#wretched hive of scum and villainy

[rubbahslippah]

I wonder if VP Harris fully expected the blizzard of shit unleashed by former president Trump when she started goading him.

#wretched hive of scum and villainy

[bradycarlson]

[culturevulturette]

[hedonists-den]

Whenever I want to feel smart, I look at the Instagram comments of someone pretty. I'm pretty sure there's maybe 3 brain cells that they all pass around like the Fates' eye from Greek myth.

[mustbethursdayy]

Big fan of the way Tim Zahn was likely forced to include Batuu in Thrawn: Alliances and he made it sound like an absolute shithole.

[fellsilver]

Damn Laeral said "Baldur's Gate [derogatory]"

[automatonne]

Sometimes having a vore fetish sucks donkey dick because there’s no real way to enjoy it except for fantasizing and roleplaying.

I miss roleplaying so much, but people get so weird sometimes and my preferences hardly tend to align with other people’s (and because I’m feminine, they want me to be the pred 99% of the time, and… ugh).

I have no idea sometimes.

[nooblord9001]

finna played the space lesbiab game. only a few hours in, and yet thus far it's exactly as GOATed as I'd hoped it'd be.

when the truth booth recommends a game, she don't fuckin' miss.

[heelhausen]

Current mental state is adding another WIP to the pile bc I have so many projects I want to start. I will most likely never finish any of them but something something joy of creation

[legends-expo]

Are you a scruffy looking nerf herder? A Jedi of the Old Republic? A lost Sith trying to find their way home? Come one, come all - to Legend Con's Cantina Night! You do not need a con ticket - you can buy the party ticket separately through Eventbrite. https://www.eventbrite.com/e/legends-consortium-2023-tickets-541786186067

[lieutenant-teach]

Little Luke: Uncle Owen, what is ‘scum’?

Owen: Where did you hear this word?

Luke: Ben called Tatooine ‘a wretched hive of scum and villainy’. What is ‘scum’?

Owen: I’m never letting you near him again.

Luke: Uncle Owen, do you know what to do when stormtroopers attack you, you kill them, and then you have to get rid of them? You must throw them into the Sarlacc Pit! Cody taught me so!

Owen: I’m never letting you near him either!

[tossawary]

Thinking about a comedic "Star Wars" fic premise that could be either DinLuke or BobaLuke, not as an "OTP happily ever after" thing for either pairing, more as a series of ill-conceived hook-ups that everyone involved wishes were a little less emotionally complicated, actually.

Because the basic (been done before, I'm sure) premise of "I fucked a 19yo in Mos Eisley's only gay bar, that's kind of embarassing for me..." -> "I hate it when a past hook-up becomes a- MULTI-MILLION CREDIT bounty??? What the hell??? He killed HOW MANY people???" -> "Oh, fuck me, he's DARTH VADER'S SON!!!" works for either Boba or Din.

The flavor of the fic is of course extremely different for each pairing. Boba Fett is much more of an asshole, especially at this point in time, but he also has a lot of really interesting connections to Luke's past / family (Boba is SWEATING during his later meetings with Darth Vader). (He fucked a Jedi??? He fucked ANAKIN SKYWALKER'S kid??? Darth Vader is Skywalker??? Shit.) So, that has the potential to go to angstier places. DinLuke is just more likely to happen in the first place and also keep happening, because Din is less of a bastard and, you know, not canonically working for Jabba the Hutt or Darth fucking Vader.

(They're both 10+ years older than Luke, so you can make terrible helmeted daddy issues jokes about this silly situation either way.)

Because I enjoy fic premises based on how funny they are to me personally, I settled on both of these pairings. It's too funny to imagine Boba ("I'm too fucking old for this shit") Fett and Din ("The helmet has to stay ON during sex") Djarin having a "WAIT, HIM TOO???" moment in the middle of a firefight between Luke's little rebel friends and a bunch of other bounty hunters sent after them by Luke's shitty Sith Lord dad.

