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I been reading the Expanse books after watching the show and the biggest difference I've noticed so far is that James Holden from the books really just isn't much of a character--he's John Spaceman, professional protagonist--and by contrast James Holden from the show comes off like a Mad Max-esque meditation on the horror of being a protagonist.

This is the face I make when I'm the only one the space aliens ever want to talk to and also I started a bunch of wars on accident and also my wife's kid's dad keeps trying to blow up the universe and also I have every kind of cancer at once:

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The need to write more monster smut taking over

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extra scenes from this

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Patient Name: Jonathan Price DOB: [redacted] 1985 Injury Type: IED Explosion Induced Ocular and Concussive Trauma Current Status: Unfit for operational duties

Word count: 1.9k Notes: GhostPrice fic where Price lost his vision and Ghost struggles to help, this is meant to be a second part with the first part as draft, but can be read on its own Tags: hurt/comfort, medical inaccuracies, blink and you'll miss it hint of ptsd, wonky grammars, complication feelings that the author struggle to write about, oh and wonky ending too Credits for divider: firefly-graphics

The first visit to the hospital wrecked Ghost more than he was willing to admit. He watched Price come to terms with the reality of his lost vision.

Whether it was permanent remained unknown, but one thing was for certain: his sight wasn’t coming back any time soon.

When Ghost finally returned for a second visit, the unease twisted in his gut still despite mentally preparing for it. He stood at the edge of the bed, taking in the sight of Price, the bandages around his eyes fresh and thinner than before. It was clear that this time they were preparing for his discharge, and Ghost couldn’t shake the sense of dread that settled in his chest.

The silence in the room was suffocating, heavier than the scent of something sharp and clinical that lingered in the air. Ghost found himself envying the steady hum of the machines, a total contrast to Ghost’s own rapid beating heart rate. 

He watched as Price's head turned slightly, as if straining to hear him. He briefly wondered if Price could hear his heart pounding against his ribcage. The uncertainty gnawed at Ghost; he knew he should say something, anything, but they had never needed words before.

This was a new, uncomfortable reality. 

When he finally spoke, his voice sounded rougher than he expected, “It’s me.”

Price tilted his head, a ghost of the grin that was reserved just for Ghost. “I know.” The familiar tone held his usual humour, but it fell flat between them.

Ghost couldn’t tell if Price’s smile reached his eyes, couldn’t decipher whether warmth or pain lay hidden beneath the bandages. He nodded instinctively, regretting it instantly because Price couldn’t see the gesture.

“How bad is it?”

The question hung in the air like a dead weight, and Ghost…well, Ghost doesn’t answer.

Ghost felt he’d lost more than just the Captain’s sight—he’d lost a language that Price had been fluent in with him.

Ghost wasn’t used to speaking more than necessary. His life, his job, his very existence had been built on silence. He was the Ghost, the one with the shadows. It was his virtue that Price understood intimately. Neither man ever felt the need to fill the silence with noise, they never needed much in the way of words. 

A flicker of an eyebrow, a tilt of the head, the narrowing of their eyes—expressions became their language, carrying meanings that words could never reach. They’d carried out an entire conversation without a sound, Price able to glance his way and just know what Ghost was planning, a wordless connection that Ghost had grown to lean on—and now severed.

Ghost found himself to struggle with the huge gap that had opened up between them. Price was learning how to navigate a world permanently in darkness, and Ghost trying to learn how to help without overstepping. Neither of them would admit it out loud, but Price misses Ghost’s silent look of reassurance, while Ghost has no idea how to offer comfort without Price’s eyes to meet his.

With those steady gaze that had once known him so well no longer meeting his own, Ghost felt as if part of himself had gone dark too.

After Price was discharged, Ghost stayed close. It was second nature to watch each other’s backs after all. He held Price's belongings as Laswell finalized the paperwork, the muffled conversations of Nikolai and the others buzzing around him. The lighter voices of Soap and Gaz eased the tension, and Ghost felt a small measure of relief at the sight of Price smiling at one of their jokes.

If there was one silver lining in this situation, it was that Price couldn’t see the pity in everyone’s gaze—if you could even call that a good thing.

