- Spain is much more paranoid about Philippines, but not really in like a scared way. He tends to keep an eye on him and make sure he doesn't go anywhere. If they're walking together, he'll always look back to make sure Philippines doesn't run off. Spain doesn't even realize he does this. (Philippines has yet to notice this.)
- Spain attempted to convince Philippines to do beso-beso on him. Philippines reacted with confusion and backed away.
° Note: Beso-Beso in Spain usually involves actual cheek kissing, it can be from close friends instead of just family members. Philippines understanding of beso-beso involves touching the right cheek against the other person's right cheek first, followed by the left- which when done by a man to a man.. is rare and only ever done by close relatives.. so he misunderstood.
- Spain liked Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo as president because she did many things that helped 'him' (Spain likes to pretend it's just him and Philippines and definitely not their respective governments) get closer to Philippines.
° Reference: Educational & Cultural Programs, Invention of Philippine-Spanish Friendship Day, State Visit to Spain, Spain's recognition as an essential european partner.
- Philippines started liking photography (quickly turned into selfies during the 21st century) when Spain showed him the first camera that could take seconds instead of minutes to take a photo (1888, Original Kodak). He used it to take pictures of things he found cute and sometimes people if he was lucky. Spain, meanwhile, used his spare camera to take pictures of Philippines whenever he wasn't looking and if he was caught, he would pretend he was just about to ask him to pose for the camera.
- Spain started to somewhat dread America's presence during 1901-1935 because whenever Spain came to Maynila (and that was for business reasons with 'Philippines' - 90% of the time it was just really America there because apparently he was the higher authority between the two of them.
° (Reference for this: While Filipinos were gradually allowed to elect local leaders and participate in a legislative assembly, ultimate executive authority, including the appointment of the Governor-General, remained in American hands.)
- Philippines or Spain can be found yawning during meetings because they frequently lose sleep talking to each other. Spain, especially because he's not that used to staying up late (and when he does because of Philippines, it's because for each message he sends, Philippines takes 30 minutes to answer.)
Don't know how to explain this headcanon.. But anyways, each time there's a new boss, both Spain and Philippines the new boss quickly to the other, accidentally or on purpose. Philippines gets a new president? Philippines is there, telling him about the countries that are the closest economic partners but somehow Spain gets mentioned in there instead of the actual largest economic partners in Europe. (AKA Germany & Netherlands) Spain has a new King/Queen/Prime Minister? A few minutes after talking, Philippines gets introduced to them because Spain talked about Philippines for ten minutes straight (he could keep going on for hours, but he knows bosses aren't fond of that)
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homily — you’ve been the most devoted servant of the anemo archon since the end of the war, not noticing the heated looks by two gods that have followed you for millennia. in your moment of loss at the sudden slumber of barbatos after the battle with durin, they don’t hesitate to take the opportunity to convert you to their religion.
communion — comment or send an ask to be added to the taglist!
fem afab reader, dubcon, power imbalance, sub reader, praise, subtle manipulation, fingering, oral f-receiving, dom ei and zhongli, implied venti x reader
5 sundays of kinktober
Lingering stares, stolen glances, and every excuse taken to see even a single glimpse of you.
If Morax and Beelzebub’s affections for the Anemo Archon’s priestess could be summed up into a few measly words, it would be that. Were Barbatos a more sharing god, perhaps he wouldn’t have left his two good acquaintances to pine hopelessly for his most devout follower for the better part of two thousand or so years.
He is not someone who lacks empathy, nor someone who could even be called possessive, but there is something so delightful about the idea of depraving two gods of your attention, that which only he is permitted to have.
Alas, such greed and mischief will be his undoing.
“Sleep well, My Lord. I shall await your awakening however many centuries it may take.”
(Barbatos wakes up five hundred years later to his friend corrupted by the Abyss and the knowledge that his once-devoted priestess is now the wife of two Archons. He hears the tale of how two nations nearly went to war for your hand, but the only thing on his mind is how it would have been three had he been there.)
( crow choir. prologue ) ── fame is a fickle food. (m.s/next)
author's note at the end, pls read! (l/n) is not the direct insert.
even when she knows she’s got money stashed away, notes she’ll never use to replace the stale, gray oats she’s ploughing through with a flimsy plastic spoon, money she’ll use instead for a bottle of cheap ecstasy later instead, (l/n) doesn’t think she’s a bad sister.
even as she forces the spoon through the little mouth of her dear little (name), holding their head to keep them from babbling and gagging at the meal, (l/n) is not a bad sister.
scummy business doesn’t pay much in gotham. where pretty powder packets and cloudy liquid injections make thousands on the streets of a better city, it’s too average a dealing here. “home-made” a customer joked once, “gotham’s specialty.” (l/n) gave him a wry smile, in acknowledgment, not humor.
irritated, is an easy way to put it. (l/n) is frustrated. she used to dream of being a singer, a big, famous singer, with the voice of a nightingale piercing through the monotonous black and whites of the city with the deep blue of her solemn voice.
