empire of ashes

  • me: i have nothing to read
  • me: *has 20 unread books on bookshelf*

Just finished A Torch Against The Night so have some Laia, Elias and Helene 

( I’m not really sure about Helene’s mask but in my head I imagine it like that, like some sort of a steely glossy face mask )

Laia, Elias and Helene belong to Sabaa Tahir, author of An Ember In The Ashes & A Torch Against The Night


“Crazy Crazy 4 U” - Rumer Willis as Tory Ash on Empire

Reblog if you listen any of this bands:

Pierce The Veil

Sleeping With Sirens

All Time Low

Linkin Park

Escape The Fate

State Champs

Neck Deep

Papa Roach

Green Day

Good Charlote

Blink 182

Fall Out Boy

Black Veil Brides

Crown The Empire

Asking Alexandria

Within Temptation

Of Mice & Men



Bring Me The Horizon

Get Scared

A Day To Remember

New Years Day


From Ashes To New

Hollywood Undead

Memphis May Fire

My Chemical Romance


Rise Against

Neck Deep

anonymous asked:

any fic recs with slave ren or slave hux?? :)

  • Concubine by @eralkfang, 5K words, E, No archive warnings apply.
    Hux casually reaches up to free Kylo from the collar, but Kylo catches his wrist. His long, thick-knuckled fingers easily overlap around Hux’s wrist, even over his glove and the crimson cuff of his tunic.  Kylo’s dark eyes search Hux’s as his face flushes.They have been through a great deal together. The ruin of the Resistance, the defiance of Snoke, the rise of an Empire. It’s changed them, both on their own and in the ways that they come together. But even after all of that, Kylo still has trouble asking for what he needs.
  • Lords of Wild Space by @courgette96, 50K words, series, E, Graphic depictions of violence.
    The Empire never rose from its ashes. The remaining officers divided themselves into hundreds of factions, each breeding warlords scrambling for power and land within the Outer Rim.That is, until one man put an end to it by conquering all.Fifteen years after her son’s disappearance, Leia Organa meets with Supreme Warlord Hux on a diplomatic venture. What she finds there brings her no peace.
  • Invisible Chains by @thecopperriver, 13K+ words, WIP, E, Creator chose not to warn.
    While he expects to see the same look of almost parental disappointment Snoke has worn since his return to the Citadel, Kylo is shocked when he dares to look at his Master’s face.  The elder Force user is wearing a faint smile, the kind that sends chills up Kylo’s spine every time.  It always means something very good, or very bad.  Sometimes both.
  • Broken Shackles by @ellstra, 35K+ words, WIP, M, No archive warnings.
    In an attempt to compromise Kylo Ren to steal power from him, his subordinates buy him a slave trained in the best pleasure houses there are in the Galaxy. Kylo is smitten with the ginger but refuses to play their game. And is the man even an actual slave with his insolence and disrespect? He’s way too cunning to be just a sex toy and Kylo realises this might be the last piece he lacked in the puzzle that was seizing the Galaxy.
  • A Gift for the Emperor by @firstorder-pixie, 11K words, E, Graphic depictions of violence.
    What if the Empire was never defeated? Since the death of Emperor Palpatine a generation later, a new Emperor has taken his place, having risen through the ranks of the Empire by methods both devious and cutthroat. His name is Hux. When the Rebellion attempts to rise again, Emperor Hux is quick to crush them once more under his heel. The surviving civilians offer up a tribute to their Emperor as a means to gain his favor: The son of the once proud Rebellion leader, Leia Organa, to atone for their transgressions.
  • And Other Poisoned Devils by @agoodflyting, 5K words, M, Rape/Non-Con, Underage.
    Ben Solo disappeared when he was fifteen years old. The New Republic dismissed Leia Organa’s claims that her son was being held as a sex slave by the First Order. Over a decade later, during the attack on Starkiller Base, the Resistance discovers a man being kept as a pet in General Hux’s quarters.


