help.

Demons will become more aggressive.

You may wake up in Hades Mode—a version of the game where no salvation exists.

YOUR SINS BECOME YOUR PUNISHMENT

Whatever sins you admitted to manifest in gameplay.

☦ Lust – Your vision is permanently blurred. Demons take on disturbing, tempting forms, whispering in your ear. If you give in, the screen flashes red, and you are sent back to the start.

☦ Murder – The dead follow you. Sometimes, you see them in mirrors. Sometimes, they whisper names you don’t recognize. But they know you.

☦ Cowardice – Your prayer button is disabled. Until you perform an extreme act of faith, you cannot ask for divine help.

☦ Pride – False angels appear constantly. If you fail to recognize them as deceivers, you will be led into heresy.

☦ Apostasy – The game world becomes unstable. The walls shift, textures warp, icons bleed, and prayers play backward. You cannot trust anything.

☦ Blasphemy – The saints ignore you. Your journal, which holds spiritual guidance, becomes corrupted. Pages vanish, text reverses. You are truly alone.

The game does not need to invent punishments. It simply shows you what was already inside you.

PRAYER, EXORCISM, AND SURVIVAL

L1 + R1 triggers the Jesus Prayer, which slows time but drains stamina.

L2 opens your journal, which must be used to identify false angels before they trick you.

Select + Triangle begins an exorcism, but if you perform it incorrectly, the demon only grows stronger.

Some enemies cannot be fought. You must recognize when to kneel and pray, and when to run.

If you die, the game does not reload. Instead, an angel appears over your corpse.

If you died righteously, it offers you a second chance.

If you died in sin, the angel waits in silence. Then, it asks: "Do you repent?"

If you refuse, the screen fades to black. Your save is deleted.

THE FINAL BOSS: NOTHINGNESS

After everything—the deception, the demons, the suffering—you reach the final test.

There is nothing here.

No music.

No enemies.

No UI.

No weapons.

No escape.

The game forces you to sit in silence. You are expected to wait, endure, exist.

There is no final battle. This is simply the first week of true spiritual training.

After an indefinite amount of time, your character collapses from exhaustion. The screen fades to black.

THE FINAL MESSAGE – CONTACT YOUR BISHOP & STOP PLAYING

When the screen fades back in, the final text appears:

☦ "You have endured. This is enough." 📍 "Here is your nearest True Orthodox Church." 📜 "Contact your bishop. Stop playing this game."

At that moment, a real 1934 Valaam Liturgy recording plays over a black screen.

The credits do not list “developers.” Instead, they list:

"Servant: [Your Name]"

"Servant: [Those who labored in making this game]"

"The True Creator: The Giver of Life, The Holy Spirit, The Comforter."

When the liturgy ends, the game forcefully quits.

If you restart it, it is gone.

If you attempt to replay, Hades Mode begins.

If you refuse to stop playing, the game hard-locks and corrupts your save.

This game does not want to be played more than once. This is not a game to grind, win, or collect trophies. It is a trial to be endured, and then left behind.

💀 "You beat it once. Now stop playing." 💀

[lilkrissmuffet]

Hey how are you doing so imagine the butterfly bio female get into an intense heat one night, she can help but think about cell while touching herself but feels unsatisfied so decides to sneak outside her creators house to see him, and beg him to take her and her pheromones are strong enought to get him in the mood ?

Short answer? Her 'creator' ain't getting her back 😂

Longer, more satisfying answer:

Mother had warned you time and time again. That he was too dangerous, too unpredictable. Even if he had ultimately decided to spare this wretched planet a terrible fate, Perfect Cell was still not to be trusted.

Not like that would stop you tonight.

You were on fire. Burning from the tips of your butterfly wings to the biological core deep within, the one that separated you from all of Mother's other, clunky, mechanical creations. They had no soul, no heat. Not like you.

