#dirty story

[thenightwrite6]

Hello this is just an intro to a series I'm writing. This is not necessarily an Oscar Issac fanfic, he is just the person I'm picturing as I'm writing this story. I have no idea where it's going to go but there will definitely be heavy smut later on. Detailed warnings to come.

The Man in the Theatre

You meet in passing. He brushes by you as you walk the theater halls and head towards the door. His eyes are dark and electric, his jaw strong and wide. When he walks by you it's almost as if a gust of wind just blew by, you nearly stop in your tracks. You had barely registered his face as he approached but the second he passed the look in his eyes locked in your memory. Your mind holds his face there like a snapshot image burned behind your eyes.

Finding a seat in the dark rows of the local theatre, you settle in for the show and soon lose yourself in the performances. You let the memory of the man fade like the spark on a candle's wick until it turns to smoke and diffuses in the back of your mind. That is until you turn your head to reach for something in your coat pocket and realize he is sitting only a few seats down from you. Your breath catches in your throat as the flame on that candle swiftly ignites again burning in your mind like the first glance of him did. You sit back and stare straight ahead trying to pay attention to the show, but his presence is like flame drawing your attention as if you were a moth. It takes a lot of effort to act like you are enjoying the show after that. You try to shake it off and figure out what’s happening to you, men don’t have this effect on you, nobody does. You try not to look but your sideways glances take note of his rigid profile, strong nose, and wavy black hair. He never smiles or laughs at the performers he just gazes intently in silence.

At one point he turns his head and looks right at you and your heart stops. He must feel attention on him, he must have picked up on your stealthy glances. You try to look as absorbed in the show as you can but he keeps looking your way. After a minute, you force the courage to look back at him and he smiles right at you. You blush and smile back before turning to the show, your heart beating like a rabbit being chased for the hunt.

[estherdiehl]

If I am this sharp / I would rather not be. I preen the feathers of your tribute, and they sag forward. Dulled / luster, I would rather be prone than hard-won.

Anne Marie Rooney, “Dirty Story”

[proxycrit]

LINKTOBER DAY 7: goron hot springs!

Link and zelda are sent to death mountain to “deal with the problem” via Purah. Yunobo is tired.

(Recasting Death Mountain to be slightly on fire! I love it when things are on fire.)

More of my zelda au here! (It’s totk without the time travel)

My patreon’s here if youd like to support my crimes :0

[inkskinned]

no, actually, where is the whimsy?

my ex had a best friend named larry who asked me once: what do you think comes after irony?

we were at the bar where larry worked. it was a quiet night, and he'd hopped over to sit with us on the patron side. i swirled the lemon around my limoncello martini.

earnest positivity, i said, while my ex said, art self-destructs.

i stared at my ex. he stared at me.

his argument was the cinemasins argument: look how bad media is becoming! look at the loopholes and the dumb shit!

it was roughly 2011. galaxy print was still in. at the time, i had a favorite shirt that was a wolf howling at the moon. it got ripped in half in the wash and i honestly still mourn it. i dressed like effie stonem, because everyone did. and irony was the name of the thing. men liked MLP "ironically." the internet liked the kind of crass, "anti-mainstream" vibes of things like fuck romance, touch my butt and buy me pizza. we put cats in sunglasses everywhere, which was because we only liked things in irony.

and media had the same vibe in it: anti-hero white men would be "hard to love" and then storm off the scene. nobody was just earnestly trying to save the world: they were jaded, angry, unoriginal. mad you even asked them to try to help.

my ex ends up not being wrong. cinemasins becomes super popular. a lot of people start viewing media with this lens that is the cruelest, most jaded depiction. it's wrong for your character to have unexplained powers, even if the entire movie is about how strange it is she has unexplained powers - that is still considered a "loophole." characters make thoughtless, panicked choices? loophole. characters are actually kind people, despite hardship? loophole. features a woman doing literally anything without assistance? loophole. movies become hyper-aware of scrutiny, and now irony rules the media.