The story begins with the Dragon Charmer. A young, blooming soul, daringly taking the first steps on the rough path. The words escaping Aries’ mouth are almost never soothing to the ear, but nevertheless true. They say, the truth always hurts. But Aries knows sometimes it’s exactly the only thing that can help.
The determined Dragon Charmer enters the beast’s cave. Its walls are burning and vibrating with unspoken curses. The air is hot, suffocating. They step nearer, without a single spasm of reluctance. A solitaire tear of freedom slides down their face, though. It’s simply unbelievable! They’ve finally reached it. They’re going to do it. Right now, right there. Aries draws out their silver blade, stained with years of war, years of white and black fury, right behind the gigantic beast. Aries knows it hears them. It might devour Aries’ whole life out of their body. It could turn cities, empires into ashes with a mere breath. And the beast knows what they’re about to do. It has lived a long, dull life. Taking the life of others doesn’t make yours any better. It just leaves all their lingering problems on your shoulders. Lifetimes of loneliness and hope, all carried by an equally lonely beast. Neither of them is afraid, though. Neither wants to give up on the aching tales that, sooner or later, will be spilled all over the unknowing world. No one never wins. But where would be the fun if they did?


In another corner of the world, in a village you might call boring, you, perhaps, might even have trouble finding on the map, there’s a nice and very charming house marking the last portal to another realm. The ‘Doorgiver’, as they jockingly like to call themselves, lives a quiet life. They wake up early. They dress up, eat some butter bread and drink a glass of honey tea, while in their hands the morning newspaper reads old stories. “The mayor’s changing offices again,” Taurus mumbles their breath, not really surprised. After they’re done eating, Taurus walks down the rose alleys into the village, and does their groceries as any other inhabitant of the place. On every monday and thursday. Never later than midday.Tuesdays, Taurus gives some meditation lessons to the local yoga club. Sometimes, they’ll all go together to the cinema in the evening. On every wednesday and friday, they take long walks into the forests surrounding the village. There’s an odd door carved into a tree, not far away from the main path. But it’s not their door, and they hardly mind it. Once they knocked curiously on its dark motive, but no reply came back anyway. On saturday, Taurus invites some neighbors over, and have tee or lemonade. Sunday mornings they wake once with the sun. The village is always quiet on sundays. Taurus has, as usual, a nice breakfast, puts on clothes and walks up to the front door. “Yes?” They ask. The strange-dressed man before them gives Taurus a mischievous look, but says nothing. “So you remembered the right door to knock at.”


It’s the show night. The clowns put on they’re funny little hats and funny big shoes, the beautiful dancers pamper their bodies with glowing moon-powder, the tiger keeper whistles calmly to his beloved friend. “5 more minutes!” The voice calls. Everyone must be ready. Everyone must enjoy the spectacle. Only old, bitter fools would want to spoil it. Old, bitter fools like the Trickster. Rejected by the clowns, dismissed by the magician, Gemini never found their place between earth and air. “Belle, it’s time for your dancers.” Gemini observes how a suite of jeweled dancers walks prettily onto the stage. Music, sparkles and hearts. Not much later, after the dancing act ends, the circus workers take their place. But only to begin installing great metal walls around the spectacle arena. And, after that, all kind of feral animals take the spotlight. Some bite, some spit. Some kill the tamer. The public couldn’t care less. The show must go on. Even the magician and the clowns are done as the Trickster makes their way onto the stage. They’ve no distinct job in this place. No real jokes, or talents. Gemini’s dressed in a long, plucked coat, with mismatched shoes and a topper they stole from the magician’s car. Their presence is noticed. They’ve got a quirky way of putting their mind into words, an unexpected sense of irony and definitely a great many secrets. The public cheers. They love them. Some, in awe, raise up and applaud with excitement. Everyone wonders how they could forget the Trickster; their favorite part of the show. Meanwhile, back in their small cabinet, Gemini closes their very own pandora box.


