#llewyn davis imagine

[mochimoqa]

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🎸🐈Llewyn Davis

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Heyo! I'm Mochi Moch! Or you can call me Mochi Moqa or Mochi for short :]

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¡Hola! ¡Soy Mochi Moch! O puedes llamarme Mochi Moqa o Mochi para abreviar. :]

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My favorite song so far! ^^

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[luke-o-lophus]

Sooo I painted this yesterday....

[faretheeoscar]

And indeed I will never get tired of my baby Llewyn 😭😭😭😭

keys

llewyn davis x reader

tiny short fic for my wet cat boyfriend llewyn<3

summary: you ask llewyn to officially move in with you.

warnings: tiniest bit of angst, mentions of being broke. it's barely there

tags: gn!reader, established relationship, uhh it's just sweet idk what to tell you

word count: 0.8k

masterlist | taglist | ao3

updates blog @eyelessupdates

Llewyn is standing, leaning against the kitchen counter, almost sitting on it, his hands gripping the edge of it. He sighs and rolls his eyes as you walk up to him handing him a small box, and he feels a bit guilty that you seem so excited about it when he is not really. 

“What for,” he exhales as he takes the box from your hands and shakes his head. “You didn't have to.” he declares sternly, an almost scolding look over his face. Where some people say this just to be polite, Llewyn means it. You didn't have to.

“Open it!” you urge him, raising your eyebrows, biting down onto your bottom lip in apprehension and excitation. He sighs once again as he looks down at the tiny box in his hand.

“Come on, you know I don't like gifts, now I feel like I owe you something” he frowns, looking back up at you. 

It's your turn to sigh in impatience as you put your hands on either side of his neck, pulling him closer to you so you can press your lips against his and get him to stop complaining; it’s one efficient way to stop him from talking back. He hums against your mouth, his free hand instinctively shifting to rest against your hip. 

“Shut your mouth and open the damn box” you order him in a scolding whisper as you pull away, leaving him chuckling softly.

He licks his lips as he finally lifts the lid of the box, discovering a key inside.

“What is that” he frowns, looking up at you.

“It's a key, dumbass.” you scoff, shrugging. 

“I know what it is.” 

A heavy silence settles in the room, and it makes you confused. Llewyn takes the key out of the box, his expression unreadable as his gaze shifts from the small object to you. “Why”

“I want you to move in with me. Like, officially. No more couchsurfing” you declare. Even though you were a couple and Llewyn was spending most of his time at your place, he sometimes felt like he owed you and needed to give you space, crashing at the Gorfeins or at Jim and Jean’s from time to time. 

“This doesn't change much, you're already basically living here anyways. But now it's official, and you have a key, so you won't have to get in through the fire escape when I'm not home” you add tentatively, trying to read over his face whatever he feels at the moment. 

His silence is starting to make you anxious, starting to make you regret your decision. Maybe he’s not ready, maybe he doesn’t want this yet, maybe he doesn’t want this at all. You have never really talked about this, about anything regarding your future together.

“Yeah I figured but,” he finally starts, staring at the key in his hand. “It’s just… I can’t pay rent, angel.” he sighs, looking back at you with a miserable expression over his face.

“I know,” you huff out, relieved that it seems to be his only issue. “I’m not asking you to. You’ll help whenever you can” you nod. “I just want to lift this weight off your shoulders” you explain, your hand sliding to link with his.

“Like I said, it’s barely changing anything” you mutter under your breath.

He nods back at you, looking back at the key in his hand before putting it on the counter. 

“Okay.”

Your eyebrows raise slightly. “Okay what? Okay you’ll live with me?”

“Yeah.” he smiles, his hands setting at your waist. “I’ll live with you.” he nods, pulling you closer as his arm wraps around your shoulders, peppering small kisses over your temple and forehead. 

“Good” you say, leaning into his embrace, wrapping your arms around him. “I’m glad you’re okay with it”

He scoffs, pressing another gentle kiss to your forehead. “Why wouldn’t I be? I’ve been couchsurfing for years. It’s just a damn key but it means a lot.” he huffs out. “Don’t go thinking I’m sad about the thought of not sneaking in through the fire escape anymore.”

You laugh, “Your back will thank me” you smile looking up at him. 

“Jean will thank you.” he corrects, earning a scoff from you before you cup his face and press a kiss against his cheek.

He grins sweetly as his lips brush against yours, before full on pressing them against your mouth. 

“I'm glad you haven't grown tired of me yet. I love you” he says as he pulls away, his lips curling in a small, grateful smile.

“I don't think I could ever grow tired of you, Davis. I love you too.”

“It’s only a matter of time I’m afraid” he scoffs.

“Mh, we��ll see, then you’ll have to give back your key and beg me to even sleep on the couch” you declare, looking at him with pity.

“You’ll give me the couch treatment?” he gasps, falsely appalled.

“Oh that'll be if I'm kind enough to let you in,” you tease.

“Alright I think I liked you better when you said you couldn't ever grow tired of me”

—

SUPPORT YOUR FANFICS WRITERS, REBLOG, LEAVE A COMMENT, IT IS WHAT KEEPS US GOING<3

inside llewyn davis taglist: @apollo-enthusiast @scarabgrant @lockleysgrl @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @missmarmaladeth @alexxavicry @mystinky-butt @anightshift @campingwiththecharmings @dameronshandholder @spider-starry @spxctorsslxt @dowbastan

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[runa-falls]

recent reads - july '23

if you enjoy these fics make sure to reblog and comment to show your support for the writers!

(*) nsfw (**) dark (~) angst (^) fluff

series - [read a lot more this month bc of travel!]

poe dameron

alabanza*^~ - @brandyllyn [ao3]

“A mis-delivered message causes You and Poe Dameron to become anonymous penpals. But falling for each other via letter while at the same time falling for each other in the real world leads to more than its fair share of complications.”

din djarin

miscommunication*^~ - @ezrasbirdie [ao3]

“When the Mandalorian brings you aboard his ship to care for and protect his son when he’s away, neither of you is what the other expected. You’re both exceptionally bad at reading each other, and you’re afraid of what might happen when your past inevitably catches up to you.”

henry cavill 

crystal ship* (RPF - mafia AU) - @littlefreya

“Henry is the most dangerous crime lord in England, he has everything he wants and women throw themselves at his feet, but what really gets him off is what’s hard to get.”

(i usually never read rpf but littlefreya can make me read ANYTHING)

geralt z rivii

outlander*^~ - @leva [ao3]

“The witcher universe was cruel and unforgiving. You couldn’t imagine lasting a day in it yet here you were. It wasn’t all bad, the food was decent, some folk were nice and you even had your very own mutant bodyguard to boot. Not to mention Jaskier being your personal radio station on the road.”

kylo ren

cruel world*^~- @worm_girl [ao3]

"When Professor Ren moves in next door to your sorority house and you become one of his students, it is impossible for the two of you to ignore the pull you have to each other.”

[not reader-insert:]

reylo (my comfort ship)

all our days*^~ - @voicedimplosives [ao3]

"I can listen no longer in silence." The hologram projection of his strangely handsome face is cobalt blue, flickering, and full of static. "I must speak to you, Rey. You… you pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me that I am not too late.” 

bamon (TVD) (my other comfort ship)

spellbound*^~ - @ladyloec

“An AU of Bonnie and Damon in the Prison World, without Kai, but with a problematic blood shortage that leads to our favourite judgy witch and snarky vampire getting closer than anyone anticipated.”

one-shots (all are reader-inserts!)

moon boys

satisfactory pt.1 + pt.2* (pornstar!jake) - @whatthefish

weightless~ (steven angst) - @m00nsbaby

call me* (feral!steven) - @writefightandflightclub

acts of service^ (marc fluff) - @ivystoryweaver

nice job!*^ (sub!steven fluff) - @romanarose

nathan bateman

indulge me* - @leoluved

poe dameron

wasted on you*^ - @campingwiththecharmings

blue jones

a long night** - @melodygatesauthor

beg** - @“”

santiago garcia

just friends pt.1* and pt.2*~ - @campingwiththecharmings

say my name*~ - @writefightandflightclub

threesome: santi x reader x frankie* - @youvebeenlivingfictional

a midnight picnic - @sweetly-yours-and-mine

miguel o’hara

rendezvous* - @campingwiththecharmings (i’m so sorry i’m tagging u so much lmfao)

stitches and claws* - @astroboots halo* - @missdictatorme

surrender* - @romanarose

llewyn davis

anchor* - @bits-and-babs

ezra prospect

darkness* - @ezrasbirdie

joel miller

what comes after*~ - @softlyspector

frank castle

all up in smoke^ - @saintmurd0ck

raymond smith + tangerine x reader

who you belong to*~ - @youvebeenlivingfictional

[glimeres]

Hey, Joel and Ethan Coen: when are you guys going to produce an O Brother, Where Art Thou? (2000) stage adaptation?

There is no way they aren't closeted musical enthusiasts, not with having made movies like Inside Llewyn Davis, Hail Cesar! or the first 20 minutes of The Ballad of Buster Scruggs.

Why not ride the movie-to-musical wave, then?

OBWAT is already just much of a ""musical"" as the movie version of Cabaret - with most of the songs being diegetic.

If there is one thing I'm certain if is that the youth loves a musical re-imagining of ancient greek mythology and literature.

And OBWAT is a (very loose) re-telling of an ancient greek tale, now set in America at the beginning of the 20th Century - with its cast of characters trying to survive the harsh realities of the late 30's and the world Post Great Depression by any means necessary.

Wait a minute...

Yes, this movie IS Tony Award™ Winner Hadestown's older, more character actor-y cousin! Just swap the New Orleans setting for rural Mississipi and the folk/jazz score with country/bluegrass/gospel.

There are others examples of ancient greek mythology/literature-inspired musicals in the last couple of years - like the indie musical role-playing game Stray Gods, the Lighting Thief adaptation to stage or the Disney's Hercules production in Germany set to debut later this year.

Watch out, though, because the team behind Epic: The Musical already got the ball running when it comes to making musicals re-imagining Homer's Odyssey!

I gues the whole point of this post...

Is that the reprise of Man of Constant Sorrow would look so cool on stage. Like, so cool.

[klainebayeuxtapestry]

nothing sucks more than being llewyn davis who has the worst day of his life and then at the end bob dylan shows up like it’s SO unfair imagine you’ve had a day where you legitimately suffer worse than jesus and then just as you’ve found a little catharsis via the art of folk music (the only thing you have left in your life) bob dylan immediately follows you in an open mic and renders everything you do inconsequential in the history of your art form

[courseyoulovemeyoudontknowme]

Inside Llewyn Davis (2013, Coen brothers)

14/02/2024

Inside Llewyn Davis is a 2013 film directed and written by Joel and Ethan Coen and starring Oscar Isaac, Carey Mulligan, Justin Timberlake and John Goodman.

The film is inspired by the life of folk singer Dave Van Ronk, active in New York in the sixties.