which means you go to a movie, and the character has to turn to the screen and say "beats me!!" or one of the side characters has to have some kind of quip like "are you seriously telling me that you think this is normal?" because nothing can happen in earnest. like a sitcom laugh track, we now anticipate the fourth-wall break: the moment that the media acknowledges it is telling a story. the media has to apologize for itself, or else someone like my ex rolls their eyes.

but here's the thing: i wasn't wrong either.

the difference might be that i am (and always have been) so soft-hearted that any crack in the light of this world will spear me into the ground. and i was the poet in the relationship. (he thought that was the same thing as being naïve and stupid). i was making things daily. i knew how all of us artists are driven by some strange desire to evolve. he notably liked to critique art, not to create it.

so yes, i've made things that are bitter and angry and even ironic. i've made long, sharp poems with all capital letters, and i've made poems about how the silence stretches out like a song. someone wrote once that we will spend our whole lives just circling the place we grew up. i think it's more that we spend our whole lives trying to remake a home. i think it's that as we age, it becomes less exciting to build the castle on the beach - we become aware of erosion, of windforce. we realize what we really want is to come home to our dog, castle or not.

and while art in the foreground is mired in white male violence and irony, and aggression, and not taking anything seriously - i don't think that's true of all art. i think more and more artists are leaning in to the things we love. the world has changed so much. they have taken so many things from us. the only thing we have left is love. at the bottom of the moving box - all we get is the faint sense that we have to appreciate what little we've got. i can't enjoy this stuff ironically anymore: what room do i have for irony? if it makes me happy, that is an amazing thing. there are so few happy places left for me. i want to be happy because of how leaves shiver beside each other like nestling birds. i want to be happy because of the color pink, and how magenta doesn't exist. i have spent so much of this life suffering, i have earned my right to a gentle ending. if nothing matters, i get to assign meaning to the nothing. i get to create meaning. i am an artist first and foremost, which means creation is my thing.

where is the whimsy? wherever i fucking put it. because if this is my last fucking chance to do any good in this world - i want to do it earnestly. i want to write things that make you happy. that make people feel heard and seen. what comes after irony has to be positivity.

it was close to my 21st birthday. in 7 years, i would end up writing a book about this relationship, which is hopefully coming out somewhere around May 2024. i come back to this bar scene in my memories a lot. i keep thinking of how pale my ex was. the look that crossed his face. how i looked back at him. how for a moment, both of us couldn't recognize the other person. like the gulf between us was a suddenly wide and cavernous thing. like we were alien to each other. he never took my opinion seriously, and he always seemed surprised whenever his manic-pixie-dream-girl ever broke free of the plot. like in the whole time we were together, i wasn't human enough.

this knowledge: where he said nothing comes after, my only instinct was what comes after is love.

[foldingfittedsheets]

I am a little creature largely made up of anxieties. There have been times in my life when it was worse. It’s currently significantly better. This story takes place at a time when it was pretty bad.

Food was a prison for me. I moved out early with very little idea of how to feed or care for myself. Every meal was a question mark. For three years I had Brendan doing most of the cooking but when things ended between us I moved in with some other friends. I suddenly had no way to feed myself again.

I was working at the sex shop and living with all my coworkers; a premise that would make sitcom writers weep. In that house, at the age of 24, I learned how to fry an egg. It was the only thing I knew how to do but by god, I mastered egg frying. I was so proud. I could now have one stress free meal a day of an egg on toast.

The problem was my roommates. Living with three other people is already tough but messes pile up alarmingly fast, especially in the kitchen. No one sees the whole mess as their responsibility but the one person who’s responsibility it absolutely wasn’t was mine, as I only ever cooked eggs. Glaciers moved quicker than the dishes got done, mountains of greasy unwashed dish ware were fixtures across the counters.

My friends occasionally cooked for me and each time I happily cleaned all the resulting dishes. This seemed fair.

But on my own I only used three implements for my egg. When I finished with my spatula, pan, and plate, I carefully washed them and set them to dry. Every time I came back to the kitchen there was nothing clean.