It took them a long time to settle on an agreement of sorts. Initially, there were visits here and there, and the 141 took turns checking in on Price. Not for long though, because Price insisted he was fine. Ghost knew the old veteran didn’t want to feel like a burden, like something broken and tossed aside, an unfixable cassette tape with its tape rolled out and tangled in a mess.

In the end, it was just Ghost and Price, as it had always been.

In his quarters, Price moved cautiously through the dim light. Today was one of those "getting used to your surroundings without sight" exercises. His hands skimmed surfaces, touched corners, and traced the walls.

Price turned his head, tracking sounds he used to ignore, things he’d never concerned himself with. The sound of the drip from a leaky faucet (should fix it honestly) turning more faint with each step, the quiet tick of the wall clock, the soft scrape of his sleeve against the wall or the faint hum of the refrigerator. He was acutely aware of every sensory surrounding him as they seemed to magnified in his mind, even the shift in temperature as he stepped toward the kitchen. 

A strange tension gripped the his chest, goosebumps raised up his arm, it was as if his familiar walls were closing in on him. Everything felt too close or too far away; he was stepping into a void that didn’t feel solid beneath his feet, as if the darkness might open its jaws and swallow him whole.

It was time for you to go, own up your sins, those bloody hands, descend into darkness where you belong—

Price’s fingers trembled at the thoughts—the voices in his head. Breathe, he told himself. This was just his mind playing tricks. He was lost, but he wasn’t truly lost. It was new ground; he simply needed time to adjust.

Ghost leaned against the doorway, the creak momentarily pulling Price from his rising panic. Even without sight, Price could feel those brown eyes on him, watching.

Ghost observed Price like a hawk, sensing the defiance in each careful step. The man who had survived everything life had thrown at him now faced a world of murky void, each move laced with a hesitation that gnawed at Ghost.

Despite Price’s insistence that he was fine, Ghost knew better. He had seen the way Price had grown better at pretending he didn’t need help, acting as if he still knew every corner and angle.

But Ghost heard it—the stutter in Price’s breath when he missed grabbing something, the slight flinch when his foot brushed against an unexpected material.

When Price misjudged an angle and his hand hung in mid-air, Ghost noticed how his shoulders tensed. Before he could think, he moved forward, his palm hovering just above Price’s shoulder.

For the first time, Ghost acknowledged a disadvantage. He lacked the easy confidence Soap had when it came to physical contact—the Scot’s casual pats on the back, the effortless camaraderie. He didn’t possess Gaz’s way with words, how the sergeant spoke with precision, his commands and banter flowing seamlessly.

Ghost was good at following orders, executing them without question. Give him a command, and he would see it through, no matter the cost.

But here he was, the same man who would walk into the mouth of danger without hesitation, now struggling to reach out for something as simple as a touch.

Ghost had seen Price snap at Gaz the other day. He understood that the old man hadn’t meant it; the tightness in Price’s jaw and the way he had gritted out, “I don’t need help,” told Ghost everything he needed to know.

It was part of a raw survival instinct, a deeply ingrained, animalistic reaction that urged Price to fight, to resist, to prove that this cruel twist of fate hadn’t conquered him, like a wounded wolf who refuses to die without a fight. Ghost could see it—the way Price pushed past the limits of his own body, striving to reclaim the control that had defined him throughout his life.

Blind or not, Price was still the same man. He hadn’t softened because of this loss. If anything, it just made him all the more determined to prove he could carry on as he had before.

Pride was all he had left, and it could either be motivating or damaging. 

So now Ghost stood there, fumbling like a rookie, afraid of something as simple as a touch. Too light, and he might make Price feel fragile; too firm, and he might break him.

His palm hovered in the air, inches from Price’s shoulder, curled awkwardly. The absurdity of the situation weighed on him. Price, of course, picked up on it. Even blind, he sensed every inch of Ghost’s hesitation.

“Not going to break, Simon.”

Ghost bristled at the words—resignation tinged with bitterness—he didn’t like the tone of that, the hint of resignation in it tasted too bitter on his tongue, it only had the opposite effect because now Ghost’s hand was shaking. 