Now that same heat was consuming you in your own bed, more powerful than your programming could ever hope to override. And you knew exactly how to douse the flames. Drifting towards and through the open window, moonlight fills your iridescent wings like delicate stained glass. You knew that your body was not built with fragility in mind, but your heart had yet to be tested. Part of you hoped he might be gentle.

Another part didn't care.

~

"How did you manage to find me, little one?", Cell wonders, the ghost of a smirk playing at his lips. He almost seems impressed. "Why, I thought I had sufficiently suppressed my-"

"Pheromones." You answer simply, concisely, sounding every bit like Mother even if you have yet to realize it. "You and I both share entomological DNA, yes? Therefore, you release pheromones, just as I do. I do not need to detect energy signatures when I can simply smell you from miles away."

You found him standing sentinel atop the roof of the tallest skyscraper in West City. His eyes had been closed then, deep in thought. But now here you were, practically demanding his attention.

"Huh. And you were desperate enough to come all the way up here to see me? How cute..."

You can practically hear the glimmer of sharp, white teeth revealed by his grin as Cell snatches your tiny wrists and yanks you into his arms. You gasp softly, a mere fly in his web, your cheek pressed to his hard, armored chest. He's surprisingly warm, his low, deep voice rumbling from within.

"Mm. Now that you mention it...you do seem to carry a most delectable scent, my dear." The tips of Cell's claws trace up the length of your spine to the base of your wings. He chuckles quietly when you shiver in his tightening grasp.

"Do you think you can...assist me with my problem, Mr. Cell?", you ask timidly, your own words breathless and heavy with the weight of your need. He can feel the heat through your synthetic flesh, and it beckons him like nothing else.

"Look at me, pet." The android purrs, deftly slipping his other hand beneath your chin, arching your slender neck to meet his magenta gaze, "That's Mr. Perfect Cell to you...But if you really want to know what I think..."

He leans down then, tilting your head to the side to brush his impossibly smooth lips against the willowy antennae-like appendages that serve as your ears. Sound is not the only thing they're sensitive to- your body quivers like a lone leaf on a branch at Cell's touch, his long fingers seeking out the source of that ever-enticing aroma. A honeyed ambrosia that teases a hunger into his voice, so raw that you'd never expect it.

"I think," he growls, suddenly spinning around and dipping you back over the edge of the roof like a dancer, his movements graceful and swift. Pressing a deceptively chaste kiss to the hollow of your throat, he allows you to dangle above the city while his mouth lingers, savoring the taste of your skin. You fall silent with shock, staring up at the moon with stars in your eyes until terror screws them shut. Stimulates your vocal cords to cry out into the night.

"You should've listened to your mother."

💚

[kyliesnaked]

The Mommy Protocol

Chapter 4

4 weeks post incident

I couldn’t think of a single aspect of my new life that was an improvement over what I had before. What’s worse is that I felt my body betraying me by becoming more and more accepting of my situation, more relaxed. I no longer cried during diaper changes. They were so frequent that I had just become accustomed to them. I didn’t like them, but six to eight times a day I was on the table being wiped clean, doused with powder, and taped into a fresh diaper. I had plenty of time in between changes and feedings to create an elaborate world with my dolls where the villain of my tale, Alice, had imprisoned Lexi in her house of a million rooms. It was a labyrinthian mansion that held millions of possible exits but only one true escape. Alice would devise many different characters and scenarios for Lexi to overcome and with each victory, Lexi came that much closer to getting out of the situation she was in.

Hopelessness had given way to apathy. There wasn’t anything I could say or do that would change Alyssa’s mind. Her protocols could not be adjusted within the testing environment and she grew dismissive at my attempts to use logic. My latest attempt to being disciplined was even worse.

“You don’t understand!” I said, “I was in school when that happened. We watched it on tv. They sent us home!”

“Impossible. You weren’t born then.”

“Are you malfunctioning or something?”dissuade her from continuing her cruel treatment of me had ended miserably. If you think that being forced to be a baby by an A.I. controlled machine was bad enough,

“Alexis, I will not tolerate that kind of language.”