And Luke's friends, in between shooting at all of these competing bounty hunters, are like, "How do you already have TWO bounty hunter EXES out for your ass??? I thought you were only 20? 21?? And that you never even left Tatooine before you joined the Rebellion???" And Luke can only be like, "I lived near a spaceport, okay??? I'm SORRY that the only good club was in a wretched hive of scum and villainy called MOS EISLEY!"

Han Solo, pressed up against some crates for cover: "Look, kid, the criminal underworld doesn't have a lot of hard rules, but some things are just common sense... Don't fuck bounty hunters!!!"

Luke, sitting beside him: "Do we really have to do this now?"

Leia, on Luke's other side, leaning in as she pulls out a thermal detonator: "Who RAISED you??? Didn't anyone ever tell you never to sleep with Mandalorians???"

Luke: "Why would your parents even think to warn you about that?"

[culturevulturette]

A total coincidence, I’m sure.  

[mcflymemes]

STAR WARS: EPISODE IV - A NEW HOPE (1977) PROMPTS *  assorted dialogue from the film, adjust as necessary

uh... everything's under control. situation normal.

this will be a day long remembered.

in my experience, there's no such thing as luck.

i have you now!

let's blow this thing and go home!

great shot, kid, that was one in a million!

look, a few minutes ago you said you didn't want to just wait here to be captured. now all you want to do is stay?

he doesn't like you.

it's a wonder you're still alive.

no reward is worth this.

i'm surprised that you had the courage to take the responsibility yourself.

the more you tighten your grip, the more star systems will slip through your fingers.

screaming about it can't help you.

i see your point.

i wonder if he really cares about anything, or anybody.

what is it? some kind of local trouble?

i have the death sentence on twelve systems.

this little one's not worth the effort.

i sense something.

should i have your ship standing by?

you don't believe in the force, do you?

i've flown from one side of the galaxy to the other. i've seen a lot of strange stuff.

there's no mystical energy field that controls my destiny.

the force will be with you, always.

how did my father die?

if there's a bright center to the universe, you're on the planet that it's furthest from.

i don't know what all this trouble is about, but i'm sure it must be your fault.

you watch your language!

we seem to be made to suffer. it's our lot in life.

either i'm going to kill her or i'm beginning to like her.

aren't you a little short for a stormtrooper?

the force is strong with this one.

i fear something terrible has happened.

we had a slight weapons malfunction, but... uh. everything's perfectly all right now.

we're fine, we're all fine here now. thank you. how are you?

we're sending a squad up.

we're doomed.

it's not over yet.

i ain't in this for your revolution, and i'm not in it for you.

i expect to be well paid. i'm in it for the money.

use the force, [name].

i find your lack of faith disturbing.

this bickering is pointless.

hokey religions and ancient weapons are no match for a good blaster at your side.

look, your worshipfulness, let's get one thing straight. i take orders from just one person: me.

give us a few minutes to lock it down!

who is this? what's your operating number?

[name], we're gonna have company!

you will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy. we must be cautious.

let me see your identification.

you can go about your business.

move along.

my ship has fallen under attack.

this is our most desperate hour.

you're my only hope.

i've gotta get home! it's late! i'm in for it as it is!

i'm getting too old for this sort of thing.

look, i can't get involved. i've got work to do.

it's all such a long way from here.

evacuate? in our moment of triumph? i think you overestimate their chances.

we have no weapons!

you're far too trusting.

i recognized your foul stench when i was brought on board.

marching into a detention area is not what i had in mind.

that's what i'm afraid of.

this is all your fault.

i don't know who you are or where you came from, but from now on you'll do as i tell you, okay?

surely he must be dead by now.

i have something here for you.

there was nothing you could have done.

[marisatomay]

obi wan is like “mos eisley space port: you will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy” and it’s just some town

[cbk1000]

I'm bored and feeling slightly under the weather, so I decided to post some of the almost 15,000 words I have of a luxury train holiday fic that I started after learning that luxury train holidays were a thing. Why did I write a fic about such a random thing? Because I fell down a rabbit hole of luxury travel videos, discovered luxury trains, and naturally turned those videos into a Merthur fic.