But then he noticed how Price remained still, waiting for Ghost’s palm like he needed him. With a deep breath, Ghost forced himself to move, lowering his hand until it finally rested on Price’s shoulder.

It’s tentative, a tad bit too gentle, testing the waters as he slowly put more force into it. He slowly pressed down, thumb and index finger pinching together until Ghost truly felt Price for the first time.

He felt the heat radiating from Price, the anger and frustration coursing through him, a raw ache of helplessness that was tearing the ex-Captain apart. The thought made Ghost tighten his grip, prompting a quiet sigh from Price.

For a moment, Ghost considered saying something, wishing he could cut through the stubborn pride that clung to Price like a second skin.

Let go of the damn pride, let me help, let me be your eyes, let me—

“I’ve walked this room a thousand times,” Price grumbled, laced with frustration and…sadness. “I shouldn’t need…” He trailed off, swallowing the words that felt like shards of glass in his throat.

Ghost let the silence settle, his grip still there.

He knew how much it cost Price to admit it aloud, to acknowledge the crack in the image he had so carefully built—a marble stained window that seemed flawless yet fragile enough to break at any moment.

Slowly, Ghost allowed his palm to drift down Price’s shoulder, watching the subtle tension ripple through the older man’s body. But Price didn’t pull away, which was good, so Ghost continued until he settled his hand just above Price’s elbow.

Ghost realized how much he wanted to be enough—not just as a soldier, not as a Lieutenant, but as Simon. He needed Price to know he was there, and he wouldn’t let go. He wished he could do so much more, to take some, if not all of the pain for himself, he would have gauged his eyes out for Price with his bare hands if it meant seeing the man himself again and not so miserable–yet such desperation only earned him pairs of worried glances from the specialists and surgeons.

In a rare gesture, Price’s hand moved up hesitantly to cover Ghost’s, his fingers pressing into Ghost's knuckles, to anchor them both. Ghost saw the tilt of Price’s head, pictured Price’s expressions clearly—those once-vibrant blue eyes would’ve matched the small, grateful bushy smile at the moment. 

Something stirred from Simon, the buried emotions bubbling up like bile up his throat. Simon wasn’t sure if Price realized just how much he needed reassurance—that even in darkness, Price was still here, still fighting and most importantly, was willing to let Simon into his seemingly bleak world.

Price turned away, but he didn’t fully withdraw his arm from Ghost’s grasp. Instead, he offered a small, almost imperceptible nod, a silent thank-you. He watched as Price takes another step and hovered his hand out again, trying to reach for the chair that was on the far right. Ghost gently leaned closer, shifting his weight that, in turned, made Price face to the right, smiling under the mask when Price mumbled an “ah!” when the man was able to grab hold of the top rail of the chair. 

Ghost was determined to walk Price through the house a million time if he wanted to, he’ll always be there, whether Price needed him or not, he’ll remain by his side. 

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The Beach

Kyletober Day 14: Teratophilia

Summary: The beach is well known among humans. Those brave enough to tread those shores know what they’re asking for, and the merfolk are more than willing to oblige.

Pairing: Merman!Kyle x reader

Word Count: 2,627 words

Warnings: NSFW, 18+, p in v sex, unprotected sex, monsters, monster fucking, merpeople, Kyle is a merman, merman anatomy, public sex, slight emotions at the end.

A/N: This one might be my second favorite of them all. I wish I could draw then I'd show you merman Kyle. Tempted to make this a series...

MASTERLIST

Your feet sink into the sand as you stroll leisurely along the beach. It’s warm, the sun high in the sky shining down on the crystal blue water of the vast ocean before you. There’s a slight breeze coming off the water, bringing with it the salty scent of the sea. It ruffles your skirt around your legs, goosebumps forming on your skin as it shoots up between your thighs, kissing your wet cunt. 

Moans sound up and down the beach, bodies writhing with the ebb and flow of every wave. Excitement stirs in your stomach as you near an empty spot, getting closer to the water. There’s no cover, no privacy as you tug your shirt over your head. There’s no need for it. People only come to this beach for one reason. You all know why you’re here. Shame gets left behind in the parking lot. 