Once upon a time, there was a crown. And this crown, like no other of its kind, was a gift of the water gods themselves. For its jewels are real ocean drops, its gold always shining an unusual blue. It’s something hundred of monarchs started wars for. Something that flooded cities and destroyed civilizations. Something that felt into wrong hands, was misused, and eventually returned to its rightful owner. Now, a childlike (though old enough to have lived the creation of this world) Heir’s head is where the wet dome rests most of its unending days. The Heir is small and pretty. They like to soothe the crown’s pointy ends, polish every water droplet and sing. But underneath all of that porcelain skin, there’s resistant silver. Layers of tears, of sorrow and fear too. Cancer plays with the beautiful roses in the gardens, gets enchanted by their sweet perfume, and hides hurting after they’re remembered by a bleeding finger of how cruel these games can be. At midnight, they walk outside again. Only that this time they’ve got absolutely nothing to fear. It’s the time when their crown shines the brightest. When lullabies, and wishes, and souls fly up to the mooned sky and cry happily.
Cancer misses touches of the dark, but midnight moments seem forever enough.


Unless the high pyramids would flip over and open a passage to an undiscovered land, the gold of deep rivers be forgotten, or the day the sun won’t rise up again, there isn’t much for mere mortals to care about. Of course, there is death. And loss. Also, they passionately hate peace. But enough about mere mortals. There have been times and situations where the only thing of real relevance was whether the Gods liked or liked you not. The only thing that could save or kill you. Lost in the desert, under murderous rays of ultraviolets, alone. Alone with the Gods. The world has known their wrath, their fury and misery. It fell and disappeared with it at once. But, it also bloomed and shone with their mercy, and care, and love. For each whispered prayer, each obedient sacrifice, each offered soul reborns and makes the bond with the Gods stronger. From their light throne of paradise gold, Leo nods at the sight of gratitude and fear coming from their silly followers. Even a bird would know better than fly too far and enrage them. Even a shadow would know to hide under its motive than defy them. Because they’re greatness embodied into human face. Into human alikeness and voice. But do they love them? Do they really feel like a human? They’re a pitiful, weak race. Nothing in comparison to Leo’s grace. Above heavens, loneliness is hard to bear. But sky wine with bubbles of pure pearls helps the soul forget.


Spookish, indefinite figures marsh down the wooden walls of the inner forest. They clash into thick, dark doors of a thin, tall house. A house that itself looks like a giant bookshelf. A house with a few dozens of stories. With an undefined amount of stories, of all kinds and uses. With long, curtained windows all over, big doors and plants fading into the forest’s decor at the top. If one didn’t look specifically for it, they wouldn’t even notice its presence. It’s like some undiscovered door hides it all behind a veil of secrecy. Like the only way to gain access is by some sort of extradimensional portal. The Timeless Scholar has been many times unpleasantly struck with the realization that, someone, somehow, could get inside and take on them vulnerable and unprepared. Or, worse, derange their sweet bookish solitude. Honestly, Virgo would rather have their throat sliced than someone laying one finger on their works. So much knowledge, in peril of some unknown, rather stupid and curious fool. Never! The Timeless Scholar decides to shut the door down. They aren’t sure how they did it, but it works. Keep the fools away! Virgo murmurs to themselves. Sometimes, they still hear knocks from the other side. But they never pay any attention. After all, the only thing to be trusted is what lays on the forest’s side.


In the light of morning, a Flower Cutter fights the urge to cry truth. Next to them, rows of smiles and glittering shoes captivate the transparency of day. They dance into circles. They sing to the lovely, perfumed plants. The Flower Cutter watches them right from the heart of the event. They see, they hear everything. Libra answers always. With the same natural easiness, same unnerving spirit. But shouldn’t be there some pain, some disgusting feeling at all? Some depth? Libra laughs at the thought of it, because, why, yes of course it is. It’s a full world of it. At the bottom of their heart, grasping new roots every time they breathe in. Making itself at home through the thorns and petals of lilies, swallowing all the numbness and hate out. Libra feels a stranger and a dear old sibling of life at once. Coming from the heavens, there’s rain. Rain and colours. Everywhere, colour models the world how it pleases. It gives it hope. It feeds it hate. A little of everything. It’s funny. How some think that suffering and loneliness does only bad. It’s a shame they still choose truth, Libra thinks, and the flower’s head meekly hits the ground.


