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serpentface · 3 days ago

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Miniature dog and khait effigies for a Wardi funeral. These are clay figurines that have been painted and decorated with great care by a skilled artist. Both include real hairs from the individual animals they have been modeled after. The dog is collared, showing that it is a loyal pet rather than a lowly feral scrounger. The khait is fully bridled and ready to carry the deceased in their journey.

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It is believed that the souls of the deceased, once freed of their bodies, undergo a month-long journey to reach rebirth in the lunar lands. This journey is full of perils. It begins in the realm of the earth where the soul is naked and vulnerable and traveling through complete darkness. Evil spirits dwell within this realm and may try to capture the soul or lead them astray, and the way is twisting and obscured in shadows. Even after escaping this darkness, the soul still must travel an arduous and winding path through the realm of the sky in order to reach their destination.

A khait and a dog are traditionally offered as funerary goods (in addition to food, water, wine, clothing, weapons, and other needs) to assist the soul in their travels- the khait will ease their passage in their long journey and carry them swiftly, and the dog will navigate through earthly darkness and dense cloud by scent, and protect the soul from harm.

Ideally, one of the deceased's own living khait and hunting/guard dogs will be killed at the funeral (typically the most beloved of their animals, as who would be better company than that?) so that they can have familiar and loyal helpers in their lonely journey. However, there are tremendous class barriers to ownership and disposability of a khait, and well-bred working dogs (while significantly more accessible) aren't ubiquitously available, and many people do not consider captured feral dogs to be a worthy replacement. As such, funerals with full animal offerings tend to be limited to higher status individuals.

Everyday people still need protection on their journeys, and animal effigies can be appropriate replacements for the real thing. These effigies are usually designed with great specificity to represent known individual animals that have already died (often including the animal's actual hair, as seen here). The soul of the represented animal will recognize the effigy as its body, and can be called into the icon so that it may accompany the deceased. These effigies (along with any other necessary grave goods) will be placed onto the pyre and burned along with the body so that the traveling soul will be sent off with everything they need.

Some folk traditions have semi-legendary local animal spirits who will be represented instead of a personally familiar animal. This often develops around a small community 'sharing' one historically extant animal for their funeral effigies as a matter of practicality, developing a sense of attachment to this animal as an aspect of shared identity, and adding layers of legend to the animal's story with the passage of time.

For example, a very popular legendary guide in the northeastern rural parts of Ephennos is Chisnops-Inreña (which very closely translates to 'Orange Son Of A Bitch'), a legendary livestock guardian dog. The animal was said to have been the biggest, meanest, ugliest motherfucker around, but was an unshakably loyal and fierce guardian, as noble as a dog (not the noblest of animals by any means) can possibly be. He is said to have fought off everything from jackals to lions to cattle thieves in his day, and died protecting his herdsman master from an infamous man-eating king hyena, only succumbing to his own wounds when the great beast lay dead. His spirit was later used as a guide in his master's funeral, and local legend states that the same spirit has been seen following herdsmen and their cattle ever since, as not even death could keep him from his duties. Such a dog would make an excellent guide and protector in the journey to the afterlife, and effigies of him are favored in the funerals of northeastern Ephenni pastoralists.

A lovingly crafted Orange Son Of A Bitch

#Partly a rehash of prev post BUT WITH PICS!!!!!!!#chisnops more literally means 'bitch-born'. The word 'bitch' doesn't have the same breadth of connotations as in english #and pretty directly means 'female dog' but calling someone 'chisnops' is functionally Very close to 'son of a bitch'#Inrenna is a color word for orange. Most of the western Wardi dialects pronounce double N syllables like ñ (in- /rey/ - nya)#while others will enunciate like 'in- /reyn/- nah'. Spelled it inreña here to indicate Ephenni dialect

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agentmarcuspike · 1 year ago

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let me fade away

dark!javier peña x f!reader

warnings: noncon (dead dove, do not eat), unprotected piv, oral (m), swallowing, drug use, public bathroom, degradation, bruising, crying, abuse of power, pain word count: ~ 1.8k a/n: this was written as a sort of... f'ed up therapy for myself, but you're still allowed to think it's hot. hopefully you do. a mix of hot and heart-wrenching ♡

The pad of your index finger rubs the rough texture of your tongue as you wet it before digging into the little plastic bag in your hand. White powder sticks to the moisture, and you put the finger back in your mouth, smearing the dust across the inside of your upper lip, where the tops of your teeth meet the gum. Your own reflection looks back at you from the plastic mirror of the club’s only bathroom. Eyes glazed over, dry and tired, you will yourself not to blink until you recognize yourself.

