#llewyn davis x y/n

[autismsupermusicalassassin]

Breath of heaven

Llwelyn Davis x singer!pregnant! Reader

Plot: you are a singer but pregnant and alone in Greenwich Village New York where you met a man named Llewelyn Davis . When preforming you are suddenly gone into labor right after Llewelyn was kicked out of a village club to help

Warning: pregnancy, swearing,

You were almost near your due date is next three weeks of this month and you’re going to a recording studio in your hometown Greenwich Village here in New York . But with how the snow is around it’s almost blinding and how the sidewalks are a bit slippery with ice . Humming the song your going record soon, you used to sing songs on the streets and sometimes pubs but since you became pregnant from your ex-boyfriend gray who sadly gotten married to someone else his secret girl from New Jersey leaving you alone and pregnant but it was okay, you have started singing lullabies and hopefully people can let their babies help them sleep.

While walking you didn’t notice that you slipped on the a icy pavement until you felt someone caught you “easy there ma’am” the voice said as you looked up to see a man with angel brown eyes and features “you could have gotten hurt” he looked at you smiling making you blush “t-thank you um….”

“Llwelyn, Llwelyn Davis “ he introduced himself to you picking up his guitar case in one hand holding out the other for a handshake which you returned the gesture “Y/N” you told him and then you felt your baby kick making you hide your pain in front of him “I’m heading for a recording studio around here “ he gave you a soft and yet sad look on his face “why? You need a job there ?” Llwelyn asked, “yeah you can say that “ you answered “you know the place ?” He nodded and tells you that he was heading there to sing a song with a friends of his which unknowingly made the two of you walk in front of the building and you didn’t realize that he was holding your hand that made you blushed a little as he lets go and walked inside alone and you walked in after he did.

Surprisingly, you were greeted nicely not noticing you were the other side of the recording where Llwelyn was there with other two men Jim Berkeley and Al Cody supposedly finished recording a song when he spots you in your beauty , he snaps out of it and one recording people (which I don’t know their names) told them to come out and meet you then to the three of them were surprised by the fact you’re pregnant. “Now fella we’re going to give miss Y/L/N a chance to show her some of her skills and we’re gonna record her now “ the man said to them you spot Llwelyn and sheepishly waved at him and Jim and Al Cody. “ come on Mrs let’s go get your song recorded” you nodded but you at Llwelyn and you feel sorry for not telling him about your pregnancy.

Three weeks later….

After finishing recording the fifth song you told them that you were heading home for today, recently your baby has been getting antsy but today something wasn’t right as you continue to walk you felt a sharp pain next in your belly and you realize that something was that your having contractions “fuck “ you cursed as you panting to calm yourself down. Not far from the gaslight Llewelyn just got kicked out from insulting a man who was heavily insulted for his music and about his late partner Mike just by punching him in the nose which kicked him out.

“Llwelyn !” You shouted to him desperately as you speed walked to him and grabbing his shoulder making him turn to look at you with surprise “Y/N ? What the fuck are you doing here?” He asked but you didn’t answer and instead starting to sob through the pain you are experiencing right now “ I’m in fucking labor Llwelyn!” You said to him , Llwelyn blinks a few times it took him a minute to realize that you were actually in labor! “HOLY SHIT YOUR BABY IS COMING NOW! LIKE RIGHT NOW?!?” You wince from not only your contraction but his shouting and he looks around to get a cabby for you to get you to the hospital. He let out a whistle to one of the caddie which stop in front of the two of you “listen man she needs to get to the hospital right now!” Llwelyn told the driver while helping you in the cab “why ?” The driver asked like it isn’t obvious enough “ she’s in labor now go!” Llwelyn growls , you have never seen him like this before and the way he holds your hand tightly for dear life lol you’re going to fade away from him.

Once you and Llwelyn arrive at the hospital, the nurses takes you to the delivery room and your screams behind the door make Llwelyn scared and afraid, from the three weeks the two of get to know one of another and you providing shelter for him when he is desperate he remembers what you told him about the father of your baby “he left you pregnant to be married to someone bitch in New Jersey ? He’s an ass” he told you and that made you laugh so hard that made him laugh too , he even sang one of his songs back when his old music partner mike was around he was surprised to hear that you told him your baby kick from every time he sang at your place, Llwelyn felt like he wished that the baby you were carrying was his . Even though they were good memories he still felt like shit , of course you were there for him when he needed it . To get his mind off of the situation right now he decided to hums one of your songs because apparently smoking is legal in the waiting area now.

He felt a tap on his shoulder and he turn to see the nurse who look weary and tired even when she just smiled, “is she okay? Is Y/N alright? Is the baby okay?” He asked not realizing that he sounded like a concerned husband, “the two of them are alright” the nurse told him “she and the baby boy are good and healthy “ Llwelyn smiles softly “ would you like to see them?” The nurse asked which Llwelyn again unknowingly just nodded and walked in to see you glowing with beauty and seeing the baby in your arms was quite a sight to see . You looked at him smiling “hey” you said and he replied back “hey, you look better” you smiled at him “thanks for saving me and my son Llwelyn” his smile and looks at your baby, so tiny and cute even “what is his name?” He asked you and you answered “Mike, his name is Mike Joseph Y/L/N” Llwelyn nods “you named him after my old partner “he stated and you nodded “why?” He asked which smiled “because I love you and I know you miss your partner/friend so I thought naming my son after him would help you to know mike is there with you knowing it plus he seems to smile at the name” you answered which Llwelyn wanted to cry with happiness that you care for him and learning everything that happened to him. You slowly start to hand over your son to Llwelyn which surprised him, he wanted to say no but couldn’t because when he hold little mike in his arms it made him feel like…he’s holding his own son . “He so lightly and small “ Llwelyn told you and he returns your baby to you smiling.

