#Arthur Miller: Writer

[animasola86]

SMUT DRABBLES*: Tension Relief

A/N: The longest *drabble yet, but still short enough. Just a little smut scene I had to get out of my head. Like always, you can imagine any character here, it's just a man and a woman, no descriptions whatsoever (pics are just to set the mood). Today we'll have a mixture of semi-public and free use, a handjob, fingering and unprotected sex in a public restroom. This works wherever shopping in crowded areas is a thing.

WARNING: NSFW! Explicit sexual content! // WORDS: 1.6k // AO3

He's tense. She can tell by how hard he squeezes her hand as they walk through the crowds around them. Chatter, laughter, crying children, screaming parents alongside different music blasting from different directions, merging into something you can only describe as noise, a typical soundscape on a busy day like this. Maybe shopping has not been the best idea she's had this morning. He's still agreed to come with her.

Under one condition. “When I need you, I'll take you,” he's said with a dark glint in his eyes, and she's nodded, with her stomach twisting in anticipation, that feeling of fear of humiliation, and suspense and excitement of the unknown. He's always rather unpredictable, even in their own home.

And she can't even imagine what he's capable of in public if given the chance to do anything to her. But luckily for her, he's willing to demonstrate.

It's a tug to her wrist, a demanding gesture, as he drags her through the crowds, past overwhelmed parents trying to calm their tense children, past a couple of elderly women looking around in confusion in search of their next destination. He knows exactly where to go, doesn't even look around while she steals nervous glances back over her shoulder as he heads straight for the women's restroom.

The door closes behind her, and he's on her in no time, hands cupping her face, eager lips closing around hers, his warm tongue forcing between them, and she can only grab his wrists for support as he pushes her backwards into an open stall. Her back hits the side wall with a thud at the same time as he slams the door shut with his shoe, causing her to gasp, but he only kisses her harder, one hand moving down to her throat, while the other moves down between them.

There's the clink of his belt, the plop of the button, scratch of the zipper, shifting of fabric, before he grabs her hand and puts it around his hard cock. No wonder he's been so tense. He's swollen, veins bulging against her palm, precum leaking from his tip. She pumps him slowly, and he growls into her mouth, squeezing her throat, urging her on. Her other hand finds his girth, and she strokes him in twisting motions, moving his hot skin over his hardened core, up and down, fist around his tip, fingers massaging his tight balls.

His hand slips under her dress, hot and heavy and urgent, finds the hem of her panties, pushes it aside, his fingers swiping through her folds. She's not nearly as ready as he is, but he doesn't care. Gives her clit a few pinches, rubs through her slit until he's content with the slick gathering between her thighs. She's breathing hard against his lips as he leans back a little, forehead pressed to hers, eyes dark, pupils dilated in hunger.

She squeaks quietly when he pushes a finger into her heat, deep and rough, working his way into her, then adds another, stretches her more. She's grateful for the preparation, no matter how little it is. There's the unmistakable noise of wetness squelching between fingers, and she shivers, her legs trembling.

Up until now she's been too preoccupied with stroking his cock and kissing him, pinned to the wall, save against his body, but then the door to the restroom opens, and a couple of chatting women enters, quickly moving into the stalls left and right of them.

While she freezes in her movements, eyes wide before they move towards the little gap between the door and wall of the stall they're in, hoping he's at least locked it, he keeps fingering her, almost as if he wants those other people to hear how wet she is, how wet he makes her. The hand on her throat pushes up to lift her chin, and she looks at him, holding her breath, while he smirks at her, eyes darker than usual.

He coaxes a little gasp out of her when he dips his fingers as deep as his knuckles allow, making her thighs twitch as he curls them inside her, scraping over that sensitive spot. She presses her lips into a thin line, panting through her nose. The women beside them flush at almost the same time, and he uses the noise (and she's thankful he does) to let go of her, then grab her hips instead and whirl her around until she has to brace herself on the toilet seat, bent forwards, while he flips the skirt of her dress up and pushes her panties down her legs.