You fold your shirt and skirt, setting them up higher on the sand before you approach the lapping waves, a knot of excitement and nerves coiling inside your stomach. It’s not the first time you’ve done this, nor will it be the last, yet every time you can’t avoid the nervous shake to your hands. 

You wade out into the water until it’s halfway up your calf before you sit, humming quietly as the warmth of it surrounds you. It’s a beautiful day today, which is why the beach is so full. 

You don’t have to sit there for very long, the water bulging with the oncoming waves. Something is speeding towards the beach, your body pulsing in excitement. Your breath catches in your throat as you suddenly find yourself face to face with a figure.  Big, dark eyes stare into yours, clawed hands sinking into the sand on either side of you. It always makes you jump, his body seeming to materialize out of the sea before you can even blink. 

“Hi.” You whisper, taking a moment to catch your breath as you stare at him. 

Amethyst skin glitters in the sunlight, beads of water sliding down his face. He’s leaner than he is bulky, but your eyes still trace the peaks and divots of his muscles. He’s beautiful, even if he is so different from you. 

He’s human-like at the top but then that amethyst skin disappears under darker purple scales at his waist. His tail is beautiful, swirling with hues of purple. His fins tickle your legs as he pulls himself closer, the spines on his back tucking down as he reaches up, one slippery, webbed hand cupping your cheek. There’s a bit of seaweed draped over his shoulder, your hand raising to pull it off of him. His head follows your movements, watching your hand as you drop the slimy weed back into the water. Your hand lifts again, your fingers softly touching his shoulder. His skin is thick and almost rubbery, much harder to break than your own delicate skin. An adaptation evolved to survive in the harsh world under the water, you suppose. 

Your fingers trail back up his arm, following the lines of his muscle before you reach his hand, pressing your palm against it. His skin is cool to the touch, but he’s not cold blooded, at least you don’t think so judging by the other parts of him that are warm. 

Your fingertips brush the delicate webs between his fingers, his hand flexing against your cheek. A small smile tugs at your lips. He may be tougher than you are, but he’s still sensitive. 

He doesn’t greet you back with words, instead leaning forward to press his lips against yours. He’s careful not to nick you with his sharp teeth as he kisses you, something you’re grateful for. He’s caught you a couple times by accident in the heat of passion. Just something to remember him by. 

He’s never spoken to you, at least not in the way humans speak. You’re not entirely sure he’s capable of speaking like a human. He’s never so much as made a single noise in the time you’ve been together. Maybe they communicate like whales and dolphins in the water. Or perhaps they communicate through body language like other mammals. 

You’re assuming he’s mammalian...then again you don’t really know all that much about merpeople outside of this aspect of them. 

He continues to kiss you, his tongue pressing against the seam of your lips. It’s warm as it presses into your mouth, flicking against your own. He tastes briney and salty like the water you’re sitting in. It’s not an unpleasant taste. In fact, you’ve grown to enjoy it.

His hand leaves your face, sinking into the sand by your side. Your hands fall back as he presses closer to you, keeping you from splashing back into the water. It’s deep enough you might run the risk of inhaling it. What would he do if you started drowning? Could he help you? Would he know how? 

You shake that thought from your mind. You like to think he wouldn’t let that happen. 

The top of his tail in the front between where his legs would be is beginning to bulge. He’s just as excited as you are about this, well accustomed to the dance the two of you often do. You’re here as much as you can be, and he’s always the one that comes to you, almost like he’s waiting for you.

You’re not sure how he knows, but he always does. 

His arms wrap around you, flipping the two of you over so he’s in the water, the waves lapping at the sides of his face. His gills move as he breathes in the water, those big eyes staring up at you unblinking. The first time you saw him, a shiver had run down your spine. He’s just human enough for your brain to see the similarities, but also so very much not human. That doesn’t make him any less beautiful, though. You’ve wandered this beach many times, catching glimpses when you dared to look at the merpeople that frequent here. They’re all so beautiful, yet all so different. 

It had taken a lot of time to work up the courage to stick your feet in the water. 