11 days later,

You finally returned home and Llwelyn decided to stay with you and little Mike for time to time and even deal with the baby crying at night by singing “green green rocky road” to him and that calms him down. The you and Llwelyn spend time together his love for you grew and one night when Isaac was was about to cry for something he stopped to see you rocking him and breastfeeding him too. You looked at him while letting him hear you singing to Mike of your songs to him.

“Breath of heaven Hold me together Be forever near me Breath of heaven Breath of heaven Lighten my darkness Pour over me your holiness For you are holy Breath of heaven

Do you wonder as you watch my face If a wiser one should have had my place But I offer all I am For the mercy of your plan Help me be strong…..” you sang your song to your son and Llwelyn just stares at you lovingly which you noticed and kisses him making him stun but happy that you are accepting him for his kindness.

A/N: finally my first Llwelyn Davis x reader fic. And yes the song is actually a Christmas song that was used in the nativity story soundtrack and Amy grant soundtrack too but it was stuck in my head for quite some time and it is beautiful song

[eyelessfaces]

𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐓𝐎𝐁𝐄𝐑: 𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐘 𝐒𝐈𝐗

𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐓𝐎𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

llewyn davis x reader

𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐤: face sitting

warnings: piv sex, obvious face sitting, oral (f receiving)

word count: 1.4k

updates blog: @eyelessupdates

(a/n; there's a part inspired by this post, hi @my-secret-shame <3)

Today was one of those days. Not especially a tiring one, but a long one, one that seemed to drag out forever, that felt like was never gonna end. 

You had understood this the second Llewyn joined you at your table at the Gaslight. 

He didn’t tell you much; didn’t need to. He had an expressive face, but you liked the idea that you had somehow come to know it all by just looking at his eyes.

He had quietly settled beside you, capturing your lips in a kiss before lighting himself a cigarette and watching the act in front of him until the time would come for him to play. 

The day only seemed to get painfully longer as he got on stage, having to witness Pappi taking advantage of the situation to hit on you despite knowing damn well that Llewyn was your boyfriend; he would punch him in the face if Pappi wasn’t the one to let him play at the Gaslight, if he wasn’t contributing to the rare occasions for him to make some money.

The moment you got home is the moment you truly realized how done he was, how exhausting carrying the weight of his day over his shoulders had been.

You watched as he hastily and messily kicked off his shoes, throwing his coat over the nearest surface, and you followed closely as he quickly beelined to the bedroom to then sprawl onto your bed, tapping his lap to invite you to straddle him. 

So you did, knees as either side of him, his hands gently rubbing up and down your thighs as he told you about his never ending day.

It was endearing, the way he was looking up at you and smiling lovingly, as if it was the only thing he still had the strength for. You ran your hand through his hair as you listened to him talk, your fingers grasping his chin to kiss him once he was done.

Both of his hands grabbed the back of your neck to bring you closer and deepen the kiss, shifting to roam down your body once his tongue slipped inside your mouth. 

His fingers toyed and fiddled with the waistband of your trousers, and it didn’t take long for you to decide to remedy that, stripping out of your clothes as he mirrored your actions, sighing as you eventually lowered yourself down onto his cock while he lit a cigarette.

There is something so deeply arousing about this, about him nonchalantly smoking his cigarette while you are riding him.

It is a slow pace, almost lazy; a focused frown has grown over Llewyn’s face, cigarette tucked between his lips, one hand settled at your hips, guiding you up and down, his other hand trapping the stick between his fingers, momentarily pulling it away from his mouth to mindlessly blow the smoke to the side, eventually putting it out once it is done consuming. 

You lean to kiss him now that his mouth is accessible, his tongue mingling with yours, the familiar taste of nicotine in his warm breath.

His hand sets at your cheek while you kiss, shifting to tangle in your hair, setting over your waist when you pull away once it becomes necessary.

“Stop riding me” his voice is sudden, a bit rough, and you oblige. You stop, immediately interrupt the rolling of your hips, afraid something is wrong, but his thumb is gently rubbing circles over your skin so you’re even more confused. 

“I wanna try something” he declares as he shifts to adjust his position, tucking the pillow comfortably under his head. 

Your curiosity is piqued, you’re always eager to try new things with him. You raise an eyebrow and your mouth starts to gape to ask for what he has in mind, but he speaks before you get the chance to.

“Ride my face” he suggests as his hands settle back to your hips, and he feels you clench around him as he pronounces the words.

Oh.

You had experience in riding him, but not that way.

Llewyn had also eaten you out plenty of times before, but always in ways where he could control what he was doing, and where there were no actual risks for you to harm him.

“Are you sure? I don’t wanna hurt you” you mutter just loud enough for him to hear, your hand coming to wrap around his forearm.

“Dove, if I suffocate in your pussy I’ll be the happiest man on earth.” he jokes, a playful, reassuring smile over his face as he squeezes your sides, a laugh slipping from your mouth. “You’re not gonna hurt me angel” 

You nod, the simultaneous feelings of apprehension and excitement pooling in your belly.