Spices, feathers, spiders, black gems, dead names. The cauldron sparkles joyfully under the stir of a silver-headed spoon. Hoarded behind the window’s curtains, the candles squeak oddly. There’s wax everywhere on the floor underneath. The silky, old things catch fire, and a hellish warmth bursts into the room. Though, the squeaking! It annoys the Witch terribly. Scorpio leaves their comfortable armchair at the chimney, and proceeds to blow the fire off. Around them, six cats meow more or less in distress, the seventh looking considerably bored from her high-placed lair. Scorpio curses the candles, and they shut up in fear. No more squeaking, at least! they think. The fire also calms slowly down. Beside one of Scorpio’s dark robes, discarded in one of the corners of the room, a familiar meows keenly. Yes, yes. It’s 7 in the evening, after all. The Witch fetches some bowls, and feels them up with food and milk. After they’re done, Scorpio returns to their comfortable place and closes the eyes tiredly. What a distasteful situation. Shall the fire come once more to their house, they’ll send it straight back to hell. Shall the obsessive thoughts set their mind ablaze again, the Witch will know how to have it instantly disappear into a shadow of nothing.


The Professor grins from behind their rose-tinted car window. They roll it down, saluting the watchman. “Sorry, Professor, but the observatory’s closed today. There’s a fire code announced.” “Fire code, you say? Oh, bad luck. Bad luck for me, indeed.” Sagittarius wheels anyway down the entering road. The watchman calls them to stop, but they don’t even listen to him. When they reach a spot far enough for the watchman to find them, the Professor leaves the truck behind and walks along the contaminated waterline. It’s glowing with deadly substances. Sagittarius’ eyes burn every time they stare at the fantastic, surreal colours. All neons, he feels like a traveler who finally found the path to heaven. Of course, heaven’s a very malleable word. Shall it be a dreamlike garden, with clouds for flowers and ambrosia for water? Or a room full of unopened passages. A room leading to a thousand places, a thousand such gardens. The truth is, the lethal waterline never ends. It’s a great guide, but a terrible destination. It’s thrilling, it’s almost entrancing. It captivates the thirsty mind, lures it to know, to desire adventure. Sagittarius kicks their shoes off, and jumps into the water. It surely won’t hurt as bad as the first time. Above them, the sky pulses in bright pinks and glistening oranges bursts.


A troupe of blood-red dressed soldiers march towards north. None of them dares look back, or, worse, doubt their cause. Gossips never erupt in the camps, and no one allies with no one. They’ve all got the same mission. World domination. They’ve all got the same means of winning. Leading hounds of hell everywhere it’s needed. They all follow the same leader. The Great Marshal. A fist of iron, a mind of composure, a soul of spiteful determination and inflexibility. Capricorn is definitely a human to be feared, to be obeyed no matter the situation. They have a suite of cruel weapons, and will gladly use them to punish you for your unruliness. They hate unruliness. They, and that curious sibling of theirs. But no one dares to say a word about the Great Marshal. Only this small information that slipped somehow out is a dangerous taboo.
Nights and days, on boats or tanks, they travel the world. They live on subdue, glory, supremacy. Capricorn kills what must be killed, spare what shall be of use later. No one, ever, disagrees with their decisions. All of their faithful soldiers would follow them to the bloody hell, and back. Of course, countless armies tried to pin them down. To make them retreat, to take away all what their beloved leader gained after so many hard won, fair battles. But the blood-red soldiers know better than let themselves be fooled by such irrelevant, crazy concepts. For their ruler is undying. They’re something this world will hold for greatness a long time after they, the soldiers, will perish away, and new ones will replace them.