Now you can’t imagine having any hesitations. 

He’s beautiful to look at, something that would be sculpted out of marble and placed in a museum as a testament to the beauty of merpeople. If he were human, he’d be stunning, someone who would be on the cover of magazines, walking a runway. He’d be someone painted by an artist to be hung in a museum so humans could gaze upon his beauty for centuries. He deserves to be immortalized somehow, remembered for generations to come. A celebrity, someone who is worshiped for his beauty and splendor. 

He’d be so far out of your league if he was a human. 

He’s not though, yet you still feel blessed as you sit over him, watching as the slit at the top of his tail peels open. You run your fingers along the sensitive skin, his lips parting as you tease the slick folds. His own hand lifts, slipping between your thighs. He copies your movements, careful not to catch you with his claws as he strokes your folds. Your teeth sink into your lip at the feeling of those rough fingers against your sensitive skin. You’re already soaked at the idea of what’s going to transpire, of what you’re about to do. 

Your fingers on his slit begin to coax his cock out of its confines, the narrow tip beginning to peek out. You trail your fingers over it, gathering the slippery substance leaking out all over your fingers. You lift them to your mouth, tasting the viscous fluid. The salt from the water mixes with the naturally briney taste of him, the flavors dancing on your tongue. 

His back arches as his cock continues to slip out of his slit, growing and growing until the thick length presses against his stomach. Arousal pulses between your thighs, your own natural lubrication soaking his fingers. They press against your clit, a quiet moan leaving your lips as you reach for him. He’s slick and slippery as you wrap your fingers around his cock, dragging your hand along the ridges that line his length. He’s not like a human man, instead tapered from tip to base. His head is narrower while the base is so thick you can barely get your fingers fully around him. 

You nearly cum from the thoughts flashing through your head. You’ll never be able to be satisfied by a man again, but maybe that was the whole point. That was why this beach existed, that was why they were so willing to do this. 

They must like it as much as you humans do if they keep returning here. 

If they have their favorites. 

It’s not love, at least not to them. You don’t think so anyway. How many other women does he do this with? How many other women does he stare up at with those eyes? How many other women’s bodies has he touched? 

You try not to think about it too much. 

You pump his cock, dragging your fingers over the ridges and bumps. His lips part, no sound coming out but you can imagine how sweet he would sound. Breathy moans and groans, needy whines. Would he beg you to make him cum, or would he make you beg? Perhaps both. He always winds up taking control in the end, even if he lets you have control at first like he is now. 

His hand slips out from between your thighs, the other lifting so they’re gripping your hips. His claws dig just slightly into your skin, but he’s careful not to dig too deep and hurt you. It’s inevitable though, with his anatomy and your soft human skin. It never seems to give him pause if he hurts you on accident, perhaps because you never react. You don’t care about a little pain. What’s a little pain if this is what you get in return?

He pulls your hips forward, his own way of saying ‘hurry up.’ You can’t delay it anymore, eager to feel him again. You lift yourself up over his hips, your hand gripping the base of his cock. He’s hard and pulsing in your hand as you line him up, slipping the narrow tip inside of you. You never need much prep between your own arousal and the slippery substance that coats his cock. The excitement of getting to fuck a merman is more than enough for you, just as it seems the opportunity to fuck a human gets him just as excited. 

Maybe it’s you he’s excited about. 

No. You won’t entertain those thoughts. 

Your hands press against his stomach, feeling the muscle underneath his skin flexing as you sink lower and lower on his cock. Your head tilts back as you’re stretched open around him, the ridges on his cock dragging against your walls. They hit all of the right places inside of you, making you feel alive and electric. His cock is warm despite the cool touch of his skin, the contrasting temperatures paired with the warmth of the water splashing against your back has goosebumps forming on your skin. 

He’s deep inside of you once you’re fully seated on his cock, stretched open around his thick base. You could cum just like this, but you don’t want this to be over before you’re just getting started. His claws are pinching your skin but you pay him no mind as you stare down at him. Those wide, dark eyes stare up at you, his lips slightly parted. He’s clinging to whatever control he has. You can see it in his face. He’s trying not to flip you over and fuck you into the sand. It wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened. You’d just prefer to be in shallower water if he’s going to do that. 