You lift a leg up to lift yourself up from his cock, a small whine leaving your mouth at the loss, shifting to then crawl and place yourself so you could straddle his chest.

“You’re sure about this?” you ask, looking down at him.

“A hundred percent. C'mon, get that pretty thing over my face"

You get yourself onto your knees, either of them caging his face, and he licks his lips as he takes in the sight above him, staring at the slick starting to drip down onto the insides of your thighs.

“If something’s wrong, slap my thigh real hard” you suggest. 

He scoffs, gripping onto your hips. “Sure thing, c’mon baby.”

You bite down onto your bottom lip, cautiously lowering yourself down onto his face, holding tight onto the headboard of the bed, careful not to put your whole weight down on him.

You can’t help the moan that slips from your lips; the first contact of his tongue over your folds feels heavenly, and a small gasp quickly follows when he pulls down onto your hips to bring you closer to his face, almost smothering himself in you.

“Shit, Llewyn” you keen, your head dropping as you bite down onto your lip.

His hand quickly comes to fist his cock, missing the feeling of your tight cunt around it though really, the taste of it and your sounds alone could work him to an orgasm.

Words can barely escape from your mouth, you're only able to deliver parts of them when he’s mouthing at your cunt like a starved man, licking into you like it was the last time he was ever going to.

“O-ooh yeah– just like that” you whine as the abrasive feeling of his beard against your sensitive skin brings an extra sensation, starting to really roll your hips onto his face, truly fucking yourself on his tongue, way less cautious about your movements now that pleasure has taken over your other senses.

“Baby, I’m close,” you breathe out after some time, – quicker than usual, frankly – struggling to get the words out between moans, the task so challenging when his nose starts rubbing against your clit.

He hums into you in response, the hand at your hip squeezing harder onto your flesh, the hand at his cock pumping it more firmly to make sure you would both cum at the same time.

Your eyes squeeze tight, nails almost digging in the wooden headboard when the feeling grows inside of you and makes your mouth fall agape, a long, broken, noise-complaint-worthy moan escaping as you cum over his tongue.

Llewyn’s low, deep grunt resonates against your sensitive pussy as he fists his cock and pulses into his own hand, the vibrations of the moans and grunts leaving his mouth prolonging your climax as you come together.

You climb off of him once it’s over for the both of you, placing yourself beside him, still standing onto your numb, shaking knees, your forehead resting against the brim of the headboard while you try to catch your breath and regulate the beating of your heart. 

“Good?” he asks, and you can hear the slight rasp in his voice after being deprived of air for some time.

“Are you kidding me” you chuckle, breathless. “That mouth of yours has other talents than just singing.” you turn and really sit on the bed, giving your quivering legs a rest.

You look down at him as he chuckles, his mouth and bearded chin glistening with your juices, the sight making your stomach turn in the best way possible.

Then it hits you, the delayed worry, the possibility that it might have not been enjoyable for him, or maybe even uncomfortable.

“Was it alright for you? Did I hurt you?”

“Did you feel me slap your thigh real hard?”

—

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

+ @flightlessangelwings

[emma23]

A melancholy melody:

Llewyn Davis x reader

————————————————————————

The clinking of cups, the murmur of voices, and the low hum of folk music were all sounds that blended into the background noise of The Gaslight Café. Y/N sat at a small table near the back, absentmindedly stirring her coffee. She had been coming here for weeks, drawn to the place like a moth to a flame. Not so much for the music, though she enjoyed it, but more for the people. Well, one person in particular: Llewyn Davis.

She sighed, glancing over at the stage. It wasn’t Llewyn up there right now—just some guy singing about trains or rivers or whatever. But her eyes kept drifting to the bar, where Llewyn sat, hunched over a glass of something that didn’t look like coffee. He always looked like that—slouched, brooding, like the weight of the world had settled permanently on his shoulders.

Y/N was used to making bad decisions. Hell, she’d made one earlier that morning when she decided to skip work just to come here. But this? This was bordering on a whole new level of questionable choices. She hadn’t even spoken to him yet. Sure, she’d smiled at him once, and he’d sort of grunted back, but that was the extent of their interactions.

Still, there was something about him, something magnetic. Maybe it was his music. Maybe it was the fact that he always seemed one bad day away from completely unraveling, and that intrigued her in the worst way. Or maybe it was just that he had this face—this ridiculously soulful, sad face—that made her want to… she didn’t know, fix him? Or at least stop him from looking so damn pitiful all the time.

She took a deep breath, deciding today was the day. Today, she would finally talk to him. Maybe invite him for coffee or—

“Hey,” came a voice from across the table. It was Llewyn, his eyebrows furrowed, his eyes a mix of confusion and curiosity. “You staring at me or the drink?”

Y/N’s heart raced. “Uh, both? I mean, mostly you,” she stammered, trying to play it cool. “I’m Y/N.”

He smirked, a hint of warmth breaking through his usual brooding demeanor. “Llewyn. Nice to meet you. I guess?”

“Yeah, nice to meet you too,” she replied, unable to suppress a smile. “So, what’s the drink of choice for someone who looks like they’re one sad song away from a breakdown?”

He chuckled lightly, the sound surprising her. “It’s a sad song kind of day. Just coffee. Helps me feel less… well, sad.”

“Does it work?” she asked, leaning in.