Waverly Station, not to put too fine a point on it, was the most wretched hive of scum and villainy ever to be stolen by the British Empire; though possibly this was because Edinburgh had rained on Arthur, rather prodigiously, whilst he was legging it for the station; possibly because he had been woken, at the hour of No, to catch a train into Scotland; and possibly because he was carrying everything which Morgana owned, over every limb he owned; and consequently hated everyone. The sad fate of the baggage mule was his own: to be flogged, viciously, by a master too precious to carry their own bloody rubbish, through the most wretched of conditions (mizzle), with as little thanks as can be given by a creature throated to give it: and with that especial garnish, which was that he was being hit by Morgana’s voice, rather than a nice little crop, which would have only broken his flesh, and not his spirit.

He was trying to decide in which order to kill them both when he spotted, at the other end of the station, the sculpted dark head, modelled in the image of a wave; though the wave would have blushed to hear it. And beside it, a head similarly coloured, if not similarly coiffed; though he had got it into some order, and not an entirely hideous one. Gwaine nodded; and then Merlin turned round, and showed Arthur the smile he hadn’t seen in two weeks. And he felt it call up from the depths of him an answering smile, though he still hated, in the following order, Morgana; the weather; everyone.

“Should have asked me and Gwaine to carry your stuff. Arthur’s clearly crumbling under the weight of being overestimated,” Merlin said, exchanging cheek kisses with Morgana.

“I just love how funny you are,” Arthur replied, chucking off the various pieces of baggage, and letting them land where they landed.

“Don’t throw my stuff, you absolute knob.”

“Then carry it yourself!” Arthur snapped. “Did you remember your suit?” he asked Merlin, who in a blazer and shirt which appeared, miraculously, not to have got his breakfast, blood, or tea on it, was so uncharacteristically smart that probably he considered himself to be entirely done improving on himself. “You’ll have to wear a proper suit for the formal dinners.” He paused, squinting at him. “Do you have product in your hair?”

Merlin wiggled his eyebrows. “Gwaine helped me with it. Don’t worry; I won’t embarrass you on your posh train.”

“You embarrass me on the Tube.”

“I think that’s just because you feel a heightened sense of shame at having to ride public transportation with the plebian class.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Where are Gwen and Lancelot?”

“Gwen’s in the loo; Lancelot’s gone to look for something to eat. He’s worried the train’s going to serve tiny rich people portions.” Merlin pocketed his hands in his trousers. “Want a coffee?”

“Sure; I could use one, having got up at the arse crack of time this morning,” Arthur said, glaring at Morgana, who as usual was perfectly untroubled by her conduct. He gave Merlin a little slap on the shoulder, and then draped his arm round it, steering him toward Caffé Nero before he could do something unforgivable, like choose Costa. He had enhanced the blazer and hair product with a little aftershave, so that as they were walking, Arthur caught a whiff of something not entirely abhorrent; though his manners, doubtless, would make up for it. If they got him on the train, in the blazer, and no one was very much harmed in the process, that was the most which feeble humanity could expect of God’s capricious mercy. “How’s work?”

“Like arse,” Merlin said, paying for their coffees, and handing Arthur his. “I think they would have asked me to push off my holiday, except they know I’m a biter. And not just the sexy kind.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Just something to consider, a luxury train holiday with a spa and 24 hour steward service might be the place to consider not being a totally classless knob who talks about his sexual preferences in public.”

“The train has a spa?!”

Arthur ignored that. “You didn’t answer about the suit.”

“Yes, I packed the suit we FaceTimed about.”

“Nice to know you can occasionally conjure up enough sense to listen to me,” Arthur said, sipping from his coffee, and looking across the platforms to where Gwen had now joined Morgana and Gwaine, and the women were talking with their heads close together, and laughing, whilst Gwaine arranged himself for the admiring masses. 

“Sometimes I wish he weren’t so straight,” Merlin said, cocking his head a little to one side, and drinking from his coffee. “Just a little bit gay; that’s all I’m asking for.”

“Gwaine?” Arthur sputtered, choking on his coffee. “Why on earth?”

“Because he’s the fittest man I know.”

“Of everyone you know, Gwaine is the fittest.”

“No, I didn’t say everyone, I said of the men I know. I would never say fittest of everyone I know, when Morgana’s right there.”