There are few things that the Alien Minister (officially admits) they don’t know: firstly, Earth’s days have come to an end. It won’t last long until its shallow crust will fulminate into fire blades, cutting and throwing pieces of soil everywhere in the Universe. It will be forgotten as quickly as it has been created. But the question remains: whose going to save it from its awful sorrow? Well, of course Aquarius cares. Not the affectionate, dependent kind of caring. But from afar, regretting all the great communities and societies they assisted, they influenced from their very first tender beginnings. Not weeping, but pitying what could have been. The second thing Aquarius doesn’t know, it’s how they’ll manage to rebuild everything. The voices, the freedom, the ingenuity of the new ages. They’ll be alone for a while; that’s obvious. They don’t even mind it that much. But it’s much more entertaining to create alongside others. Much, much more provocative for the mind and the inspiration process. Yet, what could they do? The world’s finally ending. The people wanted it gone, and gone shall they have it. There’s more to being a humanitarian than compassion. Besides, they’ve never set foot in that place anyway. Nothing would really change for Aquarius. Pressing the END button, the Alien Minister leaves behind their spaceship only a pulverized tray of existence.


Pisces stands at the seashore. They look at a point far away in the distance, indefinite and shabby. “Must be my last hope,” they murmur, as the shapeless spot flutters nearer and nearer. The sunset is also just around the corner. Soon, the world will be swallowed by old darkness. How long will it take until they’ll see light again? How much pain will they have to suffer until everything will be fine again? Pisces doesn’t know. The spot finally reaches the place where they’re sitting, and it turns out to be a small bird. It’s feathers are turquoise, with drops of lila pearls at the ends. Its eyes are sun-gold. Its song sweet, sad. “We’re the only ones, little bird.” Pisces begins weeping, knuckling the tears away with incredible misery and grief. What shall they do? All they ever wanted was a place to feel free. To feel safe. To feel young and old and strong and meek and alive. But the world’s almost gone. They’re no dragon slayer. No wise archivist. No god, nor do they have armies to rule behind their shoulders. They have just one, last protection against whatever will happen. Hope. Nestled at their chest, the beautiful, small bird chirps soothingly. “There, there,” Pisces whispers, patting her on the head. Maybe they’ll come back. Maybe they’ll hear the Ocean Child’s cries, and come to rescue them.

thebisexualmandalorian  asked:

I don't know why, but my brain just said "Jessix, wing!fic," if you wanted to do something with that?

Yaaaay, Wingfic ! 

In the end, the details of whatever the Kaminoans did to them disappeared with their makers once the Empire rose from the ashes of the Republic. The genetic modifications, the accelerated aging, the tweaking of behavior and hormones…

All the notes, gone.
The clones did not quite care, most being traumatized by what they did to their Jedi, some still mindwiped into serving under uncaring Admirals, all firmly believing that enemies, bad coping mechanisms or their own blasters would take care of that well before any consequences hit them.

They were wrong.

Jesse isn’t sure when it started. The first to manifest probably hid it, in fear of what would be done. But one year after 66, the remaining clone troopers in the Imperial Army deserted almost as a whole when one of them was captured, killed and studied for the wings that had grown on his back.

They all grew some. Mostly two, but not always, vode ended up with four, a rare few with six. The last Jesse saw of Cody, the former Marshall Commander had taken flight, four pairs of wings in white and gold absolutely stunning on his back.
Because of course, they could fly with them. They could fly fast, go around a single planet in a matter of hours.
Better, once curious brothers tried it, they could fly… into space.

The more practical of them were still trying to make sense of that, of how physical appendages could propulse them in the void, faster even than when they were in an atmosphere. Fast enough to travel between planets without too much of a delay (mostly in same systems. Jesse knew some that had tried trips that normally took hyperspace and lightspeed to complete, but had not yet heard back from them).