she had her story all planned out. young (l/n) knew only her mother and her rented apartment, forced to share commodities with a bastard child from her mother’s many affairs. but ah, she was so welcoming and kind-hearted! a true teresa, treating the kid like an angel sent just to her, performing her little do-re-mis to a giggling toddler, who pulled at her hair and pawed at her face in affection.
the vocals classes her mother weaseled her into, would have the teachers notice her wonderful voice, urging her and encouraging her to perform professionally. she’d make her way into a big gala, people would applaud, and she'd be as wealthy as the other filthy rich socialites in gotham. eventually, she’d help her mom, and her baby sibling leave the mean tenant’s apartment, and they’d eat soft bread and smooth butter, nothing like the grainy spreads on hard loafs they ate now.
but a city covered in gargoyle statuettes has no place for the dreams of a little grosbeak.
their mother didn’t come home one day. and she didn’t come home the next day either. when (l/n) opened the door on the third day in tears, hoping hysterically it was mummy dearest, she had to break down again at the sight of a stone-faced policeman.
she’s allowed to feel resentful, isn’t she? dreams punctured before they even had the chance to take flight, burdened with the duty of caring for a ditzy little kid at just eighteen.
none of her old teachers, none of the old shrinking men who regularly asked her to sing at their clubs, parties, helped. not even the slightest comfort came to the miserable, mourning girl. nobody wanted to have the stain of commissioning a helpless girl, what were they, taking advantage of a poor child’s misfortune?
in desperation, in poverty, she quit her part job as a cashier, having no time for it and turned to a less pleasant way of work. scouring through the dirty, shit-smelling allies of gotham to sell lame drugs and smoke to worse-off people.
and this… ungrateful brat won’t even eat the little food she works so hard to provide? she’s lived off her own products, hoping to dull the ache of hunger with weak alcohol, and this bitch refuses to eat?
she hates them enough to want to fling them out the window.
but… she loves them too dearly to ever try. and so, another one of gotham’s teenage misfortunes goes to bed with a heavy heart, after coaxing her little baby (name)’s big doe eyes to sleep.
the police station smells like disinfectant and sounds like tv static, but maybe it’s just your dazed head making up the buzzing.
the officers tried, as gently as they could, to get you to talk, explain what happened. but they mistook your silence as numb-tongue from the shock of her death, leaving you to be with yourself for a while, calm down.
your eyes are eerily fixated on the colourful cartoon playing on a small tv they're propped you up in front of, the characters' bright voices dissolving into the ringing in your ears. you watch them harp about kindness and togetherness distastefully, lamenting their shrill songs and wishing your big sister would sing to you instead.
you feel guilty. you took her voice away. your existence ruined the hopes she had for her future, her golden days were rusted by you. it should’ve been you instead. you, instead of her.
it’s unbecoming of a child your age to chew on their nails, your sister had scolded once, scowling. but she’s not here anymore, so you occupy yourself with peeling skin off your fingers, no thought to how much it'll ache later.
your clothes feel thin, and your body’s so hot with sickness you shiver. a lady officer had wrapped a big brown coat around you, but it lays discarded at your side. you deserve no comfort.
and you repeat this day. over and over and over in your head for the next four years, and more to come. you repeat the memory of the day your little apartment world became far too big for you to handle, the memory of your faults, the memory of your sister.
you are a sickly child. you are a sick child. you deserve no comfort.
suffocation is too harsh a word to use for the luxury you're so suddenly plunged into, but it is claustrophobic and horrifyingly unfamiliar. there are far too many people in the house, stalking the too-wide corridors, under too-tall ceilings, your nerves shake whenever you walk past them.
your head spins from all the lights and paintings, carved furniture and embroidered carpets. they've dropped a little mole into a vast jungle of glass chandeliers and decorative flowers, with no hand to hold their pathetic paws and guide them around and out.
your body stays tense, strung like a bow, even as the butler weaves you with the utmost care through what seems like infinite corridors, to a pretty little door with a shining handle. you furrow your brows, to rest the contempt you hold at the polished wood, resenting the gleam of it, that which resembled his set hair and his loathsome suit.
the loathsome suit you saw four... no, twelve years too late, and vow to see as sparingly as possible.
you'd take back the vile gray oats and 'tough love' of your sister over these new inexplicable pastries and cold businessmen any day.
you miss her. you deserve no comfort.
INTERACTIONS AND REBLOGS VV APPRECIATED !! i hope this is an adequate introduction the the series, and i will expand on this significantly. future updates are fueled by reader interactions, so if you do end up liking this, please do let me know your thoughts by commenting or re-blogging.
regarding the genre, style and tropes: reader insert is gender neutral. while noir is more of a style, more present in movies than prose, i do want to attempt at at least a similar sense in the form of a writing genre. as for the "yandere" tags, i'm unsure how else to put it. i'm aware there are more niche terms that would better describe the characterisations that'll be present, but they're neither popular nor easy (for me) to describe. that aside, the traits that'll (eventually) be displayed will showcase yan-tendencies, so i hope you don't feel like i'm trying to bait anyone with tags.