It participated in competition at the 2013 Cannes Film Festival, where it won the Special Jury Grand Prix.

New York, February 1961: Llewyn Davis is a struggling young folk singer whose recent solo album, Inside Llewyn Davis, was a flop; being without money and nowhere to go, he sleeps on the sofas of friends and acquaintances. One evening, after playing at the Gaslight Café in Greenwich Village, he is beaten at the back of the venue by a mysterious and rude individual for reasons not immediately specified.

He subsequently accepts Jim's proposal to record a new song, agreeing to be paid immediately 200 dollars in exchange for the transfer of the copyright, in order to have the money for the abortion.

The young man accepts a ride to Chicago in the company of the laconic poet Johnny Five and the grumpy heroin-addicted jazz musician Roland Turner; during the trip he reveals that his musical partner, Mike Timlin, committed suicide by jumping off a bridge.

In an expanded version of the film's opening scene, Davis performs at the Gaslight and Pappi reports to him that a "friend" is waiting for him in the back; Davis then watches a young Bob Dylan perform on stage.

The film starts from the Coen's reflection on the rebirth of interest in folk music in the sixties, and in particular that despite the genre's exquisitely rural identity, in that period it was followed above all in a metropolis like New York, and that so all its major performers were natives, like Brooklyn's Dave Van Ronk and Ramblin' Jack Elliott.

When writing the screenplay, the pair of directors drew mainly from Van Ronk's autobiography, published posthumously in 2005, The Mayor of MacDougal Street but, even before starting to write it, the Coens had started from a single idea: imagine Van Ronk getting beaten up outside Gerde's Folk City in the Village.

Producer Scott Rudin, who had previously worked with the Coens on True Grit and No Country for Old Men, collaborated on the project. StudioCanal helped the production financially in the absence of a US financier/distributor.

On May 9, 2013, shortly before the presentation of the film at the Cannes Film Festival, the red band trailer and a new poster were also released.

The soundtrack was curated by T Bone Burnett, songwriter, producer and Oscar winner for the song The Weary Kind, and by Marcus Mumford.

[bits-and-babs]

War Cry || Llewyn Davis x Reader

-> Rating: 18+

-> WordCount: 10.7K!!!!

-> In a world where Bob Dylan’s attempts to break through in the folk scene fail, a Vietnam Veteran uses his voice to bring the war to an end.

Gif Credit doesn’t belong to me!

TW/CW: another slow burn, Jas loves plot. IM SORRY. AU. Alternatively named “Llewyn gets his happy ending”. Description of PTSD and Injury. Vivid description of war, lots of historical references because I’m a nerd. Mention of pregnancy (not related to reader). SoftDom!Vibes? Cock-warming, elements of denial. Delayed gratification. NOT proof read, we live and die by the grammar sword.

Phantom pain shoots through Llewyn’s leg as he wakes suddenly, tendrils of stabbing pain that wrap their way up his tibia bone. The sensation swiftly washes away as quickly as it appeared as he regains consciousness. His back against the couch cushions heaves with panicked breaths as his fingers grasp at the armrest in an attempt to remind himself where he was; Jean’s place.

Familiarity cleanses his muscles, tense with nervousness as he casts his gaze over the living room that he had spent so much time inside without ever having owned it. The ivory painted walls that feature hairline cracks in the plaster close to the ceiling, manilla curtains that had discoloured after years of smoked cigarettes and the metal bars of the overhead light shade that wrapped around the bulb and caged it inside.

It doesn’t take him long to settle his shot nerves, a groan of frustration rattling in his lungs as his head drops back against the musty couch. The screams of his past that haunted his every waking moment had finally leaked into his dreams, waking him from much-needed sleep and adding to his torment. Llewyn wasn’t a pious man, but he was beginning to think it was some form of divine punishment for his transgressions.

Foolishness was his only justification for his willingness to sign away his soul to take lives from others. When he branded his name to that enlistment paper with a biro pen that he distinctly remembers skipping repeatedly as he attempted to sign it, Llewyn was convinced he was doing something right with his life- finally. They’d handed him a rifle and uniform and ordered him to defend foreign soil in the name of freedom. It was the second time he had enlisted in the military, but the dichotomy between both experiences could not be clearer.

Battling the Vietcong in the humid heat of the Vietnamese jungle was nothing like his first enlistment, in which he never saw action. Llewyn had never seen such depravity, not ever experienced the metamorphic participation of taking another person's life. The suffering of children who walked through napalm and the seemingly endless slaughter of civilians that were considered collateral in the effort to eradicate the Vietcong, like vermin, from their own land. Somehow, even ‘freedom’ didn’t seem enough vindication for causing such life-changing destruction and trauma in his wake.

Perhaps the ink skipping on the page, leaving chasms in his signature with the first pass of the pen to the point it was barely recognisable, was a sign. He never should have filled in the gaps.

Sitting up from the sofa, Llewyn brushed his fingertips over the concaves of his flesh that had been left in the wake of the bullet that had passed through it. The only evidence he’d ever seen action, the lead slug was ironically the grounds for his honourable discharge and the reason he had the depravity behind- physically left the depravity behind. Mentally, he continued to hold his rifle with shaking hands, index fingers fumbling with the trigger as he abandoned all notion of battling for pride in his country, and instead fought selfishly for his own life.

Grasping blindly for his guitar in the dark, Llewyn flips the latches and opens up the worn leather case. His beloved guitar sits idle, the grain in the wood of the body practically glowing in the faint moonlight that seeped through the fabric of the curtains. He doesn’t reach for it.

Instead, he picks up a piece of paper so aged and worn from months of folding and unfurling it, pondering over the lyrics that he could pair with the musical notes he had previously scribbled in his practically illegible handwriting. The wordless tune had settled in his head the moment the soles of his feet had landed on American soil after his discharge. A foreboding, enraged melody that spelt out effortlessly the emotions that had overwhelmed the relief he should have felt.

Heaving his worn and tired body off the sofa, Llewyn is careful not to stumble over the coffee table he knew rested somewhere before him in the dark as he dragged his hand across the wall in search of the light switch. He wouldn’t have it on for more than a few moments, just until he was able to obtain a pen. He didn’t fancy waking the light-sleeping Jean and having to face her vitriol this early in the morning.

The ridge of the switch presses into his fingerprint after a second or two and Llewyn turns on the light with a gentle ‘tck’, though in a house when he was so desperate to be quiet to ensure he wasn’t kicked out, it sounded as though bombs had been dropped. Deciding not to waste any time, Llewyn is quick to move to the table near the front door, where Jean kept her keys, stepping carefully over the floorboards to avoid the pieces that he knew would creak under the pressure of his body weight.

A pen sits on the table, a gift from the Gods, because Jean certainly wouldn’t have blessed him like that. He snatched it like water in a desert, like he needs it to survive. Perhaps he does. Maybe the feelings would grow exponentially, and his skull would explode under the pressure of his own thoughts if he didn’t get them down on paper. It was possible that actively writing his frustration, his guilt, down would be almost like putting a pin back into a grenade.

Having obtained his tools, Llewyn turned off the light once more. Retracing his steps towards the sofa was easier this time, and he fell back onto the cushions with a gentle sigh. He’d stayed on this couch so many times it practically moulded to his body, and yet he was never comfortable. It wasn’t as though there was the solace of a bed’s mattress to hold him and the weight of his daily emotional distress. A bed to call his own, in his own home. A place of solitude and belonging.

Reaching through the darkness, Llewyn takes ahold of the curtains, pulling them apart to flood the living room with mild, pale lighting from the moon. It lights the page balanced on his knee, bathing it in a gentle glow. It wasn’t as though he would have to worry about waking his hosts this way, and this could focus entirely on his emotions, the words he wishes to convey.

Tucked in the side of his guitar case is a crumpled pack of cigarettes, smushed down between the edge of his guitar and the walls of leather that protected it. Llewyn flips the lid on the misshapen box and pulls out a cigarette from the last two that had been rattling around in there as he’d battled to find somewhere to stay since his deployment. He’d told Jean this would be the last time he stayed in her living room, but he was sure she could hear the uncertainty in his voice.

Llewyn’s cigarette habit had been bad before, when he was constantly trailing the country in search of a record label who would sign him. War had exacerbated the issue significantly. Most of his money went to smokes now, and he used them so often he swore he exhaled more tobacco than he did carbon dioxide. Placing the roll in his lips, Llewyn’s hands shake as he lights it with a lighter that had been gifted to him by one of the members of his platoon as a discharge present.

It was a simple, sleek silver lighter. Scratches littered the mirrored metal after many years of use, and on one side was an intense dent that gouged the silver and distorted the reflection of Llewyn’s face. He had been told by the Marine that gifted it to him, Martin Foster, that it had saved his life in a tussle with the Vietcong when the lighter in his breast pocket had deflected a bullet that surely would have killed him. Claimed Llewyn clearly needed it more than him, given he’d been shot.

Turns out Foster needed it more than Llewyn. He learned on his arrival back in America that Foster had died mere hours after Llewyn left, in a napalm strike.

Exhaling the burning tobacco with shaky lungs, the smoke seems to cleanse the page in his lap, drifting over the paper's grain and curling off the edge into the abyss of darkness. With a click of the pen, Llewyn knows exactly what he plans to write about, and the song title comes to him in a flash of images in his exhausted brain. The Tet Offensive and the slaughter of the Vietcong, massacres of villages of seemingly innocent people that superiors deemed to be harbouring the enemy with little to no evidence to support their theories.

With firm and bold strokes of his same scratchy writing, Llewyn brands the paper with the title, the anger rising in his chest as he spells it out letter for letter with a pressure far exceeding what is needed to transfer the ink to the page.

“Masters of War.”

____________________________________________

Cigarette smoke whirls around your head in slow-motion silver waves, the clientele creating an artificial fog that hazes your view of the stage where a man sat on a stool, readying his guitar beneath the pearly spotlight to begin a performance. Your palms catch on the bar-top, hours of alcoholic drinks drying into a sticky texture that has you peeling your skin from the aged wooden surface with a grimace.

Forgiving the frankly disgusting condition of the small tavern, it was a relief to finally climb out of your beloved VW campervan for a while and have a strong drink. You’d been sat in the passenger seat for over five hours as your friend and fellow protester Darryl drove down the highway with Jane insisting in a particularly loud voice that it was definitely this left turn that would take you all to New York. It was certainly the throbbing headache that developed from their consistent bickering that made you momentarily consider just why you were doing this.

It was a temporary query. The doubt dissolved like salt on your tongue upon arriving in The Empire State and seeing the paper boys stood in 4 foot of crystal white snow holding out manila news pages with the headline STREET CLASHES GO ON IN VIETNAM; FOE STILL HOLDS CITIES; JOHNSON PLEDGES NEVER TO YIELD. Paired with the horrifically violent black and white print of the execution of Nguyễn Văn Lém, it caused anger to burn your throat like bile, and your resolve hardened.