Crusted on ketchup, dried food, and unsavory residues plagued everything I needed to touch. So I ended up doing all the dishes twice, once to use my three implements and again once I was done.

I started to realize I’d come home, see the filthy pile of dishes, then go to bed without eating because I didn’t have the energy to wash it all. So I finally addressed my roommates about it. Please, I beseeched them, can these three things always be clean. I cannot function like this, and eating is already hard for me.

The answer returned: no. My request was deemed unreasonable and a counteroffer was made to turn off the small space heater I ran in my room in exchange for them magnanimously cleaning up after themselves. I declined, as my bones ached with cold everywhere except my room since no one else wanted the heat on. The impasse continued. I went to be hungry.

I noodled on it. I schemed. I plotted. And on my day off I went to a thrift shop and acquired a nice little pan and spatula. I squirreled them away into my closet. The plan was just to wash and dry it after meals and keep it in my room.

This is not how it went down. On day one of my pan coming home one of my roommates popped into my room to chat, glanced into my three quarters shut closet and immediately said, “What is that?”

I sighed and admitted my plan. All three roommates roundly condemned my plan as extremely passive aggressive. I tried once again to explain that I wasn’t eating, but my secret pan was now a source of contention, a precious resource held back from the collective.

Their discontent reached a fever pitch and I finally declared, “Fine! I will put my pan in the kitchen. On one condition. If I ever find this pan dirty, ever, I will scrape whatever is left on it into your bedding. I swear to god, if I ever come home to it being dirty there will be a reckoning.”

Terms were agreed.

The first month or two went okay. On the third month I awoke to eat breakfast and found my precious pan sullied. I grabbed it and marched upstairs. Betty was named as the culprit. I strode into Betty’s room and stood over her sleeping form like the vengeful ghost of dishes past.

“If you don’t get up and clean this right now I’m going to dump it on your bed.”

Betty groggily regarded me. “Seriously?”

“I have never been more serious.”

“It’s one time, can’t you just clean it yourself?”

“No. You promised.”

With much huffing and grousing Betty arose from bed and tromped downstairs, hastily cleaning my pan while I watched. “Happy?” She demanded.

I was. I made my egg, cheerfully cleaning the pan afterward, leaving it to dry.

[egbluh]

holding onto the remains of my innocence.

[thef1diary]

Me after reading more Ghost! Max : aksfnafgextjagwtdbtbdtdydhd

Okay wait, walk with me while I try and explain this... Ghost! Max being a menace/getting jealous while you're getting ready to go out on a date, it starts in the shower (subtle at first) and he doesn't stop until you're trembling and cancelling the date (do you see the vision 🫣🤭) - 💜

— mhm I see your vision 🤭 you’re his…why don’t you understand that? By now he’s memorized every inch of your body, so what makes you think he’ll let another man—a living man—do the same? 18+ content below

Steam clouded the bathroom, the heat curling around your skin as you let the water cascade over you. Tonight was supposed to be a fresh start—a proper date after months of staying in. But as you washed your hair, rinsing out the shampoo, you felt it: a presence, warm and unyielding, pressing against your back.

“Max,” you muttered, your tone half-warning, half-exasperated.

There was no response, just the unmistakable sensation of hands sliding down your arms, ghosting over your sides, then gripping your hips. You shivered, the touch firm and possessive, pinning you in place. Before you could react, the showerhead in your hand twisted out of your grip, its spray redirected downward.

“Max,” you hissed again, a sharp gasp cutting off your protest as the stream of water landed between your legs, the relentless pressure hitting your clit perfectly.

“Oh fuck,” you whispered, the force of it made your knees wobble, but Max’s invisible weight pressed against your back kept you upright. 

The spray pulsed, perfectly targeted, and your body betrayed you, hips bucking forward into the water. Your breath hitched, soft moans escaping as the pressure built, the pleasure mounting with every second.