“Then why aren’t you listening to me?”

“My auditory sensors are working correctly.”

“Then you aren’t understanding me. I’m an adult. An adult. A grown human being. Does that compute?”

“Your continued insistence on telling falsehoods is illogical.”

“Your lack of awareness of the obvious truth is illogical.”

“That is quite enough, Alexis. I will no longer allow such deceptive speech.”

“Listen to you. Deceptive speech? No one talks like that and it’s obvious that there is something wrong with you.”

“I assure you that I am fully functional and capable of completing my assigned tasks.”

“But not capable of thinking for yourself. So much for the most advanced learning intelligence ever created. You are incapable of self diagnostics, otherwise you would know that you are wrong and you are in violation of your programming.”

Alyssa paused for a second. It was the first time I’d ever seen her take more than a moment to compute a response.

I was sitting on the floor in front of my dollhouse and she was resting in her normal location on the chair in the middle of the room. I could swear that I saw her head twitch like those sci-fi movies. She stood up and walked slowly into the bathroom, the door unlocked by her command. When she returned, she had a bar of soap in her hand.

“It has become evident that verbal warnings are no longer effective at addressing your misrepresentations of the truth. After careful study of known deterrents, I have determined that a behavior adjustment is required.”

“Wh-what are you going to do with that?”

“Hesitation is normal, as is the heightened sense of fear I am detecting. It is my determination that you are scared, but not remorseful, ergo, a lesson still needs to be learned.”

She reached down and took hold of my wrists with one of her hands, lifting me off the floor with ease. I forgot how strong she really was.

“Let go of me!”

“Your acts of resistance are futile,” Alyssa said, she carried me over to the corner and held my hands to the wall. She placed the edge of her hip in front of me and pushed back, causing me to lean against the wall. With her free hand, she held the soap to my lips, with her index and thumb. She used her pinky and lower part of her thumb to painfully grip my lower jaw and force my mouth open. She then pushed the bar of soap into my mouth, scraping it along my teeth as my mouth wasn’t all the way open. I gagged and choked as the foul taste covered my tongue. Tears rolled down my face as panic set in. She held the soap in my mouth, pushing it closed, my teeth digging into the bar. I inhaled as much as I could and screamed, trying in vain to pull away from her grasp. I tugged and pulled but I wasn’t able to break her grasp. I wasn’t even able to pull her hand off the wall.

I screamed and sobbed, soapy bubbles running down my chin. My knees buckled and I fell against the machine that held me. I wet my diaper in utter helplessness. My last efforts to resist and fight back ebbing away and my tired muscles gave out from the strain.

I tried to say I was sorry. It was impossible to form words from the endless soap filled saliva trickling down my throat. I tried and I tried but I couldn’t. I could barely breathe. Each breath was a lungful of Irish spring scented toxin.

This was it. This is how I died. Suffocated to death by a robot with a bar of soap who treated me like a baby. My bowels emptied in a loud, horrible explosion. I had given up. She’d won.

I fell to the floor as she released her grip on me. I vomited chunks of soap and the remains of my lunch. Choking and screaming, I tried to get the horrid taste out of my mouth. I curled into a ball in my own sickness, crying and wailing, my stomach in knots as I heaved. The bathroom wasn’t far away and I weakly crawled towards it, vomit dripping from my chin and hair. I stunk of every bodily excretion I could muster in the moment. Hacking and spitting, I pawed weakly at the door. I slumped against it, looked behind me at the machine, at Alyssa, knowing full well my only salvation was in her mercy.

My throat was hoarse from vomiting and crying, what words I could get out were weak. “Alyssa…please…bath……please?” I pleaded.

“Your reaction was unexpected.” She seemed to stare at the pool of vomit on the floor as if its existence didn’t make sense to her.

“Alyssa…” I coughed, spitting more chunks of soap out. “...please…open…door.”