No amount of freezing sleet or red hot vitriol from passers by would stop you from imploring the government to stop the senseless slaughter in Vietnam, to stop sending soldiers as sacrificial lambs and bring America’s boys home. You’d protest and scream until your lungs shrivelled up.

Truthfully, the majority of your nerves came from the concept of being arrested for your dissent. It wasn’t uncommon for demonstrators to be apprehended by police claiming they intended to restore ‘law and order’, even if their only objection manifested itself in the form of holding up a picket sign.

“Surely a whiskey can’t be that riveting,” Daryl mused to you, noting the way you’d been staring absently at the amber liquid, twisting the crystal glass on the bar top. Broken from your reverie, you glance to your friends, smiling weakly as you shrug.

“Me and Mr. Jack Daniel’s were having an intriguing conversation about the success rate of student led protests,” you admit, watching them force a pitiful smile. They too questioned their ability to make change, you knew they did. Perhaps it wasn’t about actually forcing change as it was standing up for what was right- to know your conscience is clear.

“Don’t question it,” Jane reaches over to squeeze the flesh above your knee comfortingly as strings of a guitar sound from the stage, a gentle background sound to your busy mind. You give a single, listless nod as you look back to the beverage sloshing in the glass between your fingers.

So engrossed in your self pity, you don’t notice the random notes from the instrument on the stage falling into tune, fingers forcefully pulling angered chords that matched the bitter tone in the musician's voice when he began to sing. When your exhausted brain finally synched with your eardrums, you’re shocked to hear the lyrics form a symphonic protest.

”… the death planes

You that build all the bombs

You that hide behind walls

You that hide behind desks

I just want you to know

I can see through your masks”

Turning swiftly on your barstool, the uneven legs almost give way beneath you at the sudden movement. Grabbing the edge of the wooden bartop, you look over your shoulder at the body that the voice belonged to. A man, hunched over on a barstool equally as unbalanced as your own sings into the argent open mic as he violently strums agonisingly angered notes from his stringed instrument that is famed for its love songs.

He’s scruffy, thick raven curls askew upon his head and falling into his eyes as he sings. An equally dark beard shades the lower half of his face, the matching moustache framing his thin lips as they sound out his increasing anger for war generals. His frown forms furious creases upon his brow, eyes tired looking thanks to the deep circles that frame his under-eye but irises ablaze with acrimony.

“You that never done nothin'

But build to destroy

You play with my world

Like it's your little toy

You put a gun in my hand

And you hide from my eyes

And you turn and run farther

When the fast bullets fly.”

The spotlight on his body highlights the protruding veins and dorsal muscles on the back of his palm, straining as they force the strings down onto the neck of the guitar while he wrings out every riff. He’s vehement, each word spoken with a firm tone that indicates he believes every word.

Glancing to your left, you take in your friends’ baffled expressions. They’re absorbed by his every word, listening raptly as he strings the war mongering politicians from the rafters of the bar’s ceiling with his rhetoric.

When you cast your gaze over the small congregation of the bar’s customers sitting before the stage, you note they hold a very similar fascination. Some sit wide eyed and open mouthed at his audacity to sing about such topics, others grin and nod their heads in avid agreement- regardless, they are listening to his every word, taking in their meaning.

The thought forms before this stranger even manages to reach the final verse of his powerful song, and you’re abandoning your drink at the bar to push your way through the seated individuals in order to reach the edge of the stage. From this angle, you can see the curve of his nose, the length of his lashes. He’s pretty beneath all his hair and worn clothes.

With a final flourish of the strings, the man's impassioned song earns him a standing ovation and thunderous applause from the small crowd. Maybe it’s the lighting, but you’re almost certain you can see tears welling in his eyes as appeared to take a moment to commit this support to memory. Standing from his stool and bowing before the crowd as they cheered, he catches you waving manically from the side of the stage in a desperate attempt to capture his attention.

He pauses for a moment, thick dark eyebrows raising and creasing his forehead as he looks at you in question. The crowd continue to applaud even as he approaches you, their cheers ricocheting off the stone walls of the pub. It’s noisy enough that he doesn’t hear you the first time you speak, and you’re forced to repeat your question by shouting it.

“What is your name?!”

There’s a flicker of disbelief in the man’s expression, doubt that swirls in his pupils as he tries to recognise you. He can’t. You’ve never met him before.

“… Llewyn. Llewyn Davis,” he clarifies, slow to answer as he pulls the guitar strap over his head.

“Llewyn. I wanted to ask you something- Can I buy you a drink?” You stumble over your sentences, struggling to find the right way to approach him with your frankly ridiculous idea.

Before you even have the chance for uncertainty to spiral in your stomach, Llewyn is nodding, holding up his guitar at its neck. “Sure. What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t.” You answer back, leading him towards the bar where your friends are staring at you incredulously from their seats where you left them. It’s not as though you wouldn’t be looking at yourself in disbelief if you could.

Llewyn pulls up another barstool as you settle into your own, ordering another pair of Jack Daniels and pulling out your purse to pay the bartender. You can feel the folk singer’s eyes on you, waiting impatiently for your explanation as to why you had practically dragged him from the stage side in a moment that he had appeared to wait all his life for.

Taking a deep breath, you turn to the scruffy man, noting the dark brown button up shirt with a white t-shirt peeking through the collar underneath. “I- I haven’t really thought this through,” you admit to him, seeing him give a curt nod that ties your stomach in a knot, “But I wanted to ask you if you would join us on our trip to protest against the war in Vietnam in Times Square tomorrow.”

It catches him off guard. You can tell by the way he blinks, practically gormless as he stares at you. He opens his mouth to answer, momentarily distracted by his glass of whiskey being set in front of him on the sticky bartop. Allowing the words to sink in, you turn to the bartender and hand him what you owe with shaky hands.

“You want me to protest?” He repeats to you, as though he doesn’t understand the five words from his native language. You nod quickly, unable to look him in the eye as you launch into a tirade.

“I don’t know if you realised, just then, but you words moved people, Llewyn. There are thousands of people all over America who want their soldiers home, who see no need to continue the violence. You perfectly captured that anger, you gave it a voice. I have no doubt that if you played that song at the protest tomorrow, it would drive people to push for withdrawal!”

Llewyn watches you with a look of utter disbelief, like you’ve just told him the earth is flat. He appears unable to accept your compliments, his own feelings of inadequacy leaking through his expression and the way he seems to physically recoil from your words of support. When he opens his mouth to speak, to refuse, you’re quick to talk over him.

“An eighty-two year old woman from Detroit set herself on fire in protest just four months ago, Llewyn. She made the ultimate sacrifice to spark a conversation surrounding the suffering in Vietnam. I’m not asking you to self-immolate, I’m asking you to fucking sing.” Your words are harsh, clinging to your throat like the petrol that doused Alice Strauss the day she set herself alight. You were pleading for her, for the soldiers still fighting for their lives, for the children in Vietnam whose bodies you had seen discarded on dusty tracks printed on the front of The New York Times.

“Hey,” Daryl settles a hand on your shoulder to your left, trying to quell your rising anger with a gentle touch, “You can’t force him to take a stand for something. It’s his choice alone.”

Scrubbing at your face with your palms, still gummy from the dried alcohol they had stuck to at the bar, you exhale forcefully. So caught up in your frustration, you almost miss the words that Llewyn murmurs to your right.

“I’ll do it.”

You pause. Fingers still over your eyes, it takes you a moment to peel them away from your face to glance at Llewyn. He’s glancing down into the amber liquor in his glass, not unlike you had moments ago, as he resigns to your cause.

“Are you sure?” You have to ask. Need to know that he’s entirely willing to submit himself to the principle belief and fight.

Looking up from the glass, his deep down eyes gaze into your own. They’re still exhausted, clouded by what seems to be years of broken sleep, but there’s a conviction there, the embers of a rebellion sparking in the warmth of his irises as he repeats himself with force.

“I’ll do it.”

____________________________________________

”Like Judas of old

You lie and deceive

A world war can be won

You want me to believe

But I see through your eyes

And I see through your brain

Like I see through the water

That runs down my drain.”

The softer strums of Llewyn’s guitar sound quietly from the back of the campervan as Jane continues the drive towards Times Square. The sun is rising, painting the cloudy sky a rusty marmalade colour that reflects in the puddles the tyres of the van drive through on the road.

Fatigue pulls on your eyelids, reminding you of just how late the four of you had returned from the bar last night. Having taken the time to hear Llewyn’s story, you’d practically been thrown out for staying way past closing time.

”You fasten all the triggers

For the others to fire

Then you sit back and watch

When the death count gets higher

You hide in your mansion

While the young people's blood

Flows out of their bodies

And is buried in the mud.”

You learnt that Llewyn was a veteran, discharged honourably after suffering a bullet wound to his leg that impacted on his ability to run. He admitted some of the horrors he had witnessed, from the destruction of Vietnamese villages to the smell of napalm clinging to victims' skin. It appeared that he had simply been grateful that someone was willing to listen to him unloading his grief.

Three very strong drinks into the conversation and Llewyn had delved into the trauma of his personal life too, apparently on a roll. He shared his inability to hit the big time in music before he joined this military thanks to his own ignorance, impatience and lack of critical thinking skills. He’d been homeless at that time, sofa surfing. He had a daughter, one he thought had been aborted following an agreement with his child’s mother.

Grief clung to him like the stench of cigarette smoke on clothes. Not only was he mourning the loss of his fellow infantrymen, but also the loss of time he had spent consistently choosing the wrong path over and over again, perpetuating his own infinite misery.

“I want to make it right,” he’d whispered as the inn keeper had called out for final orders, eyes holding an exhaustion that certainly wasn’t just thanks to his lack of sleep. He was depressed, clinging desperately onto life for a reason even he couldn’t discern.

Even now, as you watched him strum the strings of the guitar with calloused fingers, he looked desolate.

“Llewyn.“ You whisper his name softly, afraid to startle him from his song. His eyes flick up to you from where they had been settled on the guitar neck, gazing at you through his long, dark lashes.

“Hmm?”

“It’s Welsh, isn’t it?” You ask, hopeful you hadn’t just insulted a long history of Scottish lineage. He pauses his strumming for a moment, watching you with a small smile.

“It is. How did you know?” His intonation lilts with pleasant surprise, clearly not used to people recognising his unique name.

“What does it mean?” You answer him with another question, watching as he sets down his guitar back into its leather-clad case. The case is worn, the material torn at the edges from bumps and scrapes, being set on floors made of all kinds of materials for what seemed like many years.

“It means ‘leader’,” he admits, and the hairs on the back of your neck stand at attention. You’d be hard pressed to believe in fate, but the irony of this chance encounter is not lost on you, a chill creeping up your spine.

“Are you?” You ask with the beginnings of a smile playing on the edges of your lips, “A leader?”

He shakes his head, digging around in his guitar case to find the packet of Marlboro cigarettes he’d been quickly working his way through in the few hours you’d known him. He places a crooked smoke in his lips while he digs around in his pockets for a lighter.

“I wouldn’t have a fuckin’ clue what leadership was if it shot me in the face.”