Meaningless chatter fills the small room as the women wash their hands, and as they do, he steps closer and guides his hard cock towards her entrance. She bites her lip, forcing herself to remain quiet, but when he pushes in with one swift roll of his hips, a croaking squeak escapes her, and to her utter horror, the women pause mid-conversation. He's quick to move and leans over her to put his fingers between her lips to silence her, his palm cupping her chin to hold her in place.

She tastes herself as he pushes his rough fingertips onto her tongue while simultaneously pushing his length deeper into her tight warmth. Her body shudders under the stimulation, her arms shaking badly beneath her, fingers curling around the lid of the seat. She barely notices the women finally leaving, but once the door falls shut behind them, he really starts to move – and that, she notices.

The hand on her mouth pulls her back against him, spine arched as he presses her shoulder into his chest, fingers slipping deeper, teasing at the back of her throat, while his other hand is flat on her stomach, holding her against him, as he snaps his hips into her with reckless abandon. No easing into it, no gentle rolls, just rapid pounding, needy rutting, impaling her, filling her, using her.

She grabs his wrist, trying to hold onto him as her legs become weaker and weaker, his relentless assault quickly overwhelming her as pleasure mixes with pain and swirls inside her head like a strange kind of vertigo. In and out he goes, body slamming into hers, strong thighs bracing behind her, her hands clawing at him desperately. She moans against his fingers, and he pushes them deeper until she has to gag around them, spit filling her mouth, body convulsing uncontrollably, cunt clenching around his thick cock, and he groans in her ear, folding them over until she has to brace herself on the toilet seat again.

He lets go of her mouth, strands of saliva trailing from her lips to his fingers before they snap when he puts his hands on her hips, digits digging into soft flesh, and keeps rutting into her like a feral dog. Her arms give way, and she sinks lower, leaning on her forearms on the lid, teeth gritted before she bites down onto her wrist to keep her noises down. Knees shaking, legs spread as wide as her panties around her ankles allow, as he slams into her over and over again.

She's succumbing to the sensations, but she still hears the quiet noise of other people entering the restroom. Somehow she couldn't care less, and he doesn't seem to either as he keeps pounding into her, skin slapping against skin, her wetness squelching out of her with every deep plunge. Her muffled moans are quiet but there, as are his low little grunts.

The door of a stall to their right is being closed, lid opened with a thud, and it's that moment as he pulls her hips to him to sink in as far as possible, burying himself balls deep inside her before he comes with a suppressed little groan, arms wrapping around her waist as he holds onto her. She can feel him twitching and throbbing inside her, her own muscles contracting, squeezing him, milking him of every drop as he paints her insides with his hot seed.

She buries her face in her arms, grateful he's holding her up as her legs give way. Her chest aches, stomach still tense, squeezed by his tight grip. Head spinning, barely registering anything but him behind her, inside her, filling her up with every twitch of his balls. A flush next to them, footsteps, water running. She doesn't care.

He holds her for a few more moments, panting into her ear as he leans over her, his hot breath fanning over her cheek as she turns her head slightly. She feels him relaxing against her, and eventually he leans back, hands holding her waist as he pulls out of her clenching cunt. Something warm and sticky drips down between her legs, and his hands leave her when he bends down and pulls her panties back up.

Helping her upright again, he turns her around, cups her flushed cheek and smiles down at her. She looks at him out of hooded eyes, still feeling his rapid thrusts shuddering through her body like an echo. With every clench of her muscles, more of his cum seeps out of her and into her already soaked underwear. While she tries to get her bearings, he fixes her dress, puts his spent cock back into his pants, and leans down to kiss her softly, wiping at the spit still caked to her chin.

And as if nothing happened, he grabs her hand, unlocks the door and leaves the restroom with her, sinking back into the anonymous crowd, into the soundscape of a busy day, his hand loose around hers, relaxed and tension-free, while her knees are shaking and the dampness between her thighs threatens to spill past the hem of her panties and down her leg.