“Sometimes,” he admitted, shrugging. “Sometimes it just makes it worse.”

Y/N bit her lip, sensing a deeper conversation was brewing. “What’s your plan? Keep drowning your sorrows in coffee or try to find something to cheer you up?”

“Honestly? I’ve been trying to figure that out for a while now.” Llewyn leaned back, crossing his arms. “Usually, it ends up being more coffee and less cheer.”

“Well, I’m not sure how much cheer I can bring, but I can definitely help with the coffee,” she offered, feeling bold. “What do you say we grab a cup together?”

His eyes widened for a moment, surprise flickering across his face. “You want to drink coffee with me?”

“Why not? I mean, it’s either that or you go back to brooding alone,” she teased.

He smirked again, a genuine smile breaking through. “Okay, Y/N, you’ve got yourself a deal.”

They moved to the counter, ordering their drinks and settling into a cozy booth. The conversation flowed more easily than Y/N had anticipated. They exchanged stories, each one peppered with laughter and teasing jabs that made Llewyn’s usual melancholy seem more like a playful mask than a permanent state.

“So, what’s the deal with your music?” Y/N asked, genuinely curious. “Why do you look so miserable when you’re so talented?”

“Guess I’m just not cut out for success,” he replied, taking a sip of his coffee. “Every time I think I’m getting somewhere, it all falls apart.”

Y/N leaned closer, intrigued. “Maybe you just need the right person in your corner?”

Llewyn raised an eyebrow. “Like you?”

“Why not? I could be your cheerleader,” she joked, waving her arms like a high school mascot.

“I don’t think I need pom-poms,” he replied, laughter dancing in his eyes.

As the conversation continued, Y/N found herself lost in the layers of Llewyn’s personality—the brooding artist, the sarcastic wit, and even the vulnerability that peeked through every now and then. She felt a strange connection forming, something deeper than just a shared cup of coffee.

Then, Llewyn’s gaze shifted, and for a moment, he looked incredibly pathetic—eyes wide, brow furrowed, and full of need. It tugged at her heartstrings. “You know, sometimes I feel like I’m just… spinning in circles,” he admitted softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Hey, we all have those days,” Y/N said gently. “But you’re not alone, okay?”

He met her gaze, a flicker of hope mingling with the sadness. “You really mean that?”

“Of course,” she said firmly. “I wouldn’t lie about coffee, Llewyn.”

He chuckled, and the tension eased. “Alright, then. If you’re offering, maybe I’ll take you up on it.”

After coffee, they wandered the streets of Greenwich Village, sharing stories and laughter as the sun began to set. Llewyn’s wall started to crumble, revealing a man who, beneath the gruff exterior, was still just a guy trying to make sense of his life.

They ended up back at her place, sitting on her couch, still wrapped in their conversation. Y/N couldn’t ignore the chemistry simmering between them. Llewyn’s gaze lingered on her lips, and she felt a rush of anticipation.

“Y/N,” he murmured, his voice low. “I’ve been thinking…”

“About what?” she prompted, leaning closer.

“About how we keep talking and laughing, and I don’t want it to stop,” he confessed, his voice trailing off as he looked into her eyes.

Y/N’s heart raced. “Neither do I.”

Llewyn hesitated, then took a leap of faith, closing the distance between them. Their lips met softly at first, a gentle exploration that quickly deepened. Y/N felt herself melt against him as his hands tangled in her hair, pulling her closer.

As their kiss intensified, Llewyn’s hands roamed over her back, igniting a fire within her. She lost herself in the moment, feeling every ounce of tension fade away.

“Wow,” Llewyn breathed, pulling back slightly, his eyes searching hers. “That was… something.”

“Something good?” Y/N asked, a teasing smile on her lips.

“Definitely good,” he replied, his tone laced with sincerity.

They kissed again, the world around them fading into nothingness. Y/N felt like she was floating, caught in a bubble of laughter, music, and connection.

After a while, they broke apart, both panting slightly. Llewyn leaned back against the couch, running a hand through his hair. “I think I could get used to this.”

Y/N grinned. “Just think of me as your unofficial life coach.”

He chuckled, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “What’s your first piece of advice, then?”

“Stop being so pathetic,” she said, leaning in and pecking his cheek. “I can’t have my favorite musician looking like that. It’s bad for my reputation.”

Llewyn laughed, shaking his head. “Yeah, because I’m all about reputations.”

“Hey, it’s a start,” she replied, winking. “Next step? We get you a record deal.”

“And a proper coffee maker,” Llewyn added, grinning.

“Deal,” she said, laughter filling the room.

As the night wore on, Y/N knew this was just the beginning of something beautiful. She could be the light in Llewyn’s life, and maybe—just maybe—he could teach her how to embrace the beautiful chaos that was life.

[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!

[l8rs-gat0rs]

Old Friends

Pairing: Llewyn Davis x Female Reader

Warning(s): Smut, specifically cock warming. A dash of Fluff. Y/n use

Summary: (kinktober 2022 repost) An old friend knocks on your door extremely early in the morning looking for a place to stay. And who are you to say no to him when he looks like a sad puppy?