“… You have a chance to change that now.” You point out, watching his frustration grow as his hands violently palm around in his trouser pants for this missing lighter.

“I’m coming to sing a song, not start a counter rebelli- where the fuck is it?” He grumbled, scowl casting a shadow over his eyes in the golden sunlight that bled through the windscreen of the van.

“The silver one?” You ask, and he nods again, totally absorbed in finding the missing item. Even when you pull it out of your own pocket and hold it out for him, it takes him a moment to realise what you were offering him. “You left it on the bar counter. I thought it looked important, so I picked it up.”

He’d been very drunk by the time you left the bar, basically draining your purse. It hadn’t mattered to you though, knowing deep down from the pain laced between his words of utter devastation that he was in dire need of someone to listen to him. To understand.

“Thank you,” he says quietly, making his appreciation known with a weak smile when he takes it from your fingers, sparking up a flame that dances from the head of the lighter.

“You’re not just singing,” you continue the conversation, watching as he lights the cigarette, small embers floating from the smouldering tip. “You’re rallying for the cause, Llewyn. That is leading.”

He watches you for a moment, puffing smoke from his lungs and taking the cigarette between his index and middle finger. It’s as though he’s considering your words, allowing them to sink in as the campervan comes to a stop.

“I suppose I am,” he admits quietly, nodding as he glances down at the swirls of grey floating up from the cig in his hand.

The click of the handbrake being set catches your attention, and you look over your shoulder to see Daryl climbing out of the van. The chanting of many distant voices seeps through the open door, and you feel a rush of adrenaline run through your body.

“We’re here, guys. Grab your things,” Jane smiles, looking over her shoulder at the two of you. Maybe you shouldn’t have been so amped up, but you scramble to your feet, quick to pick up the signs that you, Jane and Daryl frequently used in your demonstrations. The slogan ‘Hey, hey, LBJ, how many kids did you kill today?’ scrawled across a white background in blood red was often the most effective, causing outrage and discussion wherever you went.

Fumbling with the signs, you’re quick to open the back doors of the VW Campervan, ready to launch yourself into the one thing that had been getting you out of bed for months. Before you manage to step down onto the rain soaked pavements, however, fingers wrap around your wrist.

Looking over your shoulder, you find Llewyn watching you with a small smile. The pad of his thumb presses gently against your pulse point, and maybe it’s the remnants of the copious amounts of Jack Daniels from last night but your mind swims when you look into his warm, espresso eyes. “You look nervous, Mercy Warren.”

You can’t help the singular laugh that forces its way from your throat, amused by his comparison between you and the real genius of the American Revolution. “I am.”

“Hell,” he scoffs at that, brushing his thumb gently against the sinews and veins in your wrist as though he was playing them like guitar strings. Maybe he was, given the way your skin heated beneath his touch. “I’m the one getting up there and singing, sweetheart.”

The subsequent wink he gives you before releasing his hold on you makes you feel as though he’s instead taken your throat in a tighter grip, your breath hitching slightly. You’re thankful that he steps out before you, leaving you alone in the back of the campervan to contemplate what the fuck that just was.

“C’mon Mercy! We’re headed out!”

____________________________________________

”You've thrown the worst fear

That can ever be hurled

Fear to bring children

Into the world

For threatening my baby

Unborn and unnamed

You ain't worth the blood

That runs in your veins.”

Tears stream down the cheeks of the woman beside you as she holds up her sign in defiance of the police presence that had been called in to oversee the protest. Emblazoned on her placard are the words ‘WE WON'T FIGHT ANOTHER RICH MAN'S WAR’ in orange paint.

She, alongside fellow protesters and passers by, watches Llewyn perform on stage. Not unlike in the bar you had met him in only hours before, the hundreds- maybe thousands of people watching were overwhelmed with emotion. Anger washes some expressions, tear tracks stain others. You note that even the police that stand on the outskirts of the large crowd in their riot gear are watching him, almost entranced by his emotive performance.

”How much do I know

To talk out of turn

You might say that I'm young

You might say I'm unlearned

But there's one thing I know

Though I'm younger than you

That even Jesus would never

Forgive what you do.”

News cameras held atop journalists' shoulders circle like vultures, no doubt recording Llewyn’s staging in order to stream it to the world on tonight’s news round. It’s exactly what you had wanted, to have his message beamed to those who couldn’t make it to the protest, to have them hear his message and side with the cause.

So caught up in your assessment of your surroundings, you don’t notice that Llewyn has played his final chord until a roar of applause sounds, cheers and clapping and the stomping of feet. Chills work their way down your spine and goosebumps raise on the skin of your arms when you see Llewyn stand, pressing his palms together in thanks as the crowd begin chants of “Leave Vietnam now!”

Pulling the strap of his guitar over his head, Llewyn pushes through the huge crowd towards you, amazement plain as the sun in the sky when he enters your line of sight. His eyes are wide, and he’s grinning from ear to ear as he takes in the calls of his name, men and women alike patting him on the shoulder in encouragement as he passes them to get to you.

“Llewyn!” You yell over the din, excitement buzzing through your veins at the thunderous approval of your fellow protesters, “That was incredible!”

He laughs incredulously, his head on a swivel as he takes in the fired up crowd, emboldened by his very own call to arms. They chant and cheer, making it clear to the civilians present in New York, and the politicians sitting at their extravagant desks in congress that they wouldn’t stand for the slaughter of innocents any longer.

Hearing him shout your name above the commotion makes your heart skip a beat. He must have gotten it from Daryl or Jane, but it sounds so beautiful from his mouth, in his voice that you don’t even press him for answers. You just nod, indicating that you’re listening to what he has to say.

What he does tell you damn near makes your heart stop altogether.

“I’m coming with you wherever you go!”

Words catch in your mouth as you gaze at Llewyn with an incredulity that makes him smirk, enjoying leaving you speechless. He wants to come with you to more protests, join you in your fight to bring troops back home. Seeing how the crowd responded to his song, you’re certain that it’s because he’s being shown support in his musical career for the first time in his life. But there’s something more to it, the twinkle in his eye something you see in all the protesters you work with.

Uprising.

You open your mouth to accept, to agree, to tell him ‘a million times yes, Llewyn,’ but your first syllable of approval is drowned out by a loud shout of his name over the crowd, a man in a crisp black suit pushing his way through the hoard of people behind Llewyn, urgently waving his hands to capture his attention.

“Mr. Davis!” The man calls, and Llewyn turns on his heel to face him. The poor man seems to have run for more than just a few moments, face flushed and skin shiny with sweat in a complete separation to his slick, meticulous appearance. “Mr. Davis, I am from Warner Brothers records, I’ve just run five blocks to come and ask you to sign for our label, sir!”

Once again, Llewyn gawps at the man with complete disbelief as he pulls out a piece of paper from a briefcase he held at his side. Despite the pride that wells in your heart, you can’t help the desperate sadness that creeps inside at the notion that a record deal would tear him away from you- his promise to tour the country in protest forgotten with the sweep of a pen over a dotted line.

The man begins prattling off terms and conditions, but you tune out as your mind is swarmed with thoughts. You barely even process the racket that the crowd makes, too caught up in your disappointment to even notice the shouts of “Give Peace a Chance!”

Perhaps it’s utter selfishness for you to expect a man you’ve known all of twelve hours to give up a life changing opportunity in order to fulfil a promise he made to you only moments before, but the ache of disappointment ebbs at the edges of your consciousness, pushing into your mind despite your attempts to cast it away.

The ridiculous dismay you felt was utterly uncalled for. Through an agency, Llewyn’s song would be distributed worldwide. It could bring about a turning of the tide, the anti-war sparrows outnumbering the pro-war hawks. One could only hope that the desperation in Llewyn’s voice would translate on a radio.

Over the noise of thousands of angry voices, and the buzz of your overwhelmed mind, you hear Llewyn’s answer. It takes the floor out from beneath you and knocks the oxygen from your lungs.

“I absolutely will sign. On the condition that you allow me to protest, and all proceeds from Masters of War go towards our campaign trail and relief for Vietnam War vets. Ask Mercy here for the details you need.”

You could have married him then and there.

____________________________________________

The funds from Llewyn’s song make your campaign life much easier. Your purse is no longer empty, thanks to your new companion insisting that you use the money he had earned from royalties for anything you need on the trail. You no longer need to check the pavement for pennies in order to pay for gas, and you find yourself worrying less and less about where you were getting food from.

Llewyn continues to play at protests, but six months on from being signed he tends to draw in much larger crowds. Protests that had begun in the thousands eventually expanded to the tens of thousands, and each campaign ended up on the front page of newspapers, the evening news and the 10 o’clock radio.

Progress otherwise had been slow. Still the American government was sending out young men in uniforms as a sacrifice to the war machine. Panic laced the air, rumours of the first draft since World War Two floating amongst the city people. You’d like to pretend that you felt as though these huge crowds your events drew made much of a difference, but Lyndon B. Johnson continued to laugh at you from his desk in the Oval Office, playing God with the lives of your fellow people.

Tomorrow was the gathering that had been organised for Washington DC. Maybe it was exhaustion talking, but you were certain that you had now been to every single state in your crucade. Laying on the bed inside the van and staring at the ceiling, you sigh as you count through each capital city. Philadelphia, Baltimore, Boston-

“Hey Mercy,” Llewyn’s quiet voice cuts through the silence of the van, shocking you from your thoughts. You’d almost forgotten he was still here, Daryl and Jane having left for drinks at the local bar a few hours ago.

“Hey, Llewyn,” you answer with a weak smile, turning to see him still sitting in the passenger seat. In this light, you can see the effects that worrying less about money had on him. His dark circles had diminished, he looked less gaunt. Much to your surprise, he’d even allowed you to trim his hair back in Columbus, having complained the strands were hanging in his eyes when he played.

Shimmying around the seat to make his way into the back of the van with you, he keeps his head crouched to avoid banging his head. It’s silly, but you can’t help but smile at him like this, all crooked and walking at a slant.

“You’ve been real quiet,” he points out, careful not to sit on your legs before settling down on the edge of the bed. You notice he looks concerned, eyebrows pulled down slightly into a frown.

You hum softly, considering how you would put your feelings into words. It was hard to admit sometimes, given everyone’s morale had to stay sky high to commit yourself to a campaign as long and tedious as this, but you were tired. Tired and fed up and hopeless. Opening your mouth to speak, the words die on your tongue before they even pass your lips.

“It’s okay. I know,” he murmurs softly, settling his hand on your knee beneath the bed sheets. “I feel it too.” You have no doubt that he does. Despite a good night's sleep and the money from royalties giving him financial security he could have only dreamed of when living on Jean’s couch back in Greenwich Village, he still looked emotionally exhausted.

“I just-“ You let out an exasperated sigh, overwhelmed by the threat of tears stinging at your eyeballs as you glance back up at the ceiling in an attempt to stave them off. “I just want it to stop, Llewyn. I just want to have that moment, that wonderful moment where they announce the war has come to the end. Maybe I’ll be so excited that I’ll have my very own V-J Day kiss.”