MASTERLIST // AO3 // ORIGINAL WORKS

MORE SMUT DRABBLES:

A steamy shower

Toy

Car Inspection

Sleepy

[revengesthings]

guys am i crazy for when i want to read a "joel x reader" or a "arthur morgan x reader" i don't want an age gap? like please let me be old and also be with an old guy. age gaps just lowkey turn me off. maybe it's because of the character? like c!joel would never date anyone way younger, freshly 18, or a minor... and c!arthur morgan? okay I understand maybe an age gap for the time... maybe. but he wouldn't just fuck an 18 year old, that seems out of his character. idk man. just doesn't settle right within me. i want to be an older woman, maybe a single mom, maybe a widow, and have joel miller romance me. none of that "your dad doesn't approve of me cause we're the same age" stuff. guys am i crazy? maybe i need to get laid.

[baskaromai]

miller, the man you are.

[bibliophiliac-bisexual-disaster]

You know how I know that AI will never be able to create like a human? Whether that be painting or writing or film-making?

Because no computer, no algorithm, no matter how good, can tell a story like a human can.

Shakespeare wrote his most famous tragedies from the mire of grief from losing his son to the plague. Oscar Wilde's "A Picture of Dorian Gray" had such overtly homosexual themes that the book was literally used against him when he was on trial. The shock and horror of 9/11 inspired My Chemical Romance to come together and capture the sense of disillusionment of young people at the time. Hozier today writes his songs expressing what it means to be an increasingly fascist world while still holding an enduring love of humanity. Arthur Miller wrote "The Crucible" using the witch hunts as a thinly veiled allegory to criticize McCarthyism in the 50s, a play that did, in fact have him persecuted for "contempt of congress". An entire period of Picasso's art was noticeably influenced by the suicide of his friend, but he also had other works that were inspired by his various love affairs.

If you still think AI could eventually create like that, you're missing the point. You think it's about skill, you think it's just about craft. We're aware that AI can learn any skill, excel at craft. But a story isn't the words you use, or the events that happened; a story is the person that tells it and the beauty they felt that they share with you when you experience the art. Because art itself isnt about the perfection of its presentation, its the messiness of the human experience. Your AI has no life, it has no story, it can make as many esthetically pleasing works as you want, but it cannot make art.

[lil-oreo-crumbles]

As much as I appreciate the historical context of what actually happened during the Salem Witch Trials and what it brings to the table when discussing The Crucible, I hate it when it’s brought up during my discussions with others about the play.

As a huge defender and unapologetic lover of Abigail Williams, and someone who tends to hyperfocus on the aspect of The Crucible involving her and the John Proctor affair plot, she’s the topic that’s the most relevant when this happens. I hate it when I’m happily discussing the play and going through her characterization and backstory, along with the uncomfortable aspects of the Proctor affair, and someone brings up history. “You know that she was 11 in history and John Proctor was in his 60s, so the affair never actually happened, right?”

Yes. I know. I’m aware.

We can iron out and discuss all of the weird implications in Arthur Miller aging Abigail up and aging John down to enhance the dramatic (fictional) affair between the two of them all we want, but that is a different discussion entirely. I don’t appreciate it when it’s lumped in during a discussion of the text itself. Yes, I know Abigail was 11 in history, but I’m not talking about that Abigail Williams. I’m talking about the 17 year old Abigail Williams portrayed in The Crucible, a fictional character. A character who I read as fictional. The play isn’t history; it was never supposed to be history. It was supposed to be a parallel to the mass hysteria happening around the time it was written: The Red Scare, McCarthyism, and the Hollywood Blacklist. A mass hysteria that Miller drew parallels to the Salem Witch Trials. The affair was added for dramatics, to make the story more compelling and add personal motivation to Abigail leading the girls to accuse the supposed “witches” of Salem. It’s supposed to reflect history, not be a 1 for 1 retelling of historical events.

The Crucible is a piece of fiction, a story, and when I speak about it I’m talking exclusively about it as a piece of fiction. The Abigail I discuss is the Abigail in The Crucible with the given personality and backstory the play provides.

