black swan and constance cellmates lore in anniversary video:
So Black Swan used her memory powers to 'change' constance's prison food into looking good so she would eat... and used her body heat (uh uh) to warm her up at night... oh she hates Constance and then she's conveniently always there to take care of her just like at the end of 3.8
i like how she's the one who starts teasing so smugly and every time Constance switches it up on her and brings up how close they were she goes :(((((
I do not have even a single strand of self-control nor restraint. Therefore, I hereby present the latest of my silly creations: PETALS. Since the whole thing is called The Floral Note, then well, consider petals as, uh, fragments. Little, completely out of order, most might never even appear in the final drafts. Including basically anything my brain wanted to turn into readable words. Because why the fuck not!
Basically, this is happening because I have been thinking about Kafka arriving at a work party and standing, of course, completely alone in the corner she has chosen this time. And then I thought, why the fuck not. Black Swan arrives with her wife. LET US SEE WHERE THIS GOES. DEFINITELY NOWHERE PURE OR INNOCENT.
Constance is wearing red tonight.
Constance is wearing red tonight?
The sentence is wrong. Kafka concludes that immediately because red is not the colour that Constance wears. She wears mostly white. Black. Very often both of those combined. She does not, however, wear red. Except, as it apparently turns out, she is wearing it tonight.
Kafka is drinking wine and she is currently having a third glass.
That sentence is also wrong. Kafka has concluded that much earlier, approximately when she looked at the second glass and realised it is empty. At work parties, Kafka never drinks more than two glasses. Right now, she is on her third. And she looks at Constance and the dress is– Kafka looks at it and then looks away immediately because looking at it is producing a response that the third glass of wine is making incredibly difficult to manage. The dress is structured in ways that suggest that Constance selected it specifically to make looking away difficult. Which she did because she always does.
Black Swan is wearing dark blue. The kind that is subtle enough to exist beside Constance's red without competing because Black Swan is an incredibly considerate wife and she has realised that Constance cannot compete without becoming psychotically obsessed about winning.
They cross the room together with Constance in front, obviously. "Three," she announces as soon as they are close enough for Kafka to hear it. If Kafka's ears were capable of doing so, they would definitely perk up at once at that.
"Excuse me?" She asks without turning towards them.
"That is most definitely your third glass."
Constance points to Kafka's hand with her chin. Kafka knows that both Constance and Black Swan noticed it immediately because these two women have clearly been present in her life for too long now. Her grip on the glass is slightly less precise and her wrist is less rigid.
"You are on your third glass of wine, Kafka. I've never seen you past two," Constance adds because Constance is a meticulous woman. If there is any context to anything she says, she will add it.
Kafka chuckles darkly. "It's a long evening, ladies."
Constance gasps dramatically and extends her arm towards Black Swan's chest as she inhales through flared nostrils. A performance Kafka has always found absolutely unnecessary.
"Swan, darling. Did you hear it too?"
Black Swan adjusts herself and arranges her entire body around her wife. Kafka has seen that particular process too many times. Black Swan compliments her wife's presence the same way rain compliments the appearing rainbow. Like they were designed to coexist.
"I did indeed, my love."
"Ladies," Constance repeats after Kafka. "You called us ladies." She flutters her obscenely long lashes with mocking shock on her face. "Kafka, sweetheart, do we need to call an ambulance?"
Kafka chuckles once more. "That won't be necessary."
"Swan." Constance is not looking at her wife. "Something is wrong."
Black Swan looks at Kafka and her assessment takes approximately 1.4 seconds. Kafka can feel it. She can always feel it. She can feel every single little data point being collected and the conclusion arriving.
"Mm," Black Swan hums as she wraps her arm around Constance's waist. "Your jaw is not fully clenched. Forty percent, perhaps. I have never seen it below fifty in professional settings."
"My jaw is fine."
"Your jaw is always fine. That is not the same as being at its usual position," Black Swan explains courteously.
She takes a glass from a passing tray with her free hand and hands it to Constance without saying anything. The tray disappears before she can take one for herself. Which is absolutely not unusual because Kafka has observed during many different occasions that Black Swan thinks about her wife before she thinks about herself. Which is why she is currently patiently waiting for another tray to appear within grabbing distance as Constance begins sipping the liquid.
"You look tired, Kafka," Constance points out after swallowing.
"I am tired."
"You are always tired. You are never visibly tired."
Constance and Black Swan exchange a look. Kafka can see it and they are not even trying to hide anything. The look communicates: something has happened. She won't tell us. She never does. Shall we? No. Not yet. Later. When the wine has done its work.
Kafka is not paranoid enough to believe that they are actively coordinating. She is, however, experienced enough with these two to know that Constance and Black Swan in proximity to one another and to someone who they both care about is a combination that can produce catastrophic results. For Kafka, specifically.
It will. In approximately one hour.