You repeat the action, leaving the finger in your mouth this time, sucking on it lasciviously. It takes you a second to realize someone is clawing at the lock from the outside, and before you can pull it together and put the bag back in your bra, the lock clicks and the door slams open.

The man in the doorway locks eyes with you immediately. Moving his gaze downwards, first to the finger you’re still sucking on, too shocked to move a muscle, and then to the bag of drugs in your other hand. When he looks back up to you, his mouth twitches into a wicked smile, mustache twitching with it.

He shoots a glance over his shoulder, and repositions himself to make sure he covers the doorway with his broad frame.

“Powdered sugar?” he jokes, no humor in his voice.

You finally open your mouth and wipe the saliva from the finger on your skirt.

Only nodding in response, he huffs, forcing his way inside the already cramped room, before closing the door behind him. The lock clicks shut. He takes half a step forward. There’s no room for you to escape, and your back hits the cold tile of the wall immediately.

You try to steady your breathing, heart racing due to the drugs or the man, you're not sure, maybe both. Through the stench of piss, you smell him. He smells strongly of cigarettes, with a hint of a heavy aftershave, and as he moves even closer, you can smell his leather jacket too.

“You’ve been a very bad girl, haven’t you,” he murmurs, tilting his head down from where he towers over you. Refusing to look him in the eyes, you focus your eyes on everything else. The top three buttons of his shirt undone. The broken zipper on his jacket. The way his belly protrudes slightly over his belt. The groin of his jeans where– Your breath hitches when you realize what you’re looking at. He’s hard.

In a panic your head shoots up as a gasp escapes you. You can’t avoid his gaze now. He’s grinning.

“Wanna help me out with that?” You shake your head profusely. “No?”

You want to look away, but his big hand cups your chin, forcing you to keep looking at him.

“Your pupils say otherwise. They’re big as fucking dinner plates.” A snicker as he carefully brushes a strand of hair away from your face. Then he leans down, his lips so close to your ear you can feel the dampness from his breath as he whispers: “I think you want it.”

His eyes don’t flicker as his huge hand envelops yours.

“You like it dirty, don’t you?” He guides your hand to palm him through his jeans. “I know, I saw you. Doing drugs in bathrooms, sucking on your fingers.” The feel of him twitching under your touch is almost arousing, in a humiliating way. His chest is so close you can feel his every breath, and he grinds himself into your palm, still holding you in place, his grip unrelenting.

“If you suck on something else for me, I might let your little misdemeanor slip.”

“You wanna be a good girl for me and do that?” You whisper a 'no', so weak it's barely audible. “No…?” he continues. “Knew you were a bad girl. And bad girls need discipline.”

He grabs your hips and spins you around, shoving you violently back into the wall. Holding your head in place, cheek pressed against the cold tiles, his other hand makes quick work of yanking your underwear off. You gasp as the material digs harshly into your skin before tearing with a sharp rip.

“Is all your underwear this cheap?” he mutters with an impatient grunt, throwing the fabric to the floor. Using his shoe to move it around, the thin material soaks up piss and water, before he kicks it out of the way. “Not good for your pussy,” he says as he grabs your hips, pinching and scratching as you try to wiggle out of his grip.

Your ass is bare, skirt bunched up around your waist. The coarse material of his jeans as he grinds against you leaves your skin red and raw, sore from scrapes and scratches made by his metal zipper.

For a second he lets go, long enough for you to gasp for air, only for his elbow to harshly dig in between your shoulder blades while he uses his free hand to open his belt buckle and free himself.

As you hear him spit into his hand and shove it in between the wall and your body, you close your eyes in shame. There’s no hiding the wetness that had gathered between your legs before he entered the room. Your skin is twice as sensitive as usual, but where a touch would usually soothe, even feel good, he makes it burn.

A groan escapes him as his fingers find you drenched. “Wow…” he sighs into your hair, chest flush to your back. “You make this too easy, querida.”