I frankly do not give a shit about the real Abigail Williams when talking about The Crucible’s Abby, she’s irrelevant and almost completely removed from this variant of her. The version of Abigail in my Crucible rewrite “Salem’s Bond” is taken exclusively from The Crucible with no ties to reality.

The Crucible is a piece of fiction, and when talking about it I intend to treat it as such, and only bring up history when relevant.

[thepursuitofunderstanding]

The best work that anybody ever writes is the work that is on the verge of embarrassing him, always.

Arthur Miller

[di-writes-stuff]

Masterlist + Rules for Requests 🖤🤍

Requests:

Current Characters I’m writing for: Joel Miller, Alex Keller, John Price, Arthur Morgan, Derek Shepherd, Greg House.

Things I won’t do:

🖤 If there’s ever a request I’m just not comfortable with I won’t write it. There’s not really any other strict guidelines. Obviously no pro-shipper kind of content, or just anything that you objectively know isn’t okay.

🤍 I’m okay with covering sensitive topics like violence, trauma, mental illness, but again, if there’s anything I’m not willing to write, I just won’t.

……………………………………………………………………………………

Masterlist:

🖤 Joel Miller:

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

🤍 Derek Shepherd:

The Very First Night - One Shot

🖤 Captain John Price:

Known - One Shot

Let The Light In - One Shot

You Are In Love - One Shot

🤍 Arthur Morgan:

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

!! Currently Discontinued. Might revisit later, who knows !!

🖤 Alex Keller:

The Story Of Us - One Shot

Shrike - One Shot

🤍 Philip Graves:

Sad Beautiful Tragic - One Shot

🖤 Greg House:

loml - One Shot

New Year’s Day - One Shot

🤍 Jake “Hangman” Seresin:

Chapter 1

[lmirtziess]

Hellloooo lovelies!! I’ll be using this page for my silly little Joel miller fanfics (maybe some Arthur Morgan aswell.) but i’d say mostly Joel. My writing isn’t gonna be very good ima just put that out there, i am not a writer, i fear i am just a girl who loves cowboys with the unfortunate curse of gsce’s on the side.

I’m more of a C.ai bot creator, although i’ve been a bit inactive there lately but i’ve been planning on getting back into Bot making along with fanfic writing or whatever!! I got a discord set up, i wouldn’t say it’s fully completed yet but it’s working haha, the link to my C.ai account and my discord will be below.

Working on a Joel miller fanfic currently, just a small one shot, to get into writing :)

C.ai link:

Discord link:

[thechemistwhowritesstories]

How hurt was Arthur Miller when he wrote,

I may think of you softly from time to time. But I'll cut off my hand before I ever reach for you again.

[didierleclair]

[navybrat817]

I saw you reblog a Raleigh Becket set. Would you ever write for him?

I would, nonnie! Raleigh deserves the love.

Other Charlie Hunnam characters I'd write for...

William Miller

Jax Teller

Raymond Smith

King Arthur

Kai

Love and thanks! ❤️

[animasola86]

SMUT DRABBLES*: Car Inspection

A/N: Yet another little smut scene, *no longer a drabble (Drabble? Who's she?), but still short. Like with my other drabbles, you can imagine any character you want here, it's usually just a man and a woman having a good time. Today I give you oral sex, cunnilingus, fingering, unprotected sex and creampies. And cars (so think up an AU where it works, if you will).

WARNING: NSFW! Explicit sexual content! // WORDS: 1.3k // AO3

“Lemme take a look under the hood, miss,” he's said, and now she's sitting on the warm metal, gripping his broad shoulders, legs held open by strong hands, while he has his head buried under her skirt.

His tongue is as hot as the sun batting down on them, licking through her folds with fervor and certainty, expert motions, warm lips, teasing teeth, kissing, sucking, nibbling, pulling her sensitive skin into his mouth, nose rubbing against her clit.