The evening continues. Kafka finishes her glass slowly, very slowly, over approximately forty minutes, during which Constance circulates and returns and circulates again and each return produces a detailed report. She reports on the clusters of people like a field agent reporting on surveillance targets. Judge Harrington is wearing a tie that suggests a recent divorce. The head of Crown Prosecution is drinking much faster than usual, which suggests that the budget review went poorly. There is also, apparently, a junior barrister who keeps looking at Kafka from across the room and licking his lips, which Constance finds both disturbing and disgusting, and who should not look at anything at all because his face is the aesthetic equivalence of a piece of rotten cheese. And not the edible one.
Eventually, Constance becomes affected by the wine.
"Terrace," she announces. That is the start.
Kafka leans on the balustrade. She puts her forearms on the cold stone and she looks at the dark gardens and she breathes. Black Swan stands beside her, also leaning, though she looks significantly more composed than Kafka. Constance stands behind both of them.
"I must admit," she starts, "that watching a woman I have been intimate with on multiple occasions stand right beside a woman I am married to while both of them look absolutely devastating is possibly one of the most aesthetically pleasing things I have experienced this year.
–––––STATUS: CRITICAL SYSTEM ERROR
"Constance," Black Swan says it with two separate intonations compressed into one. A warning alongside amusement.
"What? I am being honest. You married me because I'm honest, love. Amongst other things," Constance winks at her wife as she approaches Kafka from behind and simply wraps her arms around her neck.
From behind. Both arms looped loosely over the shoulders and crossed at the wrists somewhere near Kafka's collarbone. Constance's chin arrives on Kafka's right shoulder. Her cheek presses against the side of the jaw which should have engaged immediately but does not because Kafka has had three glasses of quite strong wine.
Kafka straightens slightly but she does not pull away because Constance's arms are pleasantly warm and they are not something unknown. "What are we doing?"
"We are standing on a terrace," Constance says directly into her ear. "And I am holding you because you looked like you need someone to hold you. You looked like a kicked puppy when you were leaning against that dreadful wall. Seriously, who hired these architects?"
Kafka turns around. Or rather, the wine decides that for her. Three glasses are apparently enough to conduct a hostile takeover of whatever part of her brain usually prevents her from doing things that the sober version of her would classify as professionally unacceptable.
She turns herself around inside the loop of Constance's arms and her back hits the cold balustrade. And then her arm moves on its own. Literally. Kafka swears on every single aeon that exists in the entire cosmos and beyond: her arm is moving on its own. Her left arm, to be exact. It wraps itself around Constance's waist and pulls with the absolute graceless urgency of someone who has been holding surfaces for the last few months instead of one particular person she wants to hold. Constance is not that person. Neither is Black Swan. But this, Kafka concludes, has to be enough for now.
"Oh," Constance gasps with delight as Kafka tightens her grip. "Well. Hello there, darling."
"Hello," Kafka hears herself say it and she– she sounds nothing like a respectable barrister. She sounds like exactly who she is at this very moment: a woman at a party she does not want to be at, who has had too much wine and whose arm is around a waist and who is not thinking about anything except the warmth under her fingertips.
"Swan." Constance sounds genuinely surprised. "Swan, she is holding me. She pulled me. Voluntarily."
"I can see that, my love."
Constance adjusts her arms around Kafka. Around her neck. They tighten and settle into something Kafka's body remembers before her brain does. That very specific weight of Constance's arms around her neck. Her body remembers it, except from a completely different terrace– or it might actually be this one but a slightly different location, she is not quite sure anymore–
Constance turns her head away towards her wife.
Presumably to say something. That is not a nuance because that is simply what people do when the person they want to talk to is not right in front of them. They turn their heads. However, that also means that a significant amount of bare skin on Constance's neck gets exposed right in front of Kafka's face. She smells of dahlias. Of course. Of course she does. Kafka remembers the smell too. She inhales deeply without even trying to hide it. And then she simply leans forward.
Without really meaning to. Kafka barely knows what her body is doing anymore because the wine is definitely working and nothing is making this situation easier. She leans forward because her lips need to touch that skin. And they do. Aeons, they do. Constance stills for a moment when they do and Kafka presses them to the pulse point not gently at all and she parts her lips slightly and breathes hot against the skin.
"Oh. Mon dieu, Kafka. Someone is hungry."
"Mmm." Kafka murmurs against Constance's neck as she opens her mouth further and licks an uneven stripe across the tendon.
"Darling, are you–" Constance tries to ask her wife.
"I am watching, my love. I am always watching you."
✦⌕✦ THE FLORAL NOTE RESEARCH LOGS ✦⌕✦
⫷ARCHIVE ENTRY FROM H:\DATA\KNOWLEDGE\FORENSICS⫸
i've been researching a lot of stuff about forensics, especially bite marks and honest to god i was not expecting that this stuff would be so interesting. anyways!!! some snippets and research bits (๑>ᴗ<๑)
Goodbye kisses: Lingering and hard for longer times apart. Ones that curve A’s body against B’s and cause hands to splay against backs. Or short pecks, maybe not even completely on the mouth for short trips to the grocery store.