For a few seconds the only things you can hear are the thumping bass from the speakers in the club, your own heartbeat in your ears, and the obscene sound of your own slick being smeared around the man’s cock.

And then it’s all replaced by a ringing in your ears as he forces himself inside of you. It takes him two thrusts to be fully sheathed in your heat. He keeps shoving himself in and out, and you feel him all the way in your stomach, in your throat. His length forces tears out from behind your eyes, and you let them wet your dry lips as you gasp at each forward buck of his hips.

His pubic bone ruts painfully against your spine as he buries himself deeper, deeper, impossibly deeper. You’ve never felt this full. You know you shouldn’t like this. And you don’t, but you do, and your body betrays you as you let out something that sounds more like a moan than a whimper.

The noise has his hand on your throat in an instant, fingers clenching around your windpipe. He pulls your head towards him, the back of your head colliding painfully with his collar bone. “Careful, baby… Keep it down.” His voice is strained, and he leans his head on yours, sharp chin leaving secret bruises underneath your hair.

Your head is foggy with pain or with pleasure, you’re not sure anymore whether you want it to endure or end. Everything aches, your teeth, even your nails. You wish you had something to bite into, but you’re clenching your jaw so hard you’re not sure you could open your mouth if you wanted to.

Without more warning than a grunt, the man pulls out and flips you around to face him. You take in his disheveled hair and wild eyes. His lips are slightly parted as he looks at you for a second, before his hands grip your shoulders and he pushes you down on your knees. His fingers pry your jaws apart, and for a second you’re grateful.

“Look at me,” he demands. He caresses your lower lip with a calloused thumb. Peering up at him, a lump forms in your throat. His dark eyes are glazed over, and you’re not sure whether he’s looking at you or your gaping mouth.

Gripping the back of your head with one hand and his cock with the other, he pushes himself down your throat before you can protest. You gag around his length, spit and tears meeting on your chin. His fingers tangle in your hair, pulling, tearing until you’re sure he'll rip your scalp from your skull.

It’s just a few more seconds before he abruptly pulls your head back, leaving only the head of his cock in your mouth as he shoots ropes of hot cum down your throat in quick bursts. You feel him throb and twitch on your tongue while he groans above you. In a startlingly thoughtful gesture, he wipes away the tears from your cheeks with his thumb. He lifts the finger to his mouth and licks it, swallowing your tears as he closes your mouth and makes you swallow his spend.

His movements are slower now, more careful, but just as decisive. Hooking his hands around your biceps, he pulls you to your feet, and holds you steady while your shaking legs find the ground underneath you. Exhaustion crashes over you. Your head falls forwards, crashing into the man’s chest, and your body threatens to collapse.

“Look at me,” he repeats, sternly now, not forcefully. He pushes you away from him slightly so he can lift your chin up with a finger. His stare is sharp, eyes boring into you as if looking for something. “I’m calling you a cab.”

And with that, he lets go of you, and turns on his heel to open the door. The booming music from outside fills your ears as you watch his broad back disappear, and without as much as another glance towards you, the door closes behind him.

Alone again, reality washes over you. You turn to look in the mirror, and someone else is looking back at you. Their eyes are red and puffy, one cheek marked with indents from the lines between wall tiles. Hair a mess, make-up smudged. Your tongue is heavy in your mouth, and when you swallow harshly, the taste of his bitter spend is still strong in your dry mouth.

Your hands grip the porcelain sink, and you bend over, hurling. Clumps of white is mixed with the liquids filling the sink, and you gag over and over, until the only thing you can taste is acid.

A quick rap on the door startles you, and a bouncer enters without warning. Seeing your disheveled state and the sick threatening to spill from the sink, he grabs your arm, pulling you out with him.

“I think you’ve had enough for tonight,” he says as he shepherds you towards the exit, leaving you alone on the pavement outside.

You take a shaky breath of cold air. The night outside feels quiet, the sounds of city life distant and distorted. A taxi honks its horn at you, and a man yells from the driver's side, asking you if you’re the one he’s waiting for.

Flattening your skirt, you shake your head, and walk the other way.

a/n: header by me, divider by @cafekitsune

#javi pena fanfiction #tw noncon #javi pena x reader #javi pena x you #javi peña fanfiction #dark javier peña #dark fanfiction #javier peña x reader #javier pena smut #i have no idea whether people use ñ or just n when searching or if it matters #my writing

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