You tried to shift, to catch your breath, but he wasn’t letting you go. “Max, please,” you whimpered, though you weren’t even sure if you were begging him to stop or to push you further.

Your nails scraped against the tiles as your orgasm overtook you, pleasure crashing through you in sharp, breathless waves. The spray kept going, prolonging the sensation until your legs nearly gave out, your body sagging against the wall.

When the water finally shifted away, you were left panting, your thighs trembling as Max’s presence lingered, teasingly brushing along your spine before retreating.

In the bedroom, you sat on the edge of the bed, breathless as you reached for the spirit box. The small device crackled to life, the static filling the room as you whispered, “oh my God—”

“Not God,” came his distorted voice, deep and teasing, the sound making your stomach flip.

Your annoyance faltered as the air around you shifted again, his touch returning, this time firmer, more deliberate. Fingers ghosted over your towel, tugging it loose and exposing your damp, bare skin. You inhaled sharply, your nipples hardening as the cool air met your chest.

“You’re not going anywhere,” his voice crackled through the box, low and guttural.

You didn’t even have time to argue before he pushed you to lie down onto the mattress, invisible hands spreading your legs. The phantom pressure was stronger now, dragging his fingers through your folds, circling your clit until you arched off the bed.

“Max,” you moaned, your voice trembling.

His grip tightened, one hand pinning your hips while another teased your hole, sliding inside with an agonizingly slow stretch. You clenched around them, the sensation somehow too much and not enough all at once.

“You’re so fucking wet,” the spirit box rasped, his words breaking into static before returning. “Such a slut. Planning on going on a date with someone else while you’re aching and needy for me?” 

Your fingers gripped the sheets as his invisible touch fucked into you, thrusting harder, deeper, the pressure relentless. It didn’t take long until you cried out. another orgasm ripping through you as he pushed you over the edge with his fingers. 

The spirit box buzzed again. “Two’s not enough, schatje.”

The words barely registered in your mind before his grip returned, flipping you onto your stomach. Your ass lifted instinctively, and his hands smoothed over your skin, squeezing and kneading as he slid his cock along your lips before thrusting in your cunt. 

By the time you reached your third and fourth orgasm, your body was trembling, every nerve alight. The spirit box continued to buzz and crackle, Max’s groans and filthy praises filling the room as he worked you through each release.

When he finally relented, you lay sprawled on the bed, completely wrecked, your chest heaving and your body covered in a thin sheen of sweat. Somewhere across the room, your phone buzzed, no doubt your date wondering where you were.

Max’s voice cut through the spirit box one last time, low and smug. “Looks like you’re staying in tonight.”

want more ghost!max? send me an ask with your filthiest thoughts and it’ll get answered during one of my dirty drabble days

[elzhiez]

sevika nation, we won, but at what cost?

[royaltea000]

I love Bai Long Ma he truly don’t gaf

[contact-guy]

the end of SIGN OF THE FOUR is so funny because Holmes, Watson, and the police retrieve an immensely valuable treasure locked in a box and Holmes is like 'my buddy wants to show the treasure to this girl he's into, that cool?' and the police just...let him do it. Completely unobserved as he takes the treasure box to Mary Morstan and forces the lock open. Then Watson comes back like 'funny story!! there was nothing in the box!' and no one questions him further. Anyway, I'm writing Gay Watson AU but can someone write Criminal Mary and Watson AU where they steal the Agra treasure and go on the run and Holmes has to catch them (and then lets them go as a wedding present)

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Call that a Cave Story.

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[mariaforeverfangirl]

SMOSH ON DIRTY LAUNDRY I REPEAT SMOSH ON DIRTY LAUNDRY

[grif-hawaiian-rolls]

Blue Team movie STORY night!

This week it's Junior's turn to be narrator

[thef1diary]

Been thinking about dirtbag! Danny around the holidays. If y'all went to see your family at say a party or something, would he be the perfect little saint? Or would he be his normal self? And when you two "accidentally" get caught under the mistletoe, would he hold back, or would he ravage you right there in front of everyone?