Word count: 1.9k

~~~~~~ 18+ MINORS DNI~~~~~~

I awoke to rapid knocks at my door and I groaned checking the time.

"it's 2 am what the fuck..." I said alarmed at the presence of someone at my door at this time.

I was suddenly very alert, and I grabbed a knife from the kitchen counter as I approached the door to my apartment.

the knocks came again causing me to start to hold my breath in fear.

"Who is it!?" I called out

"it's Llewyn a muffled voice came from the other side of the door."

I dropped my hand that had the knife in it and groaned loudly opening the door.

"woah is that a knife?" He asked, his eyes shooting down to my hand.

"yes, and I was about to stab you because what the fuck Llewyn? it's 2 am." I said annoyed.

"I know, I know, I just got back to New York after auditioning for a gig in Chicago and I need a place to crash for a couple days, then I'll be out of your hair I promise." He said quickly looking very tired.

"ugh fine, you're lucky we've known each other for so long." I groaned, opening the door wider to let him in.

He gave me an embarrassed smile as he walked in and mumbled a "thank you"

Llewyn and I have been friends since we were kids and I always regret not keeping in touch with him more in our adult years. But our lives took different paths, I became a nurse after doing years of college, med school, and residency, and he focused on his music career.

He placed his guitar case and small suitcase next to my couch and sat down taking his scarf and tattered shoes off.

I felt a sharp pain in my heart at the sight of him. He looked so worn out.

My cat Toast, walked up to him and started purring and rubbing himself against Llewyn causing Llewyn to smile and bend down to pet Toast.

"Hey Toast, nice to see you too. You're so big now Buddy!" he said fondly.

I was honestly shocked he still remembered Toast, he was just a kitten the last time Llewyn saw him. I smiled at the sweet interaction.

"Can I get you anything? Water, coffee?" I asked him.

"Some water would be nice"

"Alright I'll be back" I said.

I went to the sink and grabbed some water, handing it to him and then sitting on the couch next to him.

"so what's up with you? where have you been? it's been a while." I asked him.

"Nothing much, same old same old." he said softly.

I cleared my throat awkwardly as he sipped his water and I looked at him, taking in his appearance.

He was just as handsome as the last time I saw him, if not more, the harsh conditions of life seemed to be beating on him but I was grateful he was still here and kicking back at life after what happened with...

I shook my head and sighed.

I didn't feel like re-kindling my old childhood feelings for the man so I sighed and got up.

"I'll get you a pillow and a blanket, the couch is a pullout, just move the coffee table to a side." I said to him.

He nodded, rising to his feet as well and he started to move the coffee table.

I went to my room and grabbed a pillow and went into my closet, grabbing a blanket before making my way back to the living room.

"Here ya go Llewyn." I said handing him the pillow and blanket.

He smiled at me graciously and grabbed the blanket and the pillow , placing it on his makeshift bed.

I stood there awkwardly while he set it up and he sat down on the pullout and looked up at me.

I looked away quickly as I started blushing and rubbing my neck.

"Alright well, I'm gonna head to bed." I said turning around to go back to my bedroom.

I felt a hand grab my arm and I stopped and turned around, locking eyes with Llewyn.

My heart started beating rapidly and I held my breath, getting lost in his sad brown eyes that held so many different unreadable emotions right now.

"Hey, it's really great to see you again y/n." He said.

"Same here." I breathed out before slipping my hand out of his and quickly speed walking to my room and closing the door behind me.

I pressed my back against the door and slid down, putting my head in my hands.

Holy fuck, so much for pushing the feelings away...

After a minute, I let out a deep breath.

He's only a man y/n calm down.

I chuckled softly at myself before slipping under the covers back into bed.

I drifted off to sleep, he would probably be off to some gig tomorrow morning and I won't even be seeing him...

I woke up, yet again, to soft knocking on my door.

I raised my head and groaned, checking the clock again.

4am.

Really Llewyn???

"Come in!" I groaned out, and I heard the door open to an apologetic Llewyn silhouetted by the moonlight coming from my window.

His hair was Tousled from sleep and he seemed to be shivering and rubbing his arms.

"H-hey it's pretty cold in your apartment and that blanket doesn't really seem to be helping." He said with a slight laugh.

"Oh fuck I'm so sorry, I forgot the heat was broken, the guy is coming to fix it tomorrow. That's why I have two blankets" I said facepalming myself.

"Uhhhh" I said trying to think of a solution.

The only one that seemed to be logical was....

No.

But I can't let him shiver, look at him, he looks like an abandoned puppy!

I fought back a groan and went against all my screaming instincts.

"Why don't you come sleep with me? There's plenty of room" I said sitting up and patting the empty space in bed next to me.

I quickly started to backtrack at the phrasing of my sentence.

"I-I mean not like sleep with me like, I mean sleep in the bed with me, you know? To like, conserve heat and it's warm and-" I started to ramble before he cut me off with the raise of his hand.

"It's okay, and I know what you meant" he laughed.

I blushed and smiled at him sheepishly.

"I don't wanna make you uncomfortable, I can pull through till the morning, I'll put my coat on." He said moving to leave and close the door behind him

"No wait!" I said reaching a hand out into the air and he froze, turning around. With his hand still on the doorknob.

"I'm not uncomfortable, I promise, please come here." I said softly.

He let go of the handle and walked back Into the room, closing the door behind him.

"Thank you." He said as I lifted the covers for him to slip under