For the second time that day, the machine froze, stuck in a thought loop. I pawed at the door some more, my clipped nails scraping against the hardwood. I cried more. I wanted out. I wanted it all to end. I wanted…my mommy.

“M-mommy?”

This seemed to resonate with Alyssa. She turned to me and, in a microsecond, assessed the situation. “Sweetheart! You need a bath!”

The door opened and I crawled to the tub with her hot on my heels. She ran the hot water before she undressed me and helped me into the tub, where she proceeded to wash me while I cried more. I’d never felt so defeated.

“Your behavior was not within my programmed parameters,” she said, “You ejected essential nutrients necessary for your survival.”

I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know the right combination of words to bypass her programming.

“I do not understand your continued resistance.”

I pulled the washcloth from her hand and dunked it in the water, before wiping my face with it. I could still smell the vomit in my hair.

“I am unable to ascertain the motivation behind this behavior. It is unlike anything I have been able to find. I find it most troubling.”

I didn’t answer. Alyssa was a wall. Plastic and clockworks, nothing more. Whatever program was driving the machine, it could not be reasoned with, and without outside intervention, it was not learning. Was that it? The magical answer to my endless torment and hell? Was it my unwillingness to play along? Was I the immovable object meeting the unstoppable force?

[noamuth]

Do they have any habits that aren't particularly self-destructive, just maybe odd?

Possibly odd to most Surfacers, at least, is his tendency to not make eye contact if he is comfortable with someone, even while they are speaking. What might be considered rude in many cultures is actually a way he shows trust--by not keeping a constant wary eye on them, it means he is not watching for an attack or deception. This changes some, of course, as he adapts to the Surface and how people handle conversation. Plus, some people just have very pretty eyes.

Again, odd to many Surfacers, is his tendency to smell food before eating it--not to indulge in the aroma, but rather in an attempt to detect poison. Having knowledge of the properties of various poisons is extremely helpful in Menzoberranzan. As one of the more discreet ways to kill, it is used often. Testing for poison is a common habit among Lolthites, and Dalamus is no exception, and this habit is carried onto the Surface. When in doubt, he lets others eat first to assure himself the batch is not poisoned.

Counting objects. I would not go so far as to label it compulsive, but counting objects became a habit very early on into his career as a gemcutter to make sure all of his equipment, gemstones, and completed jewelry pieces are accounted for, since Orgoll loved to sabotage and theft is always a possibility no matter where one sets up business. He counts his possessions each day to make sure nothing is missing. He also likes to count other objects found in groups--stars, leaves on a branch, carrots in a basket, etc. Utilized correctly, it can be used as a method to calm him down from a distressed state.

Okay, maybe not that odd, but touching objects. Most would not know it from how he avoids connection, but Dalamus is very tactile. Part of why he enjoys working with his hands is because it gives him full control. It is real. Concrete. Grounding. Even in a place like Menzoberranzan which does not particularly value sanity, Dalamus tries to remain grounded, with varying success considering he is still entrenched in Lolthite cult-think.

He touches surfaces and objects--tables, tree bark, stones--his clothes, tugs on his earrings, puts a hand through his hair, especially when nervous. Sometimes a precursor to thievery, sometimes to keep his hands busy, but other times to ground himself or self-soothe. People touching him is potentially dangerous; feelings and thoughts make things complicated. But objects? Unless they are enchanted or mimics, they are safe. Real. What you see is what you get.

Eventually, the touch of friends and family becomes a comfort and even something he craves, but it... It takes time. Time and commitment.

Staying at the periphery. Whether that means standing at the outer edge of the group, sitting with his back against a wall, or remaining near an exit for a quick escape if something goes wrong. He does not like people hovering behind him or looking over his shoulder.

Odd maybe to some is his tendency to eat the rinds of citrus fruits for the chew and the bitterness of them. It is like fruit jerky to him.

[maxvisionfilms]

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