He wouldn’t let you drown...

You hope. 

You begin to rock your hips, drawing his cock out of your cunt before pressing it back in. His tip drags along your walls, almost as if he was made perfectly for your pleasure. You use your hands on his stomach for leverage as you bounce on his cock, the ridges catching on that spot deep inside of you with every drag of his cock inside of you. He’s so thick and warm and perfect. 

The idea of fucking a merman is enough to make your walls flutter, not to mention the ethereal look of him. His handsome face, his lean body, those big eyes staring up at you. There’s no emotion in them, but deep down you like to imagine there is something. If you stare at them long enough you can see into the depths of them like you’re staring into the depths of the ocean. 

You shift your position, grinding your hips against his as you lean back, resting your hands on his tail. It’s slippery and you almost slide right off of him, but you catch yourself, digging your nails into the smooth scales under your hands. He offers no complaint. You’re not capable of breaking his skin with just your nails, no matter how long they are. That doesn’t make him any less sensitive though. 

You push your hand against your stomach, feeling the deep press of him as you continue to circle your hips, trying to stave off your orgasm as long as you can. The quicker you cum, the quicker he’ll cum and then the quicker this is all over. 

You don’t want it to be over.

You push yourself back up, your thighs squeezing around his hips. You lean over him slightly, trailing your nails down his chest. He writhes under you, his hands sliding to your ass. He helps guide your movements, lifting you up and pushing you back down on his cock. 

“Yes, just like that.” You moan, pushing your hands against his stomach again as you continue to bounce on his cock. 

You’re close to your orgasm, your body starting to tremble. He’s close as well, his hips bucking up against you. Your walls are squeezing around him as you get closer and closer to the edge, your mind going numb as you try to hold back. You don’t want it to end. One orgasm is never enough. You’d fuck him all day if you could. 

If he’d let you. 

You can’t stop it though as those ridges push up against your walls, dragging over that spot inside of you. You cum with a loud cry, your back arching as your head falls back. His body writhes in the water tail splashing as he cums, the shockingly warm fluid spilling into you. You’re stretched open around his cock, hands falling against the sand beside his shoulders. 

You stare down at him, lips parted as you breathe. His own are still parted and you want to lean down and kiss him. He’ll flip you over soon, deposit you back into the water and sand before slipping back into the waves to disappear until you return to the beach again. You’ll have to put your clothes back on and head home with nothing but his cum sliding down the inside of your thighs to remind you that it really happened. 

His arms wrap around your back as you stare down into those eyes, your body pressed against his. You can see it, that...something in the depths of his eyes as you sink into them. 

It’s not love. 

It’s not. 

You just have to keep telling yourself that.

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Nikki Giovanni, from “Mirrors”

[Text ID: … but It Cannot Be A Mistake to have cared … It Cannot Be An Error to have tried … It Cannot Be Incorrect to have loved]

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ghost surprises his captain and sergeants by nonchalantly mentioning that he has a partner waiting for him back home. of course, soap and gaz pester him with questions. none of which he answers. too personal. but even price is intrigued. what sort of person would the ghost keep around? who could handle him?

"c'mon, tell us somethin' lt."

he relents. knows he won't have a moment's peace if he doesn't.

"they don't fuck around."

he relishes the confused glances exchanged between his team. maybe he shouldn't tell them you're asexual, it's not really his place, but he doubts they'll figure it out by the time they meet you.

(as an unintended consequence, soap and gaz are convinced he's dating someone even scarier than him. they're not entirely wrong.)

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*develops a crush on you. but like. evilly, of course.*

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True fans can hear this phrase. And name the episode.