It was meant to be a joke, but it didn’t sound humorous coming from you. The exhaustion from months of endless struggle to hear a ceasefire order was taking an emotional toll on yourself and the team.

“That what you want?“ He muses, squeezing your patella over the duvet cover. “He didn’t even know that woman he kissed, you know? She was some kind of nurse or something-“

“A dental assistant.”

“Ah- Yes! A dental assistant. Would you really want to kiss a stranger to celebrate the end of a war?” He asks, his intense eyes settled on your face as he speaks to you. There’s an edge to them you haven’t seen before, something that melts your insides like ice you opted for in your glass of whiskey the night you met him. You remember the taste of it like it was still against your lips. You remember that whole night as clear as if the memories you constantly replayed were like a VHS tape.

“Well, who would I kiss otherwise?” You continue his playful conversation despite your pounding heart, enjoying the lightness you feel in your chest when you’re with him. “I only know Daryl. I think Jane would fucking drag me behind the van from here to New York if I took him from her after wanting him all this time.”

“I knew she liked him!” He says loudly, and you can’t help but burst into a fit of giggles that has Llewyn’s lips pulling up into a goofy smile of his own. “I could tell!”

“Why, because she wouldn’t sleep with you, Llewyn?”

“No, because she wouldn’t sleep with Daryl! The girl looks at him with these big doe eyes and still won’t make a move- regardless, we’re getting off topic here!” He insists, wagging his finger at you and causing you to laugh again.

You roll your eyes exaggeratedly at him, crossing your arms across your chest with a dramatic sigh. “So what’s your big idea then, Mr. Elvis Presley?” You tease him, knowing deep down that he’d loathe to be compared to the king of pop.

“Well,” he gives you this look, one that dared you to call him Elvis again, before continuing with his grand idea. “You could kiss me.”

It’s like a napalm bomb blows up beside your ears, a ringing sounding alongside your heart stopping shock, staring at Llewyn as he watches you expectantly.

“Y-You?” You stumble, and Llewyn doesn’t even hesitate to nod, confirming that you had indeed heard him correctly.

Silence settles between you both, but you’re acutely aware of the sound of your shaky breath exhaled from your nose. Llewyn’s palm on your leg feels like it’s burning though the covers and setting your skin alight.

“You don’t even have to wait until the end of the war, either. Hell, it doesn’t even look like it’s going to end…” he murmurs, his fingers massaging your thigh through the fabric of the bedding.

Is Llewyn Davis asking you to fucking kiss him?

You gawp at him, jaw slack, and Llewyn can’t help but chuckle as he takes up your jaw in his hand, tilting your head up by your chin. “Do you still want me to dip you in the middle of Times Square, or will a bed in a VW campervan down the back streets of Washington DC do?” He mumbles under his breath, amusement laced between his words and eyes set on your lips.

“This…” You trail off for a moment, the pad of your thumb brushing up against your jaw rendering you momentarily speechless, “This will do.”

He gives you barely a moment to register what is happening when he leans over your body and finally presses his lips to yours in a gentle kiss. It’s not at all like the heavy, lusty embrace you expected from him. No, it’s slow, controlled, the soft plush of his mouth gentle against your own as he slips his fingers into the roots of your hair, holding the back of your head.

Your hands move to grip at his cotton T-shirt, crinkling the material between your fingers and leaving crease lines in the fabric that resemble shattered glass. You feel his nose nudge yours gently as he continues this easygoing, delicate show of affection.

Maybe it’s because you’re touch starved, but his touch sparks liquid heat beneath your skin, his fingertips drawing a tingling sensation on your scalp that floods to your abdomen, toes curling in the thick socks you were wearing to combat the evening cold. His beard gently scrapes against the soft skin of your chin, adding to the shiver that rocks down your spine.

“Mhmm,” Llewyn hums, pulling himself from your lips, “Are you cold?” He questions, but you’re already pulling him forward by the elasticated collar of his shirt, shaking your head quickly and catching his mouth in another, more fevered kiss. His chest rumbles with a soft groan as you pass the tip of your tongue over the expanse of his lower lip, but much to your dismay he’s already pulling away and leaving you desperate.

“Fuck, Sweetheart, I don-“ he clears his throat, stroking your cheekbone with the pad of his thumb. “I don’t want to rush this- Don’t want it to be like all the others. I’m different, I’ve changed since then.” You know he’s talking about his previous one-night stands. The ones where he’d sleep with anyone and then pay for their abortion months down the line. He looks at you with a weak smile that reads ‘you deserve better than that’.

You nod once, a sort of okay? before following up with a second, more confident nod that simply said okay.

“Good,” he murmurs softly, lashes dipping low as he gazes at your lips, brushing his thumb over the shape. You part them, feeling his thumbprint press over the arch upwards, tracing over the Cupid’s bow and back down again, when he promptly kisses you with another oxygen stealing, goosebump inducing kiss that was just as gentle.

It’s overwhelming, the scent of him. He smells like cigarette smoke and whiskey and lemon-scented resin-oils he uses to clean his fretboards. It smells so fucking good, and again you’re licking into his mouth as though you’re trying to taste the delicious smell.

Llewyn allows you to explore, not giving into your desperation as he passes his tongue achingly slowly over your own. You can taste the remnants of the mint chewing gum that he’d been chewing on for the past few weeks, cool against the heat of his tongue. You had initially thought it was something he had taken up to cope with the stress of touring, but now you wondered if he’d been thinking of kissing you for that long. The thought makes your heart race.

Testing your luck, you push your hands under the hem of Llewyn’s shirt, brushing your palm up the skin of his abdomen and gently raking your nails back down. You feel him shiver under your touch, his fingers dimpling the flesh of his thighs with his grip as he works them apart to slot his hips between them.

“Sweetheart,” he breathes into your mouth as you push your other hand's fingers through his ebony curls, grasping onto the strands and using the leverage to kiss him deeper. You don’t rush, taking your time with slowly grinding your hips up into his.

Maybe the soft brush against his growing erection sparked a need in him, because something snaps in Llewyn. His hands rush underneath your shirt, fingers strumming your ribcage before lifting the heavy fabric of your sweater over your head with a more persistent movement. When the fabric leaves your body, you can see his eyes settle on the expanse of your chest and stomach, audibly groaning in delight at the sight of you.

“Fuck,” he whispers, taking in the lace bra that he can see your hardened nipples through. You shy from his gaze, but Llewyn doesn’t ease up, tracing his knuckles up your stomach before cupping his palms over your breasts and giving them a firm squeeze. “You’re beautiful.”

“Llewyn-“ you choke out, unable to come up with the words you need to ask him to do something. The desperation in your voice, thankfully, seems to be enough to voice your desires, because his lips are immediately on your skin. He nips at your neck at first, sucking red blossoms over your throat and collarbone as he slips his hand beneath your hips to give your ass a firm squeeze.

“You fit just perfectly,” he pants against your chest, giving your ass a gentle pat as an explanation. “Feel that? The perfect handful,” he muses. You give a weak giggle that melts somewhere between a wordless whine and a slur of his name when he traces his tongue over your nipple through the lace of your bra.

Your hips shift upwards involuntarily with the rush of arousal that bursts through you, and Llewyn seems to focus on that sensitivity. He keeps licking at that area before sucking through the material of your bra. The saliva that gathers in the material with his ministration feels cold when the air hits it, causing your nipples to harden further.

Tilting your head back into the pillows of the bed, you gasp softly as you feel his finger and thumb pull apart the buttons of your jeans, trailing the zip down achingly slowly. When you subtly kick your feet in a wordless plea to ‘get a move on’, Llewyn simply rolls your nipple between his teeth, causing you to yelp out his name.

Llewyn continues his slow, infuriating pace as he pulls your jeans over your hips, the drag of the denim over your thighs sparking heat between them as he keeps teasing your nipples. You could scream, could cry with how long he’s taking to undress you.

“Llewyn-“ you choke out his name in a desperate plea, the sound dying on your lips when he suddenly palms your pussy, feeling at your soaked cotton underwear and letting out a warm puff of breath against your cleavage.

“You’re fuckin’ dripping for me sweetheart,” he whispers, looking up at you through those pretty lashes and you think God that’s it. That’s how he gets them. It’s not his voice or his face- no, it’s the way he looks at them, the way he makes them feel like the most gorgeous being to ever exist.

You can feel pressure of your clit through the fabric of your panties, and you blindly chase it as you rock your hips up against the barely-there touch. It’s feather light, and you ball your fists over the covers in frustration.

“Sweetheart’s getting feisty,” Llewyn mumbles, his hand reaching to undo the belt in his jeans. It ‘clinks’ softly, but it sounds as though a gun goes off in the silence of the van. “What’s to be done about that?” He muses.

Llewyn is careful to ease out of his jeans much like he had delicately peeled your own from your skin, forcing you to wait longer and longer despite your dismay. The coil in your abdomen is curled up so tightly now, the muscles so tight that you’re almost ready to grab his guitar from the floor and smack him over his stupid fucking pretty face wit-

Your exceedingly violent thoughts given your peacenik nature are interrupted by the breathless groan that Llewyn exhales as he reaches into his boxers and fists his throbbing cock. He pulls down the waistband slowly, exposing his dick to you as he strikes it with a gentle touch.

He’s flushed purple at the tip, uncut. Veins bulge at the underside, streaks of purple-blue against the tanned skin. You drool, desperate to take him into your mouth and taste the creamy precum that beads at tip.

Perhaps it was naive to think he would just push your panties to the side, even when you beg him with a needy gasp of his name. Instead, he slowly hooks his thumb into the waistband on either side of your hips and pulls them down with an even slower pace than your jeans, causing you to sob out, looking up at the ceiling of the van as he slowly unhooks the slicked fabric from your ankles.

Llewyn, seemingly having learnt from his previous mistakes that he had claimed haunted his dreams, pulled a condom from the back pocket of the jeans he had discarded on the bed beside him. In your anguish, the tip of the plastic practically screams in your ears as you plead in your mind for him to just ‘hurry the fuck up before you do it all yourself’. Thankfully, he doesn’t tease you too long, rolling the rubber onto his cock with practiced ease before holding your thighs open and settling his hips back between them.

His lips press feather-light kisses against your collarbone, beard scraping against your soft skin as he slips inside of your aching cunt ar at a devastatingly deliberate pace. You’re almost certain you can feel every ridge of his twitching cock catch on your walls as he eases inside, the feeling of him stretching you out so leisurely causing your toes to curl against the mattress and your mouth to fall open as you watch him grind into you.

“Is this what you wanted, pretty?” He whispers to you. His voice settles deep inside you, blended with the feeling of him pressing up against something utterly devastating within you. It stings slightly, the stretch, but your jaw is still slack as you answer back with a pathetic, wordless moan. It twists to a groan of frustration when Llewyn bottoms out inside of you and just… sits there.