Arthur stepped on his foot, and got the maddening dimples which told him that Merlin was being trying for the sheer and unadulterated pleasure of it; though he made up for it, marginally, by stepping out from underneath Arthur’s arm, so that he could have a proper look at him, the measuring appraisal of a (not terribly) discerning bisexual, who was not so simple, at least, as to not notice that Arthur was practically the pinnacle of attractiveness, in regular shirt and trousers; and in a proper jacket was planting his flag at the peak of it. “You look ok, though,” Merlin said, tweaking one of his lapels a little.

Arthur cuffed him across the back of the head. “Ok.”

“Yeah. For a total arsehole.”

Lancelot had returned, and Arthur and Merlin were cordially punching one another, when the Royal Scotsman arrived, and Gwen gave a little squeal, and leapt up holding two very reasonable bags, whilst Morgana and entourage looked at Arthur expectantly.

“I am not hauling all that on the bloody train. You could have asked yourself at any point, ‘Do I need my entire closet for a week-long holiday?’ and come to a sane conclusion, but you didn’t,” Arthur said; and so having stated his piece, hauled his own rucksack over his shoulder, forsaking hers.

They were piped aboard the train, a rather troublesome portent, Arthur felt; all week people would be making noise which they felt to be music, whilst he was trying to work or read or bathe; whilst it was his right to exist with the Highlands of Scotland, doing their piece to be stunning, whilst he did his. He had his luggage taken, and was shown through into the Observation Car, which was kitted out like a lounge with armchairs and sofas, and a small balcony for watching the stars. Merlin, true to his complete lack of noticeable decorum, said, “Holy shit.” There was a decent carpet underfoot, the colour of wine; and the wood panelling was the same as he had seen in hotels of distinction. There was the bar at the end of the car, which he would need, once Morgana boarded with the Luggage, having got Gwaine to do the hauling for her, and still feeling that Arthur owed her his time and lumbar spine.

“Why did you book us a double, you weirdo?” Merlin asked when they were taken to their cabin, having shouldered ahead of Arthur, to get a look at it first, before Arthur could spoil his first impressions, by being, as Merlin put it, ‘a poncey indifferent bastard.’

“I didn’t. It’s a twin.”

“Looks like a double bed to me.”

“What?” Arthur cried, and pushed him out of the doorway. 

Merlin, contrary to all that was sane, or expected, was right: there was the one lone bed, lovely but singular. They had made it up with a little tartan duvet in the spirit of their culture, as if that would make up for the insult. “We’re supposed to have a twin room.”

“I’m sorry, sir, this is the room.” This from the liveried employee who had shown them to the cabin, and was now realising he had done something, inadvertently, to anger the kind of patron who could drop twenty-six thousand pounds on an eight-day holiday. Merlin pinched him. “It’s fine,” he reassured the man, dimpling at him. 

“It’s not fine!” Arthur cried.

“Yes, it is. If you don’t have any other rooms, and I’m assuming you don’t, otherwise you would have said so immediately, as soon as he started turning all red in the face, we can manage. He’s not the worst thing I’ve woken up to,” Merlin said, and dimpled again, this time in a way that made Arthur coincidentally sweat.

“You didn’t have to be a knob to him,” Merlin said when the man had left, tossing his blazer over the armchair. 

“I wasn’t a knob to him, he mucked up my booking!”

“He didn’t muck up your booking, and put your tits back on. I think we can survive sharing a double bed for a week. I don’t know what you’re complaining about, anyway. You’re the one who snores.”

“I do not snore,” Arthur said, outraged. “You’ll have to sleep in the armchair.”

“I’m not sleeping in the armchair.”

“Well--on the floor, then. I’m sure there’s extra bedding to be got.”