It made them targets, for everything and everyone, ranging from the Empire to crazy scientists, with a few slave rings and circus shows thrown in. But it made them targets very hard to catch, between their new ability to just… fly away and their training to fall back to if they ended up trapped. Jesse knew of only a few instances of successful captures, and each and everyone of those vode had been rescued promptly.

They were freer than they had ever been. Some choose to join the Rebellion, some went to live their life, a lot went to join Mandalore when they were offered a clan of their own.
Jesse left to travel.
He had someone to find.


Kix came back very slowly to himself, feeling the telltale signs of a long stay in cryo. Disorientation, heavy limbs, mild nausea, slight hypothermia, partial blindness…
He vaguely remembered what happened, memories of Sep questioning him, of a very important thing he had to tell General Skywalker…

“…eathe, Kix, slowly, it’s okay, can you hear me ?”

Kix relaxed minutely. Whatever had happened after he was thrown into that pod and shipped off, he had been found, rescued. That was Jesse’s voice.

“T’loud,” he rasped. “Hear you.”

A low chuckle, almost sounding like a sob, answered him and a forehead pressed against his. “Hello, cyare. Stars, I missed you.”
Kix frowned. “…long ?”
“You can say that,” Jesse answered. “Nine years. You were a hard man to find, riduur.”

Kix stilled then fought against the dizziness and the blindness, kicking their higher metabolism into action to go through it faster, he needed to see…

“…that a joke, Jesse?” he growled, touching his husband’s face, once it was clear-ish. “You haven’t aged.”

Nine years would have meant a Jesse looking like a forty years old man, at least, if the double aging did not degrade their cell-life even further.
Jesse still looked barely over twenty-two.

“Is that the only thing shocking to you ?” grinned Jesse, small wrinkle at the corner of his eyes, something Kix focused on for a few seconds before looking for anything out of the ordinary.

Yes, maybe the four, massive, white wings streaked with 501st blue and tipped in black should have been his first clue that something had changed with Jesse.

“Finally got the looks to match the wit, bird-brain ?” Kix finally teased, because how did you sanely react to a winged version of your husband ? You didn’t, that’s how.

Jesse burst out laughing before cradling him close for a kiss, large wings wrapping around them both.

Taking silly prompts !

I will leave you for a different animal, I say. I loved you for your glass horse, for a morning as bright as a murder, our bed draped in crêpe de chine the colour of hummingbird hyssop, the waxburned hyaline of your Achilles heel, a mirror-masked Pegasus, the thunderclapped rumor of a brittle figurine.

We cradle the marriage. Bury its baby teeth under the purpura of delphinium minarets. We milk the poison. Arms anchored to thistle-limbed kitchen gardens, mouths as anemic as the wet, sleeping tongues of white thornapple buds. We make windchimes from viper fangs. Sculpt knuckles to cenotaphs. Raise Cain from each whiskey-throated hosanna. First idolatry, then betrayal. Between the trees, a pantheon of shadows. Breath brief as a bonfire. First, the tinder’s nervespeed, then the effigy of a holocaust.

We pause the flame. Spit the soot. Whale-bellied floodgates. Blood on the bathmat.  A wrinkle of rust. A body held by bandages. A body burning into a blackhole. Then you say no - no to the mercenary medicine, the balsam of poultice. No to the bargain-basement placebo, the capsuled obloquy.

You say no to the curse of cures.

Then, the coral dusk of Debussy’s danse sacrée. Cathedral bells of cala lilies. Knees cutting wormholes in Himalayan salt bricks. Towers of smoke above the corpse of a charcoal briquette. Meat fuzzed from ribs. So soft as to corrupt. So clean as to salve. You ask – what do you fear most? I mishear fear as fire. I spell what as who. I say you. You say nothing. Years have taught me how to bed a ghost dressed as a god.

Afterwards, each with a fist the size of a small, dead crow. Each with an empire of ash. Each with a chest full of explosions, a mouth full of echoes.

—  Scherezade Siobhan, Excerpt from “Father, Husband”