He laid down on his back and I did as well.

"Alright goodnight." I said, breaking the tension.

"Goodnight" he said back Into the darkness.

A few minutes later, he spoke up again.

"Hey y/n?" He asked

"Yeah what's up, you still cold?" I asked him with my eyes closed.

"Nah, I just wanted to ask you something." He said, his voice getting softer.

"Yeah, what is it?" I said sleepily.

"Jim told me you used to like me." He said hesitantly.

My eyes shot opened and my head turned to him.

"He told you what!? I'll kill him I swear-" I said panicked.

"Hey hey calm down, it's okay! I kept bugging him about it, it's not his fault." He said quickly. Turning onto his side and placing his hand on my shoulder.

My skin burned at the touch and I quieted down.

"I just wanted to know if you still felt the same way, because..." He said trailing off.

"Because?" I asked, holding my breath and searching his eyes, illuminated by the moonlight, for some type of answer.

"Because I like you y/n. I always have." He finished.

My breath escaped me and I slapped my hand over my mouth and looked at him.

"Please say something y/n." He said grabbing both my hands and squeezing them.

"Did I just ruin our friendshi-" I cut him off, letting go of his hands and cupping his face in my hands, kissing him passionately.

When I separated from him, we both panted softly and pressed our foreheads together.

I giggled lightly and he chuckled softly.

"Yes Llewyn, I still like you." I said. Rubbing my thumb against his cheek. He closed his eyes and leaned into my touch. It was such a beautiful sight.

He captured my lips in a kiss again and I pressed my body closer into his.

He deepened the kiss and I melted into him, wrapping my arm around him, wanting to be as close to him as humanly possible

That's when I felt his bulge against me and I gasped when I shifted my leg against it and he moaned into my mouth.

"Fuck I'm sorry I-" he started to apologize, but I cut him off.

"No no, it's okay. I want you as close as possible right now, I never want you to let me go." I said.

"I'll never let you go sweetheart." He said sincerely, and my heart fluttered at the pet name.

"I want you inside me." I said softly against his lips.

He nodded as he choked back a groan, understanding exactly what I wanted.

I pulled my pants and underwear down under covers and he did the same, tossing them across the room.

I turned so my back was facing him and pressed my body against his. He led his hand down to where I needed him most, where I was aching for him, and he delicately touched the pads of his fingertips to my clit causing me to let out a moan.

He slowly moved his fingers up and down, Occasionally  slipping his fingers inside me just a little.

"Llewyn please." I whimpered for him.

"Alright princess." He said removing his fingers from me.

I felt him slowly start to rub himself up and down, covering himself in my wetness as well as his own precum. He panted softly before lining himself up with me and slowly starting to push himself inside me.

My gasp of surprise at his size soon turned into a languid moan.

He slowly slid himself all the way inside me and he stayed there, inside me, wrapping his arms around me.

He groaned as my walls clenched around him, adjusting to his size and I let out a whimper.

As we lay they together, connected at the hips I sighed softly.

"I've never felt more warm." He said, causing my heart to explode.

"Llewyn?" I called out as he kissed my shoulder softly and played with my hair.

"Yes baby?" He said gently.

"Please don't leave in the morning." I pleaded, wanting to wake up with his warmth sounding me inside and out.

"I won't." He said reassuringly.

"Promise me." I said.

"I promise I won't leave you. Not today, not ever." He said.

I hummed, satisfied with his answer, and drifted off to sleep with his body curled around me. 

[bits-and-babs]

𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐑 — 𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐖𝐘𝐍 𝐃𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐒

-> OCT. 18 : HAIR PULLING

WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI. Themes of homelessness, masturbation, themes of exhibitionism.

WC: 1013

[Kinktober Masterlist] [Main Masterlist]

You’re not quite sure where it came from. It was just an impulsive thought you had one evening, the kind that won’t leave your head no matter how hard you try to shake the niggling and mildly irritating voice in your head saying ‘do it’.

Llewyn’s bedtime routine was the same every damn day. The poor, tired man would wash in whoever’s-house-ya’ll-were-both-staying-at’s shower (today’s unlucky recipient of your unwanted company was Al Cody, a friend of Llewyn’s) and he would crawl his aching, cold body over you on the sofa, snuggling into your body heat and resting his head against his chest.

In your own exhaustion from fighting the bitter, New York cold, the least you could do to soothe his pain and mental anguish was run your fingers through his gorgeous thick curls. Llewyn’s chocolate brown spirals are part of the reason you fell in love with him. The way the corkscrews would form after the rain, falling in his eyes and framing his gorgeous earth-brown eyes.

Settled into your chest, Llewyn’s breath fans gently across your chest as he hums in relief at finally being off his feet. He’d played at The Gaslight Cafe tonight, only walking into the apartment with a slightly tipsy (maybe moreso) Al at a completely unreasonable time. So you settled into your routine. Llewyn had showered, and once dressed in the clean clothes he had washed before heading to The Gaslight he had lay down with you, his hair slightly damp and smelling of that old spice shampoo and bodywash.

Your fingers gently card through the curls under your chin, Llewyn’s gentle breathing settling into a rhythm. In the silence, the twilight darkness, those stupid little thoughts entered your brain again. The urge to just… Tug slightly. Just a little. Just enough for it to ache a bit. That good ache, the kind that made you arch your neck back slightly.