“I’m not sleeping in the armchair, or on the floor; if you’ve got a problem sharing, you’re free to kip on either one,” Merlin said, as if it were settled; and now began, with every appearance of serenity, to begin unloading his bag, into the loo, and all over the writing table and bed, as if he were entitled to the calm dispersal of his belongings, whilst Arthur was stood in the centre of the cabin, clutching at his bag, and staring. The bed was an ordinary double; no giant of its kind, but a mere representative, with no girth but the girth to accommodate them, just. Doubles were for couples who didn’t mind mingling their breath and their limbs and their--other limbs. And now he would have to share, with Merlin’s aftershave and thighs, the romantic space in the spirit of platonicness. Already Merlin had sprawled out on it, demonstrating how it was to be, for seven nights, for Arthur’s personal bubble. Already he had taken off his shoes and blazer, and put his fitted trousers all over Arthur’s bed, as if it were decent, or sensible, or respectable, to take off any clothes whatsoever, in that close, warm space in which they would have to violate the edicts of platonic accord.

“So all week, I’m to have your elbow in my ribs, and just deal with it?” Arthur demanded, still clutching at the bag on his shoulder.

“Yeah, and probably my morning wood too, but I wouldn’t worry about it; if our friendship can get past your personality, it can get past anything.”

Gwen poked her head in the door. “Hello! They’re serving afternoon tea soon.” She stopped, and looked at Merlin on the bed, and looked at Arthur, not on the bed, because he was in possession of common decency. “Why have you got a double?”

“I dunno. Apparently Arthur and I are on our honeymoon,” Merlin said, scrolling through his mobile with his thumb without looking up.

“I booked a twin,” Arthur repeated, loudly but uselessly, in the face of Merlin’s indifference, and Gwen’s eyebrow. She was giving him a Look, very capitalised. It was Arthur’s unfortunate but not unexpected cross to bear; he was one of those unlucky blokes who had got some miscreants, instead of those decent, ordinary folk of common friendship; though he had expected better from Gwen. 

“Anyway,” she said, still giving him the odd Look, “are you coming down for tea? We’re in the first dining car.”

“In a minute,” Arthur said, unloading his bag, by the satisfactory method of smacking Merlin in the face with it.

“Ow!”

“Arthur,” Gwen scolded gently, and was gone, leaving him in that strange shrunken space, where before had existed a normal-sized room; even a rather kingly one, for a train. He felt there was a sort of odd pressure round him. He felt already that he had the awareness of Merlin, before he had Merlin--his close, stifling body, in the bed, that was--the close, stifling presence, offensive if not downright repulsive; anyway, he was quite plagued, quite unsurprisingly, as he had been, all their long and troublesome friendship. 

“Get up; we’re going for tea,” he said, poking Merlin in the side, and getting a yelp out of him. 

They watched Edinburgh and the Castle vanishing beyond the windows from the dining car, whilst Lancelot ate an alarming number of canapes, and Gwen warned him, in the roundabout way of innuendo, by someone who actually knew how to make it, that he oughtn't to be too full, for the sake of--of dinner.

“And dessert,” Merlin said, in a dining car full of blazers and cocktail dresses, in a tone which specified, clearly and resoundingly, that he was not referring to a nice little jelly or sorbet.

“I thought you said you weren’t going to embarrass me on my posh train?” Arthur asked, kicking him in the shin. 

“Technically I embarrassed Gwen,” Merlin pointed out, shovelling one of the canapes into his mouth. “What are we doing tonight?” he asked, like an animal, through the canape, rather than after it.

“Drinking, I think,” Gwaine replied.

“There aren’t any excursions today,” Morgana said. “We’re getting off tomorrow at Glenfinnan, but tonight you’re free to do whatever you like, till dinner. Have some drinks, watch the scenery, break in your double bed.” She smirked at him.

Arthur rolled his eyes. “For the last time, I. Booked. A Twin.”

“He just missed me, is all,” Merlin said, turning on him a smirk almost as bothersome as Morgana’s.

“I don’t see how,” she said, sipping her tea. “I’m sure he has a little doll made of your hair that he sleeps with every night.”

“Yeah, but it just can’t live up to the real thing,” Merlin replied, ruffling it.

“I wish you’d never met. Or been born,” Arthur said pleasantly.

“Merlin, why don’t you give your bride a proper seeing-to in your double bed? He’s getting tetchy again.”

“Piss off,” Arthur said, and went to find, in the arms of some champagne, solace from the bitter reality of his genetics.