#Arthur Miller: Writer

[animasola86]

SMUT DRABBLES*: On the Edge

A/N: Everything under 1k is a drabble* now, don't quote me on that! As always, you can imagine any character here, this time it's from the male's perspective. There are no descriptions whatsoever (pics are just to set the mood). Warnings for the day are: a little manhandling, sex toys/vibrator/anal plug, cunnilingus, fingering and orgasm denial.

WARNING: NSFW! Explicit sexual content. // WORDS: 673

He grabs her waist and sets her on the counter of the island, hears the faint clanging noise when the base of her plug hits the marble top. Spreading her legs, he steps between them, braces one arm on either side of her, stares down at her darkly.

Her eyes are wide, glistening, shock and uncertainty on her face, but also a deep blush and a tightness to her lips as she fights the sensations pulsing through her small body. Her hands fidget between her legs, a nervous little gesture. He rips them away, tells her to sit on them. She does with a bit of hesitation as she watches him with bated breath. He leans in, lets his breath fan over her cheek, then kisses the corner of her mouth, and there's a jerk in her neck as she turns her head, trying to meet his lips.

He pulls away before that, exhaling through his nose. His hands move over her legs, thumbs brushing along her inner thighs until he pushes them against the damp fabric of her underwear. Her wetness seeps past it already, staining the white lace, and he licks his lips at the sight. His restraint is slipping, he can't help it, he can smell her arousal, and it's driving him insane.

In one swift motion he grabs her hip, pulls her to the edge and leans in to press his mouth to her inner thigh, quickly kissing up the soft skin to where the little pink string of the vibrator pokes out of her. His free hand tugs at it, then he drags her panties aside and closes his lips around her folds. She yelps softly, body jerking against him. His fingers dig into her flesh, hold her in place as he laps up along her slit, gathers her sweet wetness on his tongue, drinks her up like a man perched.

She whimpers when he sucks on her clit, teeth grazing her soft, sensitive skin while he fumbles with the toy and presses the button a few more times, feeling the vibrations increasing, her hips jerking, thighs pressing against his head. Her noises are getting louder, helpless whines and mewls as she squirms on the counter, hands still squished under her legs, while he continues to eat her out with a passion that he hasn't felt in ages.

He's back on her clit, sucking it into his mouth, tongue flicking against that throbbing nub. Holding her with one hand, he tries to counteract her uncontrollable twitches, as his other hand rubs over her thigh before his index finger pokes at her entrance, following the toy inside. It's thrumming hard against her tense muscles, and he pushes it around a little with his finger before he finds the right spot, and that's when she really wails, body spasming against him.

He holds the toy pressed to her g-spot, sucking on her clit, eyes moving up to watch her lose it in front of him. She struggles to hold her sitting position, her arms trembling, before she can't keep her composure any longer and pulls her hands from under her legs and grabs his hair. Either to push him away or hold him right there, he isn't sure. Whatever the case, he lets her, gives her that one moment of control.

Her walls tighten around the toy and his finger, rhythmic clenching, her orgasm is so close, she's right on the edge, and it's that very moment that he hooks his finger around the toy and pulls it out, leaning back, slipping from her suddenly limp fingers, and leaves her throbbing and panting, watches her deflate as her orgasm slips away again. A whine escapes her, and she falls back onto the counter, body convulsing without release, hiding her flushed face behind her shaking hands.

He straightens himself, licks his lips and then his finger, puts the vibrating toy on the counter before he turns it off. She's sobbing now, overwhelmed and left hanging. Poor thing. But it's not over yet.

A/N: Sorry about the tease. As a matter of fact, this is indeed a little teaser, a little preview to a story called INFATUATED - about a ruthless nightclub owner and a young woman with a crush, a very smut heavy, self-indulgent thing I had to get out of my head. If you liked this drabble, I'd appreciate it very much if you'd take a look at the first chapter too!

MASTERLIST // AO3 // ORIGINAL WORKS

MORE SMUT DRABBLES:

A steamy shower

Toy

Car Inspection

Sleepy

Tension Relief

[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.

[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

[blackswaneuroparedux]

I speak my own sins; I cannot judge another. I have no tongue for it.

- Arthur Miller

[thepursuitofunderstanding]

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

Arthur Miller

[leojrthetanooki]

mmmmm... animated preschool shows that don't talk down to the viewers so i can enjoy them too, my beloveds...

[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! ❤️

[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)

[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

[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

[beatnikchick]

The screech of the bomb still makes sense to us, but the ravings of the poet seem like gibberish. - Henry Miller, The Time of Assassins

[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