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happy out for a walk bitch day to those who celebrate

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“my daughter turned out fine!!”

umm ur daughter has a fetish for receiving comfort against her will

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people who write fics. how do you feel about comments on super old ones you wrote like 2+ years ago

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*has bisexual thoughts*

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Captain

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I know it’s been done to death but here’s my 2 cents about Star Wars Old Republic era 141 (featuring Los Vaqueros)—Republic Faction/Light Side

Price is a Jedi master who everyone is staunchly pretending isn’t flirting with the dark side. As the war with the empire goes on, his methods edge toward the ruthless, too often using the ends to justify the means. However he has a reputation for getting things done, with a failure rate so low that certain deficiencies of his character are often excused in favor of his effectiveness in the field. It should be noted that Price himself is a fierce enemy of the Sith, and would never truly cross the line; his code of ethics is too strong.

Gaz is Price’s Jedi padawan whom he has slowly been “corrupting” (according to Jedi traditionalists anyway). Charismatic and shrewd, Gaz has a knack for diplomacy, which is why he was apprenticed to Price in the first place, with the hope that the master might learn as much from his padawan as he had to teach him. There are elements within the order that are reluctant, however, to elevate Gaz into knighthood; whispers suggest that he is far too agreeable with Price’s methods of getting things done, and given a full Jedi’s responsibilities, could veer even further toward the dark side than anyone would be comfortable with.

Soap is a scoundrel. At least, that’s the reputation he’s very happy to have. The truth is, he’s a smuggler for the Republic, moving supplies, intel, and sometimes even people to and fro across enemy lines. Soap is personable, unserious, always the first to buy a round of drinks at the cantina and always the most attentive listener to the local gossip. You can’t help but trust him—in fact, it’s almost…uncanny, how trustworthy he is. Get friendly enough with him and he’ll tell you the miraculous story of surviving a point blank blaster shot straight through the head; he calls it luck. And maybe it was. But his almost magical ability to guess at enemy movements and alter plans on the fly seems a bit more than lucky.

Ghost is a trooper. Has been all his life. After the death of his entire family—thanks to his father’s betrayal to Imperial forces—Ghost lied about his age and enlisted in the Republic’s army. Everyone knows that when you have an impossible mission to carry out, one that must succeed at all costs, you send Ghost. He has an almost casual disregard for his own life that makes him one of the most effective soldiers in the field, and more often than not he is paired up with Price for some of the most daring operations carried out within the full scope of the war. Rumor has it, he’s killed a Sith Lord with a rifle shot to the back. No one is brave enough to contest it.

Alejandro is a privateer for the Republic. Captaining the ship the Vaquero, he and his crew engage in some of the most exciting battles in contested space, defending vital supply stations, escorting troops, and seizing victory from the jaws of defeat too many times to count. His is a motley crew of seasoned if somewhat eccentric professionals who would lay down their lives, each and every one, if Alejo asked it of them. Rare is the captain who inspires such loyalty; rarer is the man who actually deserves it. Alejandro is that man. He has a fabled past that is often gossiped about but never discussed—some say he’s the runaway son of a Republic politician, determined to make his fortune on his own. Whether it’s true or not, everyone can agree: Alejo fears nothing, and seizes life in both hands at every opportunity.

Rudy is Alejandro’s first mate, and almost certainly the reason the Vaquero is still on one piece. He is a tempering influence upon Alejo’s passion, and an excellent liaison between captain and crew. Of humble origins from the outer rim of Republic space, Rudy worked hard to get where he is now, and means to see that the crew of the Vaquero get to enjoy their victories for a long time to come. Everyone knows you can go to Rudy to find a sympathetic ear for any problem; many swear he has the patience of a Jedi for dealing with everything he does. He just smiles, a twinkle in his eye, and goes about his business. He’s grateful for where he is, and quietly determined to defend his captain and crew with his life.

Valeria is a Sith Lord and nemesis to Alejandro and the Vaquero. Price has also crossed paths with her more than once, and if not for their opposing loyalties they might actually respect each other. She has a network of spies that some say stretch all the way to Coruscant, and is slowly making herself indispensable to the war effort in the Imperial core. Some say she has eyes on the throne itself; she would scoff at the notion. Valeria understands power better than any Darth on the Dark Council, and knows it’s far better to be needed than it is to be the one in need.

[sentientcave]

I am becoming aware of the effect a lack of trust in the media has had on people, paired with a dearth of research skills.

[sentientcave]

I love ghoap x reader tropes bc honestly, im just happy to be included