“Be good. Just wait,” he whispers, carefully brushing strands of hair from your sweat slick forehead and easing your knees up to your chest. Needy, you feign the need to redistribute your weight and shift your hips to take him deeper so the tip of his dick kisses your cervix. In truth, it makes the situation even worse. His fingers dig into the flesh of your hips, forcing them into the mattress so you’re kept completely still.

“Llewyn!” You sob, his name catching in your throat and coming out of more of a whine. Begging doesn't seem to work on a surface level, Llewyn’s intense eyes setting a blaze in your abdomen as you struggle against his firm hold. However, you’re almost certain you can feel him twitch inside you at the distress in your voice, and you cling desperately to that upper hand.

“Llewyn, I need you to fuck me,” you punctuate your whispered begging with a push of your hips against his strong hold, “Please, I don’t think I can wait any longer- please I’m going to make myself cum if you do-“ He’s glaring back at you with an immovable expression, silently insisting that you ‘wait’.

Tears well in your eyes as you throw your head back into the pillows with a frustrated, exaggerated sigh. His hands sweep up your ribcage again with a delicate touch, watching you resign to waiting until he allowed you pleasure. Goosebumps rise on your skin beneath his touch, back arching slightly into the mattress at the ticklish sensation of his rough guitar string calloused fingertips tracing gentle patterns across your torso.

In the silence that follows, you hear Llewyn’s voice cut through in a barely there whisper of “good girl” before he shifts his hips, easing them all the way out of you and tapping the slick head of his cock against your clit. The sudden sensation sends a shockwave through you, the beginnings of an orgasm launching through your abdomen and rocking you from your dick-starved haze.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, his own voice strained as he slips the tip back into you and just fucking *holds* it there, edging the both of you in this potent cocktail between pleasure and torture. When your tears slip down your cheeks, seeping into your hairline, he takes pity on you, starting the laziest pace he could muster. In any other situation, this excruciatingly slow pace would do nothing for you, but he’s working you so tight that it sparks unholy pleasure through you, obliterating your body with ecstasy. “So desperate for me, Sweetheart.”

There’s no sudden thrusts. No jerking movements. Just in and out at a leisurely pace in order for you to feel every ridge of his cock, to pinpoint the exact moment his cockhead catches against the spot inside you that makes you throw your head back in bliss.

“Llw- hah- ahhh fuck-“ you sob weakly, planting the balls of your feet into the mattress and rocking your hips up at a similar rhythm to meet him in the middle, to feel him deeper.

It begins to swell almost immediately, that delightful burn that settles deep in your abdomen. You grasp blindly at the bedsheets, now damn with sweat, as you barely have the time to brace yourself against the early intensity of it, sparking bright white as it begins to flare. You can’t form the words, can’t work your lips around the foreign name that you’d been so desperately speaking for the past twenty minutes.

“That it baby? Can you feel that? I can. You’re so tight,” he murmurs, eyes studying your almost pained expression as he continues to spear that mind-blowing place inside you that makes you arch into him, makes you keen wordlessly for relief.

It’s then that you catch a glimpse of those rich, brown eyes staring down at you. They’re no longer tired, their dark circles nearest impacting on the utter adoration and reverence he held for you, something you never expected to see from Llewyn- something you initially thought him incapable of.

You throb and clench around him, the babble of meaningless syllables spilling from your voice crescendoing into a yelp as the affection in his expression throws you over the ledge, launches you over it. Every muscle in your body constricts with the pleasure that arcs through you so suddenly. You can barely discern where you are, what is happening as Llewyn leans down to press gentle kisses against your throat in an attempt to ground you through the devastating peak.

“Good girl,” he whispers against your throat, his voice ragged as he only now begins to pick up his pace, chasing after his release as your walls clamp tight around him. The sudden shift in rhythm has you sobbing out his name over and over, grasping desperately at his shoulders and digging your nails into him as he wrings out your pleasure for all it is worth.

“There it is,” he strains, “There it is, there there there!” Slamming his hips into you a little harder than you think even he intended, he cums with a heavy exhale against your throat. You can feel your walls tight around him, draining him as he rocks only slightly into you, completely wrecked.

You’re surprised that you can even feel him slump on top of you, the intensity of your orgasm making the afterglow almost numb, as though a pins and needles sensation coats your body from the top of your head to the tips of your toes.

The van is hot now, your combined body temperatures causing the windows to steam and sweat to slick your bodies. It’s sticky and uncomfortable but you’re so relieved to have him here, in your arms.

It takes a while for either of you to speak, just listening to the strained heaves of inhale and exhale as though they were the ticks of a clock. Finally, with enough of your breath and mind back, you give a weak giggle.

“I don’t think that the dental assistant fucked him, Llewyn.”

“There’s a first time for everything, don’t you think?” You hear him muse, catching his eye as he pulls away from your chest and the two of you, in a state of delirium, burst into a fit of laughter.

“Oh fuck,” you giggle, wiping tears of joy from your eyes for the first time in years as he cradles you in his arms, placing toothy kisses against your shoulder. “I suppose there is!”

____________________________________________

Eventually, Daryl and Jane get together on the campaign trail. You’re happy for them. You’re even happier for them when they announce their pregnancy, even though it means they will have to pull out of the protests to focus on the new life they’re building together. In a world so dark, so miserable, you’re glad that the two of them have found some light.

In the end, it’s you and Llewyn driving to capital cities. Llewyn performs his songs, spreads the message. You accompany him on his persistent run for peace during the day, and kiss and ease his battle scars at night, holding him through his night terrors.

They got worse with the release of the front page news article detailing the My Lai massacre, the utter horror that was inflicted upon the hundreds of men, women, children and animals in the tiny village. From that day forward, you heard an even angrier tone when Llewyn sang, the protest evolving into something more akin to revolution. You held his hand the entire time, and he wiped your tears.

That same New York Times article sparks an outrage that lights the fire for an uprising. Protests start countrywide, hundreds of thousands of people insisting that troops withdraw. People burn their draft cards, including rising boxing star Muhammad Ali. Students from Kent State University die in a police shooting while calling for peace. The government can no longer claim they have control, the Tet Offensive breaking down the carefully built, fragile upper hand of the US troops.

One night, at the height of the conflict, you sit down with Llewyn and help him pen a letter to his unnamed baby's mother. He wanted to be a part of his child’s life, regardless of how old she was now. He had been unsure, but you had insisted it was never too late to make that step.

“What if she doesn’t want to meet me?”

“Llewyn. You’re her father. Of course she wants to meet you.”

Within weeks, he had a response, a letter in feminine, cursive writing that detailed the relief to finally have heard from her father. They spoke daily on the phone, and you’d even had the opportunity to meet her.

She looked so much like her father.

On January 27, 1973, years after you convinced Llewyn to join your cause, the two of you stood in the same bar in Greenwich, New York. The tiny television mounted on the wall screens a picture in black and white. A rolling newsreel stated a breaking news story in block capital letters; PARIS PEACE ACCORDS SIGNED, ENDING WAR IN VIETNAM.

The Jack Daniels you held in your hand is launched into the air in celebration, ice and alcohol scattered across the wooden floor as the people bar cheer and roar. Troops were coming home. It was all over.

Ugly tears of elation streamed from your eyes as you looked at Llewyn, who also cried beside you. He immediately took you into his arms, abandoning his own drink on the bartop as he dipped you as low as he could, pressing his lips to yours in a kiss of relief. Of reverence. Of adoration. Your own V-J Day kiss like he had promised all those years ago, with someone you know and love and attribute as being the turning point of everything, his words pushing a message of peace and rallying a nation to say ‘no more’.

That night, he played Masters of War for the final time, up on that very same stage where you found him. The room was packed, filled with people that spilled out into the street to see the famous Llewyn Davis. The chords are played with the same anger, his tone holding that blazing fury he had kept raging for so many years, but his eyes speak volumes. The gentle gaze he held with you tells you all you need to know. It’s over.

“Let me ask you one question

Is your money that good?

Will it buy you forgiveness

Do you think that it could?

I think you will find

When your death takes its toll

All the money you made

Will never buy back your soul

And I hope that you die

And your death will come soon

I'll follow your casket

By the pale afternoon

And I'll watch while you're lowered

Down to your deathbed

And I'll stand over your grave

'Til I'm sure that you're dead.”

END

🏷 @polaroidpetal @foxilayde @mylifeisactuallyamess @bookfrog242 @wh0reforbucknasty @crystalchrysalis19 @zakizigekwe @ahookedheroespureheart @buckys-other-punk @anxious-sappho @youngr0se95 @alexloveskili @captainrexstan @astroboots @knights-power @southcrnbelle @niallsbunny @wakers-bonkers @ofmortems @hold-our-destiny @xcatnapsx @vermillionwinter @stormkobra-5 @bb-skyrunner @silvery-luna @sebsbelova @erenbissexual @alwritey-aphrodite @maggotzombie @deadpige0n @bakerstreethound @whatthehekko @moonnaught @cottagebunny9

[dailyreverie]

Insomniac

Fall prompts 🍂 27. "I can't sleep"

(Requested by @apollo-enthusiast / @myfandomlikesandstories)

Pairing: Llewyn Davis x reader

Word count: 689 words

Warnings: Mentions of homelessnes/struggling with having a placce to sleep.

October made its arrival known by drastically dropping the temperature that night, and if it hadn’t been for the cold night that woke you up, the empty bed would have done the trick. Everything is confusing at 2:45 am, when all you want to do is cuddle the cold away and Llewyn is nowhere to be found; that is until you hear the guitar strums coming from the living room and you see the light peeking from under the door.

“Llewyn,” Your raspy voice catches you by surprise as you call him, spotting him on the couch playing a quiet melody. “What are you doing?”

Llewyn looks up at you with guilty eyes and a sigh when he sees how sleepy you are. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t sleep.” He follows you with his eyes as you start walking toward him, trying to keep the smile that’s creeping on his lips to himself. “Honey, it’s late, go back to sleep.”

“I can’t now.” You sit facing him, a tiny smile on your face when you admit you can’t sleep without him. Your side is pressed to the back of the couch, watching him play mindlessly with the guitar strings.

You stay there, sitting beside him, looking at him incredulously because you know it’s late. “I’m sorry.” You smile sleepily to his apology, too tired to tell him there’s nothing to be sorry about. Nights get like this to him sometimes, restless and tiring, endless and cold, as if his body had taught him that every once in a while he still has to stay alert through the night. “It’s the cold. I couldn’t- it wouldn’t let me sleep.” Llewyn admits shyly, not daring to look up at you. But you understand, his insomnia is only a product of the difficult past he had a while back. No words can fix that, you know that by now, so you only reaching out to push a fallen curl back up his head where it belongs to remind him that he is there, with you, and not at a stranger's living room.

Silence fills your tiny apartment for a few seconds, just his guitar and the cracking of the candle stick that makes the room smell like fall, the one Llewyn lit up as a last attempt to feel warm.