For once, despite your better judgement, you allow yourself to fall into your temptations. Working your fingers through his hair, at the base of his neck, your wind those pretty curls around your appendages and tug slightly. Just enough.

Llewyn’s breathing stops almost immediately, and a sudden dread tips over you like freezing cold water. Oh fuck- did you just fuck up? He lifts his head slightly to look you in the eyes, the dim light just barely showing his expression.

“… Why’d you do that?” He asks, and you open your mouth to answer immediately, but the words struggle to fall out despite your best efforts.

“I- I don’t really know, I just–… I kinda-“

“Please do it again,” he whispers, and it’s like molten lava melts away the ice that had frozen in your veins, his tone needy.

You don’t need to be asked twice, already giving his curly strands a firm tug. He can’t help the moan that falls from his lips, fingertips digging into the flesh on your hips.

“Fuck,” he moans out, burying his face into the curve of your neck as you giggle.

“Llewyn, shhh! Al will hear you,” you murmur, giving another, sharp tug that makes him groan into your skin, pressing hot, sloppy kisses against your throat.

“I don’t fuckin’ care,” he breathes heavily, his hand slipping down his abdomen to squeeze his hardening cock through the clean sweatpants he had changed into. “Fuck, I don’t care, baby just do it again.”

Who were you to deny your man, pleading like that? You hum softly, winding your fingers around his curls and giving a harsh tug, the kind you knew would make his scalp tingle.

“Hah-“ Llewyn keens, his head pulled back by the force of the pull. His teeth are bared against the pain, his cheeks flushed at the pleasure it invokes.

“That good?” You hum softly, fingertips gently massaging his tender scalp. It has him melting into you, his moans blissful as he squeezes his cock hard.

“So fuckin’ good baby, again,” he begs, his hand slipping under the waistband of his sweats and slowly tugging at his cock. He’s breathing heavily, his exhaled shaky as he sweeps his thumb over the tip.

“I didn’t know you liked this,” you admit, slipping your fingers up his skull to the crown of his head, once again winding his chocolate curls around your digits and preparing him for another dose.

“Ughh,” he groans, nodding his head slightly against your grip, “Fuck, I do. I didn’t even kno-ohh-“

You pulled harshly, his neck pulled back by the force and you can see the sting of tears settling into the corner of his eyes. He’s pretty like this, teeth sinking into the flesh of his lips and cheeks flushed. Perhaps you would need to do this more…

“Mhmm, You can’t even contain yourself, Llewyn,” you point out, eyes dropping to the way his hand desperately pumps at his cock. He nods unashamedly, far too caught up in the pleasure you’re invoking.

“Fuck, baby, I’m-“ he chokes out weakly, your grip on his hair close to his skull to make sure it’s not too painful.

“Your singing is pretty, Llewyn, but I must admit your moans sound even better,” you tease. The simple joke has Llewyn doubling over, a loud groan buried into the curve of your neck as he cums in his pants, over his hand. It’s so sexy, the way he trembles from how hard his orgasm rocks him.

“Fuck!” He gasps, like it expelled all the air from his lungs. Your kiss at his cheeks, soothing his scalp with a gentle massage.

“C’mere,” you whisper, taking his wrist when he pulls his hand from under his waistband. Just to add salt to the wound, you take his finger into your mouth, tasting the cum that coated his digits, guitar string calluses on his fingertips rough against your tongue.

“Oh fuckkk,” he moans out, shaking his head with an exasperated sigh. “You’re gonna be the fuckin’ death of me, Sweetheart.”

“Mhmm hmm,” you teasingly hum, releasing his index finger with a quiet pop. “That was always the plan.”

END

@in-for-a-pennyx @hoeneey @howaboutcastiel @markywithissues @welcometostayingawake @inklore @foxilayde @syrma-sensei @ethanhoewke

[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. 

[caffeineinfusedpettyprincess]

Shelter

Fandom: Inside Llewyn Davis, Oscar Isaac.

Pairing: Llewyn Davis x F!Reader

Summary: You’re settling down with a new record, a cup of cocoa, it’s raining, there’s a knock on the door.

Warning: Absolutely none.

Writers note: It’s not that long, it’s my first fanfic, be constructive not judgemental if you feel the need to criticise.

I'm a hurricane I'm a freight train Ain't the right way But it's the only way I know

The rain lashed against the windowpane of your small apartment, autumn was well on her way and the cold was setting in quickly. You stare out of the window sipping at your hot cocoa, listening to a new record that had landed on your desk through the agency you work for, your thoughts on him. You wonder where he was, was he alright, hoping he was not stuck, out in this torrential rain.

So when my bones come tumblin' in I did it to myself Will you still let me in

The knock at your door had you reeling your thoughts back to present time, your cocoa forgotten about, your legs carrying you quickly to your door, hoping…wondering. Could it be? You wanted him to be standing there, swinging the door the smile on your face dropped, it was just your neighbour returning your crockery dish.

Will you give me shelter Will you give me shelter Will you give me shelter From myself

Sitting back in your chair, you let out a sigh and pick your hot mug up, cradling it in your hands, like he would, your eyes flutter closed as you taste the sweet chocolate liquid. Your ears going back to the record you were playing, a smile creeping along your lips as the words remind you of him.

I'm a world of pain And you're a safe place When I run away

Another knock at your door, again your legs take you faster than you can react, hoping...wondering. Could it be? Your smile fades at the parcel man delivering your weekly record magazines. You sigh and close the door with a ‘thank you’.

You're the only home I know I'm still runnin' I'm still runnin'

