i. stars get it wrong, of course–they assume too much phosphorus and not enough fear of death, pulsar instead of pulse. They leave out uncertainty, not knowing what it was above the subatomic level; the softer shades of melancholy and the gentler warmths. But they get the shape right, the brighthot of blood. They get that right too.
ii. all their metaphors are for burning, and they ascribe to soft tongues a taste for sulfur, fingers at the ends of spiral arms. They drink liquid helium from a cracked Dewar flask and wonder aloud if humanity is looking up, looking back.
(how cold they must be, the stars’ carbon cousins–wet and cold, and can humanity do arithmetic in parallax, do you think, counting parsecs between two stars in inexorable collision?
it’s called a kiss, cygnus X-1 says quietly. they call it a kiss.)
iii. they say when you feel your child’s protoplanetary disc first differentiate, you will cry tears of methane.
iv. it’s called the Kindling, when the faint sheen of protostellar mass catches alight, and burns with all the brightness of adulthood. Protostars of thirteen stand around bathroom mirrors, examining their helium layer for bright spots, looking for stray molecular clouds in their nail beds. All of them are in love with the astrophysics teacher, whose stellar wind sends flickers of light across the meteor fields.
late at night (but what is night to a star?) they trace the spiral arms of their evolving galaxies, and dream dry dreams of neutron star collisions hotter than blue hypergiants.
v.we are made of starstuff, says a man, craning his thread-slender neck, looking up into the abyss of wind and fire of the universe.
oh, breathes a star, squinting down at the infinitesimal speck of rock, turning and turning in the vastness of space. oh.
(OTP: snippy genocidal space bitches + death star breakups)
EMPIRE: CREEP REMIX – alpines | PITY – noga erez | BEGGIN FOR THREAD – banks | EYES ON FIRE – blue foundation | FUCKED MY WAY UP TO THE TOP – lana del rey | FEYD RAUTHA DARK HEART – grimes | POWER & CONTROL – marina and the diamonds | SADIST – crystal castles | CHASING YOUR SHADOWS ALL AROUND THE WORLD – zeigeist | PUPPETS – depeche mode | LOADED GUN – lightning dust | DELIRIOUS – susanne sundfør | CRUEL WORLD – phantogram | STRAIGHT FOR THE KNIFE – sia | SOFT POWER – ladytron
I draw my first Star vs. fanart and what do I do? Cross it over with homestuck bc of COURSE I would, DUUUHH
I chose Marco as a Page of Breath (untapped potential who needs more confidence in himself) while Star is a Rogue of Light (robin hood-like thief/rebel who needs to understand the consequences of her everyday choices).
just read your list on thoughts on Rogue One & when i saw "it is also about this collective effort...—it’s everyone, from the first to the last, the relaying of hope from hand to hand. Willing to die, so the light goes on." I IMMEDIATELY thought of the poem In Flanders Fields "Take up our quarrel with the foe / To you from failing hands we throw / The torch; be yours to hold it high / If ye break faith with us who die / We shall not sleep, though poppies growIn Flanders fields"
anon, I wanted you to know that I have kept this ask for literal months so that I could make a graphic with “take up our quarrel with the foe/to you from failing hands we throw” for the handoff scene with the unnamed soldiers and darth vader
but apparently THIS DVD IS NEVER COMING OUT
so instead I turn it over to the internet, in the hopes that someone will make the awful heartrending graphic I’ve been dreaming about
i have loved the stars too fondly (jyn/cassian, rogue one)
Summary: During the award ceremony and celebrations after all their hard work comes to fruition and the Death Star is destroyed, Jyn is confronted by her partner, Cassian, over a few frivolous things that have managed to unsettle her nonetheless. (In which everyone survived to see the end of “A New Hope”, Jyn is forced out of her comfort zone, and Cassian perhaps isn’t as smooth as he thinks he is.) Who said peacetime would be easy and comfortable?
“though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect life; i have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night” – sarah williams, “twelve hours: a legacy of verse”
Jyn pulled at the neck of her dress. The thin band around her neck wasn’t tight, but she was unaccustomed to the feel of such soft clothing. The material of the dress itself was light and thankfully didn’t cling to her small frame, the lavender dress drifting down to her ankles, touching her so that it only suggested the hint of any curves that she might have. It covered her back and chest, leaving no unseemly view of her cleavage, and the slits at the bottom were modest, going only up to her knees.
It was a beautiful dress - even she could grudgingly admit that - but it wasn’t her. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d worn a dress and she didn’t think that she had ever worn anything remotely close to this lovely. There had never been an occasion and it would’ve only hindered her besides. Dirt, oil, blood, and sweat had become as much a part of her clothing as pants and shirts. Now she was so clean that she felt like a layer of her own persona had been scrubbed away.
She may have been a part of a particularly dirty group of Rebels, but even she couldn’t look like a dirty scoundrel during the celebration of the Death Star’s destruction.
can you please write a rebelcaptain fic or even just a drabble where cassian and jyn start bedsharing because of scarif nightmares? where it starts off platonic and then turns romantic? with spacespanish? and they won't admit that they need each other until they go on separate missions and can't sleep by themselves?
Can I, anon??? Hells yes I can. (Should I, given that I have other things I’m working on/am supposed to do? Debatable. But oh well, I already did it.) Featuring just about everything on this lovely list except space spanish, because as fantastic as space spanish is, my lack of ability to actually speak spanish always gets in my way.
The dream is the same every time: cool sand and scalding air and the
sun—no, not the sun, it’s too big to be the sun—fiery and blinding on
the horizon. Cassian’s face is close to hers, his arms around her, the
frantic thump of his heartbeat the only sound she can hear.
He clutches her close and whispers something in her ear she cannot
understand, and Jyn stares at edge of the water until she’s swallowed up
in the overpowering light.
Each time, she wrenches awake, tense and gasping. Each time, she closes her eyes and repeats her silent reminder: it never happened. You made it off Scarif. You are alive. You are both alive.
But the memory of it is so real—visceral, as if she’s reliving a life
lived in some other universe—that after each dream, she struggles to
convince herself of her own reality.
It’s easier when Cassian is lying in bed next to her.