He's lapping at her like a man starved, the slurping and squelching noises mixing with the chirp of cicadas, the subtle squeak of the car beneath her, her own rapid breaths. He's good, knows what to do, where to look and lick. She's come to the right place.

Her skirt obstructs the view, but she's still on display, writhing and squirming, bare feet squeaking over the metal hood in an attempt to anchor herself. He's ruthless in his assault, focusing now fully on that sensitive bundle of nerves, flicking his tongue around it, laving it, sucking on it.

She's losing it, her head spinning, it's too hot, the air is stale and dry, and her lungs are protesting. The tension in her belly is like a burning thing, growing and expanding, filling her out like she wishes he would fill her out.

He groans into her, the sound vibrating through her clenching cunt. His hands move, one big palm pressed to her stomach, forcing her down on her back, the other slipping under the tent of her skirt as well. He's teasing her, nibbling on her clit while his fingers slide through her slick before they take a dip into her heat, plunging deep, two at once, pushing in and out, scissoring inside her, stretching, massaging, curling against that sweet spot.

She arches her back, shoulders pressed into the hood, cries out, thighs trembling around his shoulders, her own shaking hand gripping at his wrist, nails sinking into his skin before he slips his long fingers between hers, holding her hand, heavy on her stomach. He pumps his other digits into her, licks her clit, the tension explodes within her. Their joined hands hold her down when she convulses, jerks her hips against his face and fingers, shivering under the hot sun.

He licks up every drop with broad strokes of his tongue, his fingers moving slower, bringing her down gently before they retreat, gripping her twitching thigh, warm and slick and strong, while he pushes his mouth to her lower lips, kisses her deeply, tongue pressing into her quivering hole.

She wails again, quietly in the open space, her voice drowned by the screeching insects trying to be louder.

He's shifting, emerging from under her skirt, nose and lips and chin glistening in her juices, hair messy, face flushed. She's also red in the face, panting, trying to avoid those hungry eyes. His hands find her warm cheeks when he straightens up, towering over her.

His kiss tastes tangy, salty, sweet, all at once and more, her own taste on his tongue as he claims her mouth. She moans into it, clinging to his bare back, sweat slick and strong, muscles flexing beneath sun touched skin. He pushes her up the hood of the car, his hips between her shaking legs, pinning her down, skirt flipped up entirely now. His body is blocking the view, she couldn't care less who sees her.

With his tongue wrestling hers, he grips her waist, one hand disappearing between them, the clink of a belt, the whirring scrape of a zipper, a little groan when he grips his cock and guides it to her dripping cunt. She moans into his mouth, fingernails sinking into his skin while he sinks into her, small frantic rolls of his hips as he slowly fucks her open, stretches her, fills her, in and out, inch by inch until he's bottomed out.

His hands on her hips pull her into him, closer, deeper, her legs spasm against him before she hooks them around his thick thighs. Muscles flex under denim, his grip rough as he starts pulling out to slam back in, over and over again, his grunts as loud as her moans, the kiss messy and breathless.

She's lightheaded, sun-burnt, a sweaty mess in his strong grip, her hands gripping at his waist, leaving angry crescent-shaped marks as she squirms against him, trying to meet his thrusts.

He leans back, leaving her tingling lips, presses his forehead to hers, eyes staring into her soul, warm and dark and mesmerizing, hungry, breaths hot and dizzying, mingling. His hips slam into her slower, deeper, setting an excruciating rhythm, taunting, teasing, slow and steady while they're both burning under the sun, the heat inside her belly almost as unbearable.

She's whimpering, grinding her pelvis into him, digs her heels into his lower back, eyes pleading. The smirk on his lips makes her angry, growling through her gritted teeth. His hands tighten around her hips, fingers bruising, and when he leans back fully, a barely there shadow falling onto her shaking body, looking down at her, he stops moving altogether, cock hard and swollen inside her clenching cunt.

She wants to protest, whine, beg, but he only looks at her, tilting his head, before he slowly moves back, cockhead scraping against her tight walls, before he slams back in with a force that makes her yelp, flinch, cry out, as he hits her deepest spot, tip squished against her cervix.