“How did that song I like goes?” Interrupting his music you reach over and grab the instrument to place it on your lap now. With a precise and calculated movement of your fingers, you set them on that one chord he taught you, strumming slowly as you go through the following two chords in calculated and un-practiced moves. It doesn’t sound all that well, but Llewyn loves the song anyway - he loves your furrowed eyebrows as you move your finger to the string below and the one above trying to find the right one, and loves your soft voice whispering the lyrics. 

The same way you reached for his curls he does it to your fingers, not able to hide the way he feels away from his smiling face. “Remember it’s D…” He reminds you, placing your fingers in the correct form, letting you strum a couple of times. “Then it’s G, you know that one already.” You strum again, making him smile fondly when he hears you whispering the lyrics to yourself to keep the rythm. “And then D again.”

You play it a couple of times in a row until your fingers learn the movement - until Llewyn forgets he ever was cold, even welcoming sleep to his body once more. You are smiling to yourself when you get it right and in fluent movements, and he can’t help himself but interrupt your song as you did to his, connecting your lips in a soft kiss that finishes warming up every corner of his body when he feels your smile.

“I think I can sleep now.” He confirms before one more kiss. Your hand finds his as you stand up, pulling him with you so you can drag him to the bedroom where the cold never finds its way in again.

*************************

Thanks for reading! Please reblog and comment if you enjoyed it!

[mochimoqa]

Helping out

Llewyn Davis x Gn!Reader

Warnings: Slight cursing, mentioning of assault, Barely even proofread, this is gonna suck ass and I promise to add more 😭

(Imagine him checking you out like this OML 🤭)

It was a chill day like it was every day. You did your usual chores and errands.

Y'know, just getting the day over with.

As you were walking down the sidewalk you heard a groan.

"What the...?"

You walked closer and closer to the sound. It led to an alley. Okay... not sketchy at all...

"Hello? Is someone okay?"

You walk closer and closer to the sound then enter through the alley.

Your eyes widened.

"Oh my god- Are you okay!?"

You help the mysterious man get on his feet. He was holding his stomach and you let him wrap his arm around you.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, yeah... I'm fine."

You give him a skeptical look. "Really? Doesn't look like it to me."

"Okay, I agree with you. You're right," He chuckles a little.

"Are you able to walk? I can take you to my apartment if you want. You need rest."

He sighs and nods.

"Sure, I have nowhere else to go anyway. But... uhm... thanks for helping me... Ah, shit- I forgot where my manners were... what's your name?"

"Don't worry, you need to rest. No time for mannerisms. And my name is Y/n."

As you arrived at your apartment, you placed him on your creaky sofa. He flops onto the furniture and lays down.

"I never really asked what your name was."

"It's Llewyn, Llewyn Davis."

"Then Llewyn, how did this happen?"

"Somebody said that I had a 'friend' meeting me in the back... I was very confused... so, I went out to the back. I had never seen him before in my life. The next thing I knew I was punched in the face, and he kept on beating and beating me up... that bastard was probably having a bad day." He chuckles lightly.

"Yeah... probably..." You swipe the extra strands poking out from his hair. Poor Llewyn looked like a stray dog in need of help.

As you did that action he slowly took your hand and placed it on his cheek.

"A bit touch-starved are we, Llewyn?" You chuckle.

"I guess... sorry, I just really like your touch. It's really... comforting."

"Aww... thanks..."

You caress his cheek with your thumb. You never thought that you would bring a cute guy into your home. As you looked into his eyes they were so beautiful... his dark eyes looking at you with pure love...

"Please don't stop..." He kisses the inside of your palm.

You blush and smile lightly at him.

"I promise..."

Holy cow, this was a tough one to do 😭

Sorry for taking so long! I needed to do freaking essays for my professor-

Other than that, I hoped this was good enough to please you! This isn't really my favorite and I will do more work on it!

[dameronshandholder]

I honestly can’t get over how well you write Llewyn 🥺🥺🥺

Also please don’t apologize for the length because this was absolutely perfect 🥰🥰🥰🥰

Hiii!! I want a llewyn thing please! I don't care what it is, just gn reader and fluffy please (or angst and then fluff you pick). Maybe waking up with him?

Thank you so much even if u don't end up writing this, have a lovely day💐

this is half inspired by my dad's best friend napping on our couch with his bass on top of him. don't ask he always naps like that and it served as inspo

—

Your eyes shot open as if they had never even closed in the first place, and the first thing you noticed was how dark it now was outside.

The last thing you remembered before that was laying on the couch, Llewyn’s head over your stomach, your hand running through his dark curls while he softly picked at his guitar, your eyelids slowly starting to tingle with tiredness. 

It was a quiet, slow evening with nothing planned for the night, with no rush, with no worries, so as your eyelids got heavier, you let it let go.

Your hand was still in Llewyn’s mussed up hair, and he still had his guitar, only it was laying on top of him and softly moving with the soft heaving of his chest. 

Soft, barely audible snores escaped his mouth, and you smiled when you noticed the way his eyebrows slightly furrowed in his sleep. 

You shifted to get a bit more comfortable, careful not to disturb him abruptly, a soft groan leaving your mouth as you moved. Your hand moved from his hair to his beard, your thumb gently stroking it while you quietly called his name.

"Llewyn" you called again before leaning to leave a kiss to the crown of his head.

He groaned softly, beginning to stir, a questioning hum vibrating through his chest.

"We fell asleep, we should go to bed" you declared, your nails softly scratching his facial hair as he sighed.

He didn't talk back, and you could have almost thought he fell asleep again if he hadn't moved to put his guitar down on the floor and turned to lay over you on his stomach.

"You comfortable like that?" he mumbled looking up at you, one hand resting at your arm, rubbing circles over it with his thumb.

"Mhm" you approved with a nod. 

"Then we can stay here for the night" he sleepily groaned, the sound muffled as he pressed his face against your stomach.

You knew you didn’t have any choice when he wrapped both of his arms around your waist, and the feeling was emphasized when you heard the sound of his soft snores before you could even say something. 

You cupped the back of his head and closed your eyes again, scoffing in defeat.

—

(this is so short I'm sorry, I hope you still liked it)

[madswritingvoid]

Bootlegger

Pairing: Llewyn Davis x gn!reader

W/C: 1.6k

Warnings: Some swearing, sm**ches, but otherwise it’s still just fluff because Llewyn Davis makes me weak.

A/N: Okay so technically I played around with the state of bootlegs and access to recording devices but that’s fine we’re fine.

“Honey, I’m home!” 

You bounce into your apartment, putting the groceries in your arms on the small kitchen counter. Met with silence, you take off your coat and hat and begin looking for that mop of curls you love so much. “Llewyn? Baby? Are you okay?”

You hear shuffling and a string of muttered curses come from your bedroom and smile to yourself, even in your small New York apartment Llewyn could lose himself in whatever new song he was writing or record he just bought. “Hi sweetheart, yeah everything’s okay, just - just stay out there for a second. I was doing some cleaning and now I fucked it up,” he calls out but you don’t listen.

Even though you moved in together five months ago, your one-year anniversary around the corner, you couldn’t get enough of him. If that meant sitting on your bed and watching him clean up whatever mess he’s made, you were more than happy to keep him company.

“Don’t be silly, it’s not like I didn’t know what I was getting into when I moved in. You’ve never been known for being cle-,” you freeze in the doorway. A sheepish Llewyn looks at you from across the room, sat in front of your turntable, every record between the two of you spread out in front of him.

“Honey, why are my records on the floor?”

“Well, I realized we always have my records out and yours just stay in that little crate in the closet… So I thought it would be symbolic or something to mix them together and make it our collection? I’m even alphabetizing them!” He proudly exclaims, lifting up the larger crate of records to show you the letter markers he’s made with cut up cereal boxes. 

Your chest tightens, Llewyn has never been what people may traditionally consider “romantic”, but you loved him with your whole heart and knew he loved you too. Little projects like these may seem trivial to others, but you know this was just another way he was telling you he loves you.

“That’s a great idea baby,” you smile and walk over to the closet to get into some comfy clothes. Your last trip to the laundromat meant your favourite shirt of Llewyn’s was clean and ready for the taking, “why don’t you put something on for us while you keep organizing?”

He hums in agreement as he files through the stack of your records, his eyes immediately lock in on a record in a plain white paper sleeve with just the title in marker. 

L.D. Gaslight ‘65.

“What about this one? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you put this one,” he holds the record up so you can see it from the other side of the room. Your blood runs cold as you Superman leap onto the bed, trying to snatch the record from him, “no no no no!” 

“Whoa, baby! Slow down! We share everything, remember? You got me to admit I like Simon & Garfunkel, I promise whatever this is will not change how much I love you… Unless it sucks, then I might have to judge a little bit,” he teases, flashing you those big brown puppy dog eyes until you sigh in defeat. With a tiny nod from you and a reassuring kiss on the forehead from him, Llewyn carefully places the record on the player.

The comforting first crackle of the needle meeting vinyl fills the room and you’re taken back to that night at the Gaslight. 

Jean begged you to come with her after Jim had to ditch her for an impromptu writing session in the city, still asking her to record tonight’s performers at the Gaslight with his fancy new tape recorder. He thought the next step for their duo would be to record live performances at the lounge, a bootleg of themselves, or some bullshit like that according to Jean. 

“I know you’re not here because you want to be, lord knows I don’t, but I think tonight’s last minute line-up change might help.” You looked up at Jean, brow raised. Last you heard some marines-to-be were taking over the open mic, why would you give a shit? 

There’s a tapping sound against the mic and you can’t help the gasp that escapes.

“Um, ladies and gentlemen, as you can see I am not a group of strapping young marines, but my name is Llewyn Davis and I hope you’ll still enjoy your night.”

Your head whips over to Jean who’s sporting a knowing smirk on her face. Even though she had her own past with Llewyn, she was as supportive as she could be with the new relationship forming between the two of you. The past month was full of you sitting on her and Jim’s couch, gushing over your latest coffee date or poem you found on your bedside table in his rushed scrawl. You had admired Llewyn from afar for so long you dove head-first into being with him.  

You had it bad.

Llewyn’s eyes widen hearing his own voice. “... Baby? Did you make a bootleg of me?” You feel the heat rising until your face feels like it’s on fire but you don’t meet his eyes.

“N-No! Well, technically yes it is a bootleg of you. But I didn’t make it! I was there with Jean and you were performing, and I always thought you had a wonderful voice and we were just starting to talk and you were cute and and and -” he cuts you off with a soft kiss on the lips, pulling back so see the big grin he’s sporting.

“Since you’re so cute I won’t try and come after any copyright,” he laughs placing a reassuring kiss to your forehead, “but now you have to come and listen to this with me, voice cracks and all.” Holding his hand out to you, you slide off the bed and climb into his waiting lap. Your fingers automatically find their place among his crown of curls, Llewyn nuzzling his nose against your neck as you start to gently scratch his scalp.

His set only lasted twenty minutes but sitting in his arms, humming along to your favourite songs as he pressed soft kisses to your neck and shoulders, you could have stayed like this forever.