Hello kisses: After long periods apart, these can include A picking up B and spinning them around. Fingers pressing into cheeks, palms cupping necks, and breathless laughs when they finally come up for air.
Breathless kisses: A series of short pecks because they need the closeness but they also need air, so. Sometimes smiles come in between, or sometimes its just breath, gasping for the sole purpose of being able to kiss again.
Heated kisses: Breath huffing into mouths, angrily or passionately. Hands grabbing at clothing and pulling each other closer.
First kisses: Hesitant and nervous. Lips hover inches from each other for a few seconds before they just barely brush. It’s just a soft press, but it ignites their entire bodies. Pinkies link afterwards, still wanting to be close, and each looks down, smiling softly.
After sex kisses: Lazy, slow presses. Limbs pressed together, chests heaving. Soft murmurs about what to do for dinner later, fingers trailing down backs, tracing lazy patterns. B rolling onto their back and A trailing their lips down their neck, kissing their shoulder, their chest, anywhere they can think of, memorizing B.
Morning kisses: Barely awake kisses that usually end up on jaws or cheeks because A is too tired to land it properly. B makes a sleepy sound and rolls into A, nuzzling their face into their neck, ankles hooking together, while A drapes their arms around B and they fall back asleep for a while.
Post-break up kisses: Soft and slow. Hands on each other’s arms in a way that neither can tell if the other is pushing away or pulling closer. The kiss ends with their foreheads pressed together, neither wanting it to be true that this is happening.
Christmas kisses: More smile than actual kiss. A holds mistletoe above their heads while B rolls their eyes, but pulls A down by the collar of their ugly Christmas sweater for a heated kiss. A takes B by the waist and walks forward until they are around the corner, away from the prying eyes and hoots of the rest of their friends and family.
Comforting kisses: B walks into find A sitting on the bed, shoulders shaking, cheeks wet. A looks up, face looking stricken for a moment. B is shocked, and quietly says A’s name. At this, A breaks, face crumpling, and only barely has time to reach both hands out for B before B is there, kneeling at A’s feet. B takes A’s hands first, kissing their knuckles and palms. Then B reaches up to hold A’s face, pressing soft kisses around their cheeks, their lips, murmuring “it’s okay” and “you’re alright” and “I’m here” in between.
“I thought I lost you” kisses: The breath is knocked out of both of them with the force that they collide with. Hands grip the back of t-shirts and palms are pressed up and under shirts, holding them close, feeling the warmth of their skin. Palms are pressed to cheeks, thumbs swiping away tears until their mouths collide messily, the world seeming to disappear around them.
“We can’t do this” kisses: Fists clenched, hands shoved into pockets. Brows low or brought together, jaws clenched. A feeling like a magnetic pull between them. Their foreheads press together, their lips brush, just barely, until B pulls away with a shaking exhale, forehead dropping into A’s neck.
“Come to bed” kisses: A has their hands on B’s neck, murmuring the phrase softly. A’s hands slide down B’s arms to their hands, lacing their fingers together and slowly starting to pull B towards their bedroom. A continues to pepper B with kisses all the while, trailing them down their jaw and neck.
“You look beautiful” kisses: Just a soft press of lips to the temple, resting them there for a moment, then smiling down and telling them as much.
“I’ll be right back” kisses: A puts their hands on B’s shoulders from behind them, where they are sat on the couch. He leans down and around, while B turns his head a little, accepting the quick peck.
“I missed you” kisses: Long and relentless, holding their body close, arms wrapped completely around their waist. A burying their head in B’s neck and pressing kisses there too.
Angry kisses: Hard, gripping. Fists in clothes, shoving each other against walls. Fingers digging into hips. But the kisses always melt away from that. They turn into brushes of lips between shaking breaths, until they’re out of energy and are left just standing there, holding each other, fingers carding through hair.
Sad kisses: Almost not a kiss at all. Just holding onto each other tightly, A’s lips pressed to B’s temple, whispering soft words, desperately trying to provide whatever comfort they can.
In the dark kisses: The movie plays in the background, but A and B are hardly paying attention from the back row. They kiss soundlessly, long and soft, fingers locked. A’s arm is thrown behind B’s seat, wrist bent to curl their fingers into B’s hair.
Dying kisses: A holds B in their arms, panicked, crying. Murmurs of “no, no, no.” Salt on their lips from tears. Voice cracking. Holding on tightly to their shirt, their shoulder, their hand, roughly pulling them against their body, anything to try and keep them tethered to this earth. Kissing them as they die (“no. No, stay awake—“), Kissing them once more even with the life has left their body (No. God, come back. Please, come back. Please, look at me, I’m right here”).
i care so little about genshin ships but their mom son dynamic feeds my brain worms so good i wish hoyo cared about their relationship at least a little ahahaha…
pixelskylines
romaincrisis
origamiaround
dailybridgerton
