#x: if you wanna break these walls down you're gonna get bruised (lyra and khan.)

[paramounticebound]

 “🔥?”

Send “🔥?” and my muse will admit whether they find your muse attractive or not. || @starnamedlyra

Many days and many nights had him visiting the medbay, often on orders that he would have loved to simply ignore. A part of it had been nothing less than a power play, to taunt him, knowing well enough that he always fared better than the troopers. Every visit, each acknowledgement of Lyra, had left him with far more on the mind than in the flesh. For every smattering of blood left in the wake of a wound already healed by the time he'd appeared came a new impression. Not unlike a light touch that burned more than any fire, a gentleness that created a swell of anxiety he could never quite place.

For too many nights, and too many days.

And all that he had to say: "I do."

[paramounticebound]

@starnamedlyra

[paramounticebound]

Send me a symbol for five times… ||  ☁  five times my muse has thought about yours, and the one time they do something about it. || @starnamedlyra​ || accepting.

i.     The first time, when the night sky opens up and unleashes a torrential downpour that soaks him to the bone, Khan is entirely convinced that it’s a form of poetic irony. He’d caused her anguish, the light bruise that splayed across his cheek a testimony against his trespass. Deservedly so. Such only serves to let her haunt him in that aspect, the rare call of guilt and the like. The feeling is foreign to him: and for this, he plans to forget himself for the night. He plans to forget Lyra, as well.

ii.     The second time is when he remembers to eat. It’s not that he’s masochistic, prone to sick-starving things, but he’s preoccupied. Research must be done. The self-imposed deadline is closing in far faster than he’d care to remember– even if that savage and cruel excitement is ever present, ever the reminder that he is still a machine. War is a bold word, and often the only one present in his vocabulary.

–In any case, Khan sticks out like a sore thumb at the market, a shroud of black and grey amid reds, oranges, yellows. He recalls, in that bizarre pattern only the brain can create, that Lyra enjoys namana fruit. It’s not something that he’s tasted, and perhaps he’s too comfortable with prepackaged rations to try. He suspects that he would enjoy the liquor more than the fruit.

Long fingers close over the namana after a seemingly endless peruse through the stalls, flawless compared to its kindred, and he wonders why he considers tasting it; why he considers anything lately.

iii.    The third time is long after the Krayt dragon’s corpse had cooled, into the Tattooinian twilight, a reprieve from twin suns. The desert air bites against his flesh, like glass in his pores, and it’s not because he’s bruised and battered. He is damaged. If Lyra were there to look at him, turn him inside out, she would find durasteel and dragon bones and blaster burns. She would find him as he simply is– broken.

Self-destructive tendencies manifest like weights in the soul, if he laid claim to one, and Khan knows that he does this because he’s addicted to trying to feel alive. It’s much like the spice runners that say they never taste their product, the alcoholics living in the same cantinas in Bestine. He wonders if Lyra had treated addicts in the First Order. He wonders if she’s ever thought less of them, of him.

Khan decides that he doesn’t like to think about it.

iv.     The fourth time is when the eternal night is forgotten for gambling, dancers, spice, and Corellian brandy. It isn’t a vacation, it isn’t anything other than an unfortunate stroke of luck. Their ship could only survive so much abuse from pirates and the First Order alike, and Khan already plans to fit the vessel with stronger canons. His time served meant that he could survive a simple skirmish, though Lyra seemed to fret every time he returned with a limp, or a burn from a tired console’s malfunction. He supposes that it’s in her nature, caring far too much, because she promised to. Even beasts like him are not immune to healing hands.

v.     The fifth time is after they enter Korriban’s orbit. He’s chasing ghosts, he always has been, and he longs to rest. There is no grave waiting for Khan, only the emptiness of space and the accusation of failure.

He doesn’t let her join him when he searches for the first tomb. It’s decrepit, eroded from the fury of time, and filled with things with sharp teeth and rage and tendrils of the dark side. Even he, senseless in the Force, can feel it, wrapping tendrils around his throat, down it, into his lungs. This is no place for her, he decides, and perhaps that is true for any other, but he could not bare the thought of this place taking her.

Khan doesn’t wonder why this time; he doesn’t wonder anything, closing his mind to the things that lurk in the shadows as he descends further into Naga Sadow’s eternal resting place.

vi.     The sixth time is after he narrowly escapes disembowelment from an icetromper on the ice fields of Hoth. He likes to think that only those with blasters or fists are a danger, often forgetting that the maws of the galaxy are aplenty. This time it hurts, and he can admit it. Something broken beneath his skin, blossoming blues, purples, blood vessels burst; he nearly doesn’t make it back to their camp.