I'm having so many thoughts

-🐍

— why would you choose dirtbag!danny as a plus one to your family’s Christmas party? Well, you thought he was the best, safest option compared to a random date you didn’t know well, he’s the closest thing to a boyfriend without the label after all. 18+ content below

Daniel was supposed to be your safest option, the perfect fake boyfriend to bring home for the holidays. Sure, he was a little rough around the edges, but he was charming when he wanted to be—a people-pleaser with a quick wit and a dazzling smile. Your family wouldn’t question him, and you figured he’d play along without a hitch.

But you’d made one fatal miscalculation: Daniel was a menace, a dirtbag to his core.

As far as your family knew, he was perfect—polite, helpful, even borderline sweet as he laughed at your dad’s bad jokes, helped your mom carry in trays of cookies, and even complimented your aunt’s questionable fruitcake.

But the moment he was out of their line of sight, his true colours shone through.

“You look so sweet when you pretend to behave,” he murmured, leaning in under the guise of whispering something festive. His lips brushed the shell of your ear, his warm breath sending a shiver down your spine. “Makes me wanna bend you over the dining table and see how fast I can ruin that innocent little act.”

Your cheeks burned, and you shot him a warning glare, but his grin only widened. His hand found your waist, fingers grazing just low enough to make your heart race, and he gave a small squeeze before stepping away, leaving you to stew in the heat he’d ignited.

Later, when no one was looking, he cornered you in the kitchen. His hands caged you in against the counter as he leaned in, his lips brushing against your neck, just below your ear.

“Bet you’re wearing something cute under this dress,” he muttered, his voice a low, teasing rasp. “Maybe I’ll find out later. Slip my hand up your thigh while everyone’s busy singing carols. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Danny,” you hissed, pushing at his chest, but he didn’t budge.

“Relax, sweetheart,” he said, his grin infuriatingly cocky. “You’re the one who dragged me into this little charade. Might as well make it fun, yeah?”

He stole a quick squeeze of your ass before stepping back, leaving you flustered and furious as he returned to the living room like nothing had happened.

It wasn’t long before someone spotted the mistletoe hanging above the archway, and of course, Daniel wasted no time dragging you beneath it. “Well, well,” he drawled, his grin wicked as the room erupted into cheers and teasing whistles. “Looks like we’ve got no choice, love.”

Danny,” you hissed, your face already flushing as your cousins and parents egged you on, half-laughing, half-embarrassed. “Just a quick one, okay?”

He smirked, tilting his head, the devil gleaming in his eyes. “Quick? Oh, sweetheart, you wound me.”

Before you could respond, his lips were on yours—hot, demanding, utterly unrestrained. He kissed you like the room wasn’t full of your family, like no one else existed. His hands slid down to grab your ass, pulling you flush against him, and he groaned into your mouth, deep and shameless.

Someone gasped. Someone else laughed nervously. But Daniel didn’t care. He kissed you like he wanted to leave a mark, like he needed everyone to know exactly who you belonged to.

When he finally pulled back, your lips were swollen, your head spinning, and his smug smirk was back in full force. “Merry Christmas, sweetheart,” he said, loud enough for everyone to hear. Then, quieter, just for you: “Later, I’m gonna have you bent over your childhood bed, biting that pillow to keep quiet. Bet you’ll be thinking twice about calling me a safe option.”

want more dirtbag!danny? send me an ask with your filthiest thoughts and it’ll get answered during one of my dirty drabble days

[hazmatmaid]

Spamtober 11 - COWBOY SHOW

He's got the Horses in the bag Horses in the bag Horses in the bag Horses in the bag

[riyo-soka]

Why tf were the dog and Crosshair consistently better at sensing incoming danger than the guy who was literally engineered in a lab to sense incoming danger. You’re telling me that when a brainwashed assassin ordered to capture Omega was literally in the same room as him, Hunter “overprotective father figure” badbatch couldn’t pick up on that but their new dog did?