#Arthur Miller: Writer

[animasola86]

SMUT DRABBLES*: Toy

A/N: Another snippet of a smut scene, *a little more than a drabble, but oh well, it kept evolving. Again, you can imagine any character here! This time, we have some oral sex, deepthroating, masturbation, edging and a little dom/sub dynamic.

WARNING: NSFW! Explicit sexual content! // WORDS: 689 // AO3

He's given her a toy to practice with.

It's big, looks like his cock, can be suctioned to surfaces. It's intimidating.

She's kneeling in front of it, imagines she's sitting between his legs, arms folded behind her back. Eyes closed, tongue extended, exploring the stiff ridges, round edges, hard, cold material. Not the same.

It's better when it's covered in her saliva, warmer, but it's not him, doesn't twitch and throb, there are no groans and grunts, no hand gripping her hair, guiding her head, forcing it deeper.

It's all her. She sucks on it, hollows her cheeks, slurping it into her mouth, tongue flicking around it. Eyes closed, imagining him, remembering his scent, his taste, his dominating presence.

She pushes her head down on it. It's so rigid, too hard, unyielding. She forces on, tongue flat against it, lips strained, back of her throat. Her body jerks when she gags around it, coughs, splutters, keeps going. Eyes watering, can't breathe, imagines his big hands on her head, pushing down.

It's in her throat, she's dizzy, there's so much spit, no precum, only her. No air. She holds it, hears his voice in her memory. “Good girl.” Back and forth, head bobbing, tip on her tongue, tip in her throat, up and down, in and out.

There's no release, no thick creamy cum filling her mouth, dripping down her throat, filling her belly. Just spit and tears. She practices until she almost faints, fighting the gag reflex, getting better, wanting to make him proud.

She's drenched once she's done, sweat, spit, tears, arousal. When she forces herself to stop, she falls over, hands between her trembling thighs. Fingers not enough. The toy is off the wall and slips into her with ease. She's shaking, can barely hold it, wants him to hold it, push it in and out, mercilessly, ignoring her whines. Forcing her to the edge.

“Not yet, baby girl.”

His voice is in her head, so close, so warm. She fights the pleasure trying to devour her, pulls it out, pants, pushes it back in, always close. She's whimpering, crying and sobbing, pleading with her eyes squeezed shut.

“You may come.”

Relief. Release. Exploding pleasure, body convulsing, hips off the ground, thighs pressed together, shaking, gasping, coming so hard she's seeing stars. The toy is forced back in.

“Again.” She obeys, keeps going, pushing further. All for him, through tears and hand cramps and body spasms. Mouth wide open, gasping for air, for reprieve.

Her head is being lifted, supported by strong hands, his scent fills her nostrils, something warm on her face, bent back, neck tilted, upside down. Warm and heavy and soft. Him.

“Keep going.” Fingers cramping around the toy, imitating his cock, and the real thing slips into her gaping mouth, straight into her throat. She doesn't gag, doesn't open her eyes, feels her throat bulging, feels full on both ends. Content, satisfied. Sucks around him as he moves his hips against her face, in and out, tip on her tongue, tip squished in her tight throat.

“Gag.” She does, body convulsing, cunt clenching, spit and precum in her mouth. She's so dizzy. “Good girl.”

The reward comes with a groan, a grunt, a jerk of his hips, tightening balls slapping against her nose. Release. The toy is forced out, muscles tense, fluttering, her hands and thighs wet, a muffled, helpless moan from her stuffed throat. She can taste him as he fills her mouth, rewards her for her effort. Warm, sticky, thick, slipping down her aching throat, gulp, gulp, gulp.

The pressure is gone, he remains, his taste on her tongue, heavy in her belly. His hand on her sweaty face, caressing, wiping away the remnants of her devotion, a thumb pressing against her quivering lip.

“Such a good girl,” he says, and she smiles softly, tiredly, eyelids too heavy to open. “Now turn around. We gotta practice on the other hole today.”

A deep shiver, instant tension, anticipation. She scrambles to her feet, turns, positions herself, presents, ready for more practice. For him.

“Yes, sir.”

MASTERLIST // AO3 // ORIGINAL WORKS

MORE SMUT DRABBLES:

A Steamy Shower

Car Inspection

Sleepy

Tension Relief

[wolfieglam]

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.

[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! ❤️

[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

[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

[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