The pain is there, sharp, short, dissipating slowly before it's back, dragging retreat, the hint of reprieve, then another deep stab, hard, fast, agonizing. Again and again, until he grows impatient and just hammers into her, her moans and cries broken up, voice strained, helpless, as his cock pistons in and out, rough and unrelenting, and all she can do is take it.

He grunts, sweat running down his temple, a fine sheen on his bare torso, muscles flexing, his teeth bared and gritted, hands digging into her soft skin. Pull, push, stab. Pull, push, stab. Her own sweat mixes with tears, her cries soundless little puffs of air, her head filled with vertigo and bliss, pain and pleasure. One big hand splayed on her hip, the other moving between them, thumb pressing hard against her clit, and she yelps again, and again, coming hard around his pounding cock, juices coating his length, squelching out with every deep slam.

The car is rocking beneath them, suspension squeaking, needs to be oiled. She's come to the right place. Come at the right place. Over and over again until she's a boneless mess, lying on the hood of her car, arms splayed out beside her, sweaty palms squeaking over metal with every deep thrust, body moved up and down, insides convulsing, muscles contracting, tight around his thick cock. He grunts, groans, huffs, head red under the sun, under the exertion, working overtime.

He comes with a low growl, animalistic, body twitching against her, burying himself deep within her clenching heat, balls tightening, cock spasming, filling her with his hot seed, spurt after burning spurt. She gasps when his hand pushes on her stomach, before he slowly pulls out, panting, eyes glued to her reddened pussy, watching intently, an expert's eye, head tilted, then he slaps his hand on her folds, making her wince.

She's pulled onto her feet, barely able to think, to function, dizzy from the sun and the special service. He lifts her feet, one at a time, puts her panties back on, slides them up her shaking legs. His cum drips down her inner thigh, slowly, slow enough for him to gather it on his finger and push it back up, between her glistening folds, back into her clenching hole. She moans at the sensation, gripping his arm for support. He keeps his finger in her while he pulls her underwear back in place, pumping it slowly before removing it, gently dragging his wet fingertip between her covered folds, trapping his seed.

“I believe there's been a leak, miss,” he says, fixing her skirt, making her presentable again as he looks at her with a proud smile, having found the problem, while she looks up at him with a soft giggle, feeling their combined juices drenching the fabric between her trembling thighs.

MASTERLIST // AO3 // ORIGINAL WORKS

MORE SMUT DRABBLES:

A steamy shower

Toy

Sleepy

Tension Relief

[confrontthefamiliar]

ISABELLE: Look, dear girl, I think I better tell you somethin' about cowboys.

ROSLYN: You really worry about me, don't you?

ISABELLE: Well, you're too believin'. Cowboys are the last real men left...and they're about as reliable as jack rabbits.

ROSLYN: Is anybody any different? Maybe you're not supposed to believe people. Maybe it's not even fair to them.

From The Misfits (1961)

[words-pics-flicks]

It is very hard to kill a good character, because the public seems to want pictures where nobody dies.

Arthur Miller

[tennwriter]

"Well, create the new theatre. It's your job. Instead of reflecting on the efforts of those in the past--Le Gallienne, Clurman, Strasberg, the Living Theater, whoever causes your pulse to race and your passions to rise--emulate them. They all thought the theatre into which they had been placed was limited or awful or merely promising. This will never change. What changes things is the effort made by people to write the plays that matter to them; to cast them with the best actors; to produce those plays with those actors against all the odds. The herd is thinned by badness, but the herd is also strengthened when rebellion breaks out." Arthur Miller/1998/Interview with James Grissom

[thepursuitofunderstanding]

I’m a writer, and everything I write is both a confession and a struggle to understand things about myself and this world in which I live. This is what everyone’s work should be-whether you dance or paint or sing. It is a confession, a baring of your soul, your faults, those things you simply cannot or will not understand or accept. You stumble forward, confused, and you share. If you’re lucky, you learn something.

Arthur Miller