It’s the sixth time that he accepts that he’s been selfish.

Khan doesn’t register the look on Lyra’s face when he returns, vision blurring. Survival is predictable; living is something that he’s never truly understood. Her hands are over him, bandaging his wounds, bacta here and there, forcing him to lay still while she chides him for his idiocy. It’s deserved, he knows, because she always worries when he’s so reckless, so miserly. Denial tastes the same as regret, he finds.

It’s the sixth time that he kisses her, haphazardly pulling her toward him because his control is lacking (from the pain or from a late epiphany, a question without a sufficient answer). There’s something like a thank you on his lips, an I am sorry, an amalgamation of emotions that are usually denied. It’s been six times, and he thinks he’s done with thinking.

[paramounticebound]

Lyra and Khan for the kid meme because reasons

If they had a kid meme || @starnamedlyra || accepting.

Name: Aria Kina Ha Isar (Aria after Lyra’s grandmother; Kina Ha in memory of a friend of Khan’s before he went into stasis)

Gender: Female

General Appearance:  A certain, cautious tension sits in her shoulders. She’s thin, but not frail; wiry and lean like a dancer. Long, dark hair is pulled back into a messy braid. Aria has her mother’s eyes, her father’s nose and his subtle smile.  (Bonus: young fc / older fc)

Personality: More tomboyish than not; she’s adventurous and headstrong. Like her father, Aria has a passion for the sciences. Though like her mother, she’s kind to a fault, and possesses a valiant heart with the drive to do the right thing. 

Special Talents: Aria is Force sensitive like Lyra. Also inherited from her mother is clairvoyance, though whether that is related to Force sensitivity or to heritage isn’t known. She’s also inherited her father’s advanced abilities, to an extent.

Who they like better: Lyra

Who they take after more: Lyra– for the sass. Khan– for the science.

Personal Headcanon: Aria was conceived after Lyra and Khan were relatively safe from the First Order. Not that they’d planned on having a child, but they were grateful to have a bit of respite from danger. Khan, especially, had never expected to become a father, but he’d fight the entire galaxy for Lyra and Aria. On a less dramatic note, Aria often finds herself getting into trouble... and then making it worse with sarcasm and sass. Her mother finds this pretty commendable, especially since it drives Khan insane.

[paramounticebound]

👊

break his jaw. || @starnamedlyra || probably accepting for eternity

His head snaps back from the force, the anger behind the strike, a myriad of light reds and soft pinks crawling beneath the flesh. It won’t bruise. Lyra can throw a punch, but augmented blood heals him faster than the bruise can form. Teeth clack shut just over the edge of his tongue, the sharpest parts of pain throbbing through the muscle. Either way, the nerves quiet as quickly as they had come alive. The sting fades in one, two, three breaths.

One finger, just enough, brushing over angry flesh, the contours of cheekbones: there’s no anger to be found when he meets her vicious, vigourous gaze.

     “Do you feel better now?”

[paramounticebound]

Khan x Lyra 6-8 word story pls???

Send me a ship and I will write you a 6-8 word story || @starnamedlyra || not accepting 

Who knew that stars tasted like self-destruction?

[paramounticebound]

❣

send ❣ and i will make an 8 song playlist for our muses  || @starnamedlyra || always accepting.

Bang by Armchair Cynics

Love is Blindness by Jack White

Cold Skin by To Kill A King

Sunburn by Muse

You Look So Fine by Garbage

Shattered by Trading Yesterday

Stars by Hum

War of Hearts by Ruelle

[paramounticebound]

“you made a mistake hugging me because i’m so touch starved i’m not letting go of you now.”

Touch starved starters. || @starnamedlyra || not accepting. 

She’s clinging to him like a starved mynock that had just found a downed ship, desperate for warmth (though luckily not for whatever energy remained in his sore and healing body). It’s true, it had been him to embrace her first, tightly wrapping his arms around her smaller frame, expecting a kick in the shins before any return of– well, affection. 

Nothing is finished, a mountain of tasks still half-completed in the infinite two-person assault against the First Order. Despite himself and the augmented genes inside of him, he’s lucky to still be breathing. Lyra is incredibly talented at keeping him alive. 

There’s something else, too.

     “You must be desperate. I can tell.” Basso tones that reverberated in his chest and in his esophagus, oddly and pointedly without venom nor sarcasm. Khan, for the life of him, didn’t have any particular complaint. Perhaps he was as famished as her– perhaps.