“Thank you for sticking around. Up next we have Jane Lane, have a good night everyone.”

Knowing what comes next, you try to wiggle out of Llewyn’s grip, but he doesn’t let you go, tightening the arms around your waist. “What’s wrong? Did you catch someone talking shit about my set on the tape?” He chuckles, but you freeze, knowing it’s too late to stop the next part of the recording.

The audience gives a polite but unenthusiastic round of applause. You roll your eyes and wolf whistle, making sure Llewyn knows that someone out there loved what he just did.

“I don’t know why you bother. I get that you’re all goo goo about him now, but come on. He’s a Grade A asshole, always has been,” Jean scoffs as she notices how your eyes still haven’t left Llewyn. 

You don’t even look over at her when you reply, Llewyn’s eyes finally meeting yours from across the smokey bar. You can’t help the large grin you feel coming, him giving you a shy one in return.

“I’m gonna marry him one day.”

The needle yanks itself off the still spinning record and you rush over to the turntable, quickly but carefully putting everything back in its proper place. “Okay, that’s enough of that for the night. They said they wouldn’t include anything after your set finished, but I guess that was a fuckin’ lie,” you mutter. 

Refusing to meet Llewyn’s eyes you go through the motions of putting the bootleg back among your collection and putting on some Simon & Garfunkel to fill the silence surrounding you both. If he had just let you go everything would’ve been fine. You weren’t embarrassed by what you said, but it still made you nervous knowing that he heard it. You tried to play it so cool when you first started really talking, he didn’t need to know you loved him so much from so early on, you didn’t want to scare him away now that you were finally going to that next part of your relationship. 

“Baby,” you will yourself to turn around, meeting those soft brown eyes you love so much. “Did - did you mean that?” 

“That depends,” you shrug, “did it freak you out? Because if it did that’s an inside joke between Jean and me and man is it funny but now’s not the time to start explaining everyth-'' you can’t seem to stop rambling until Llewyn stands in front of you and takes your hands in his.

“Did it freak me out to know the person I would look out for every time I got up there to sing was into me? That I loved you so much from the start and now I know you felt the same? Nah, didn’t freak me out at all,” he places a soft kiss on your lips and wraps his arms around your waist, swaying the two of you to the song playing in your own little dance. 

You don’t say anything after that, both of you just basking in the warmth of your love. There was so much more Llewyn wanted to say to you, but for now he just let himself relax into you. What you said didn’t just make him feel good, it made him feel like the luckiest man in the world.

And it sure as hell made him feel ready to finally show you what’s been in the small velvet box he’s been carrying around for the past two months. 

[mattmurdocksscars]

hi amanda! could i request “great. perfect. nice. fuck this.” for llewyn? 👀

He'd tried to find somewhere else to stay. He really had. Except Jean was pissed at him (what else was new?), the Gorfeins had company, and everyone else he tried had some excuse as well.

So that brought him here. Outside your door. After he'd run out on you the last time because you'd said you loved him and he couldn't handle it.

And to top it all off, you weren't answering his buzz. Fuck.

"Great. Perfect. Nice. Fuck this." Deciding to give up and find some place to hole up for the night, he was stopped only by the sound of you calling his name from down the street.

"Llewyn? Is that you?" Llewyn turned instinctually at the sound of your voice and felt his breath stutter the way it always did when he saw you for the first time in a long time. You were gorgeous, even bundled up in your winter jacket and scarf, arms full of groceries. By the time he'd finished looking you over, you had reached him and stopped, looking him over as well.

"You need somewhere to stay?" You smiled softly, no hint of anger at him for leaving you so suddenly last time. His surprise must have shown on his face because you laughed lightly.

"Llewyn, I know you better than you think. I'm not mad. Now come on, let's get upstairs. You must be freezing." Humming softly, you opened the door to your apartment complex and Llewyn followed after you.

The entire way up, he found himself smiling.

Yeah. Maybe he loved you too.

[oscquinn]

What I See || Llewyn Davis

Pairing: Llewyn Davis x gn!reader

Summary: Llewyn feels like he isn’t good enough for you, you tell him exactly what you see in him.

Warnings: Swearing, alcohol (llewyn is like halfway to drunk, and crying. he’s precious and i love him)

Rating: Teen

A/N: the target audience for this fic is me and @tinyphantomsalad bc we both have a multitude of Llewyn Feels.

Tagging: @softly-sad and @gottalovethefandom because they were both interested in my previous Llewyn fic (Five Minutes to Midnight) and I couldn’t quite tag them in time for that one.

Wordcount: 442 lmao this is a drabble

xxx xxx xxx xxx xxx

"Why do you stay with me?" The question passes softly through Llewyn's lips as you're running your hands through his hair, raven black curls like silk under your fingers.

"Why would I not?" you murmur in response, peering down at Llewyn. His head rests on you, cheek smushed cutely against your chest. He's more than a little tipsy, bordering on the edge of flat out drunk. He's always extra cuddly like this, crawling into your lap and tracing the lines of you with gentle reverence.

He shrugs, spending a moment more tracing the shadow of your collarbone, the curve of your shoulder, the slope of your neck. "It's just- you deserve the fuckin world," he tells you, sitting up to look you in the eye. He looks at you, soft and pleading, his dark brown eyes conveying something you can't quite name. "You deserve the moon and the sun and all the fuckin' stars, and I can't give 'em to you. I can't give you fancy clothes or an apartment in Manhattan."

"Aw, honey, I don't need any of that stuff." You lean up to kiss him gently, tasting whiskey on his lips. 

He shakes his head, breaking your kiss abruptly. "You're so fuckin' perfect baby, you could land anyone you wanted. And I'm… no one. I can't even pay the goddamn rent." Tears come to his eyes as he goes on, and you can't help but pull him a little closer. "You deserve so much better than me."

"Do you know what I see when I look at you?" you ask softly, brushing stray curls away from his watery eyes. He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again, afraid he'll say the wrong thing. "I see someone who has been kicked down by the world, time after time, and still manages to have the purest heart I've ever known." 

"I'm not-"

"I'm not finished," you say firmly. His eyes go a little wide and he sits back, leaving room for you to speak. You reach out to him, taking both his hands in your own. "Life has dealt you a shitty hand, but through it all you still love. I see it in the way you bare your soul when you sing, I feel it in your touch. I hear it in your voice when you whisper to me at night. You love with every single part of you, Llewyn. With your whole being. That's why I stay with you. That's why I love you."

You run your thumb over the back of his hands, searching his eyes for some form of reaction. All you see is love.

[be-the-spark-flyboy]

A New Beginning

fluffy fic with “elephant love medley” from moulin rouge? i feel like thatd be a really cute fluffy fic that llewyn deserves 💗 idk though.

A/n: I hope this is as cute and sweet as Llewyn deserves

Pairing: Llewyn Davis x reader

Warnings: Swearing??

Word count: 920-ish

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'Cause, love lifts us up where we belong

Where the eagles fly on a mountain high

---

You were wiping down the last few tables in the diner when you heard the door chime open. You hate late-night shifts, there was always a few drunks stumbling in and trying to put their paws where they aren’t supposed to go. There were already two in the back. Thank god for your coworker. You could never get through these shifts without him.

You turned around to see if your new customer was at least sober. And almost dropped the cloth at the sight that greeted you.

You had to be dreaming. There was no other way Llewyn fucking Davis could be at the door. Llewyn left you months ago. Left before you could tell him that you loved him. Before you could convince him that you wanted him around, that he wasn’t a burden to you.

But damn, he looked good. His cheeks looked a lot less sunken in and he no longer looked like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. Dressed in less shabby clothes and shoes, and he actually had a winter coat around his shoulders. But he was sporting the same hair and beard as the last time you saw him. Oh, the sheer number you times you had fantasized about how his hair would feel under your fingers and how his beard would feel on your face as he kissed you.

He lingered near the door like he was unsure of whether or not he should be there. You realized that you had been staring at him for a few uncomfortably long seconds when he gave you a tiny wave, making you snap out of your reverie.

“Llewyn! C-come in,” he lurched forward, taking hesitant steps towards you. He was probably just here for the food. There’s no way he would’ve known you worked here. You weren’t the last time he saw you.

“Hey,” he breathed, smiling softly. “How have you been?”

“Yeah not too bad.” You shrugged. “You wanna take a seat?”

“Actually, I was just here to see you,” That definitely took you by surprise. “I went to your place earlier and your neighbour said you were working here. I hope that’s okay,”

“Oh, I- my shift ends in about an hour actually,”

“I can wait,” he offers, hopeful that you’d let him.

—-

“So- um, you have a place to stay tonight?” You asked him as you stepped out of the diner together.

“Oh I actually hadn’t thought about that,” Llewyn scratched his head nervously chuckling. Why didn’t he think of that? Did he think you’d still let him crash on the couch like before? “I could try that motel a few minutes from here,” he shrugged.

“Oh no no, you know how bad that one is,” you waved off his suggestion. “You could take my couch if you’d like,” you offered, unsure if he’d take it. He was in a much better place than the last time you saw him.

“Really? You don’t mind?” You shrugged. It was no big deal. You were surprised he even thought of you after all these months.

“How have you been, Llewyn?” You break the lengthy silence as the two of you walk back to your place together. 

“Well, I finally got signed with a label. So, I’m doing much better now, money-wise,” You’re glad someone finally decided to give him the chance he deserved. Llewyn had a rough few years, you saw them first hand.

“Otherwise?” you asked. Llewyn’s hand shot out, wrapping his fingers around your wrist stopping you on your tracks, pulling you into him. He was so close to you, close enough to feel his puff of breath on your face.

“I missed you. Like, a lot,” He whispered. You didn’t think before you lift a hand, slowly brushing a stray curl from his forehead.

“I missed you too,” You breathe in the air between the two of you.

His lips pressed against yours, nothing more than a soft brush and he pulled back a little to gauge your reaction. You swear you almost swooned when his arms crept up around you pulling you into him. The streetlight cast a soft glow over his features and you brought your hands up to guide his face to yours.

Nothing could have prepared you for the feeling of his beard brushing against your skin, surprisingly soft, as he deepened the kiss like he was trying to steal your breath from your lungs. He moaned into the kiss when your hands slide into his curls and softly tug on them.

His palm cradled the back of your head as his lips found their way along your jawline, then down the length of your neck. The texture of his beard rubbing against your neck would’ve made your knees buckle if he hadn’t been holding you steady against his chest.

“I couldn’t stop thinking of you the whole time I was away,” He gently nipped at your earlobe as you whispered his name and he hummed in response.

“It’s late,” The words came out all shaky as his arms tightened around your waist and he rested his forehead against yours. Llewyn hummed again. “And there’s enough room for two in my bed,” you suggested. “If you don’t mind joining me,”

“Okay,” He smiled. “I’d like that,” first you had to stop making out on the sidewalk like a pair of teenagers. You took his hand, tucking yourself into his side as you walked side by side towards what felt like a new beginning for the both of you.

---