Slumping back into your chair, you brood into your cocoa, the rain easing off just a little from trying to smash your window. Your eyes wander toward the outside, the reflection of your longing eyes and saddened face bounces back at you and you sigh heavily again. Where was he? Was he safe? Was he dry? Was he in an alley somewhere with hypothermia?

So when my bones come tumblin' in Oh I did it to myself Will you still let me in

The third knock at your door this evening had you groaning and dragging your heals to the front door but deep down you were still hoping…wondering. Could it be? Opening your door slowly, you roll your eyes at the sight of your ex-boyfriend Al, handing you some flowers, you scrunch your face up as they were all droopy and drowned from the rain, Al invited you out to the gaslight but HE would not be there tonight, so you didn’t want to go. You decline and close the door a little irritated now, putting the flowers in your kitchen sink.

Will you give me shelter Will you give me shelter Will you give me shelter From myself

That was it, the final straw, you would go look for him, you had no idea where to look but if it took you all night you would find him and drag his beautiful rear back to your apartment and make sure he knew how much you worried and that he should never make you feel like this again! Tugging on your boots and zipping up your winter coat, you open your door with determination just to halt and blink several times, looking into dark brown hues covered in mangled, drenched curls. “Hello Angel…”

Ooh ooh ooh Ooh ooh ooh Cause I need shelter… Song source: Dorothy, Shelter.

@arabellathorne @yougottakeeponkeepinon @stanningtoomanypeopleatonce @damerondjarin @darksideofclarke @marvel-dameron

[emma23]

Heartbeat check:

Llewyn Davis x reader

————————————————————————

The narrow apartment was filled with the sound of soft folk music, Llewyn’s guitar resting in the corner where he had discarded it after a long day. The walls, paper-thin and yellowing, hummed with the muffled sounds of New York outside, but inside, it was just Y/N and Llewyn, tangled up in each other’s presence, as usual.

Y/N sat cross-legged on the lumpy couch, her eyes half-closed, feeling the weight of exhaustion from the day pressing down on her. Llewyn was sitting at the tiny kitchen table, nursing a cup of cold coffee, staring at the cracked ceiling as if it held the answers to the universe.

“I’m tired,” Y/N muttered, her voice barely above a whisper.

In a flash, Llewyn was up, moving faster than she thought possible, his dark eyes widening with concern. Before she could react, his hand slammed flat against her chest, right in the middle.

"Llewyn!" she gasped, startled, her own hands flying up to grab his wrist.

He didn’t even flinch. He just stared at her chest, concentrating, his brow furrowing as he counted silently. This had become a weird ritual—every time she mentioned feeling tired or off, he’d do this. Check her heartbeat, like it was the only way he could be sure she was okay.

"Llewyn," she said again, softer this time, though still slightly exasperated. "I told you, you don’t need to keep doing this every time. I’m fine."

He grunted, pressing his palm more firmly against her. "Just making sure. Can’t trust you to take care of yourself."

She rolled her eyes but didn’t push him away. "I’m pretty sure my heart is still working. It’s kind of a thing I’m good at—staying alive."

He finally pulled his hand back, satisfied, though he still shot her a suspicious glance. "Yeah, well, you didn’t say it like you were fine. You said it like something was wrong."

Y/N sighed, sinking further into the couch. "I’m just tired. It’s not like I’m going to drop dead."

Llewyn hovered over her, looking more broody than usual. "You don’t know that," he muttered, sliding onto the couch beside her. He was staring at her chest again, his hand twitching, like he wanted to do another heartbeat check just to be sure.

"Llewyn, stop looking at me like that," she said, half-laughing. "You’re being weird."

"I’m not being weird," he replied, his voice a little defensive. "I’m being... thorough. Responsible, even."

"You’re being obsessive," she teased, poking him in the side. "And you’ve got a terrible bedside manner, by the way."

He scowled, swatting her hand away. "You’re one to talk. You never let me check your wrist pulse anymore."

"Because you do it in public!" she exclaimed, her eyes widening as she threw her hands up. "We’ll be in line at the deli, and you’ll just grab my wrist and start counting. People stare!"

"Fuck people," he said with a dismissive wave. "I’ll check my wife’s pulse any way I like."

Y/N burst out laughing, shaking her head in disbelief. "We’re not even married, Llewyn."

He shrugged, leaning back on the couch, his arm casually draped behind her shoulders. "Details."

She snorted, rolling her eyes again. "Details? Pretty important details, I’d say."

"Not to me," he said, suddenly more serious. He turned to look at her, his expression softening. "You’re mine, Y/N. I don’t need some piece of paper to know that."

Her heart skipped a beat at the way he said it, and she found herself blushing under his intense gaze. There was something about Llewyn—beneath all the cynicism and sarcasm, there was a tenderness, a protectiveness that came out at the most unexpected times.

"Yeah, well," she murmured, trying to sound nonchalant as her cheeks burned. "You could at least pretend not to be so possessive in public."

He smirked, leaning in closer. "Not my style."

Y/N opened her mouth to respond, but the words caught in her throat as he pressed his lips against hers, soft but insistent. It wasn’t the first time he had kissed her like this—full of need, like he was afraid she might disappear if he didn’t hold her tight enough. But tonight, there was something more to it, a deeper desperation, like he was trying to tell her something he couldn’t put into words.

She kissed him back, her hands sliding up to cup his face, pulling him closer. His fingers tangled in her hair, and he shifted, pressing her down against the couch as his body settled on top of hers.

When they finally pulled apart for air, Llewyn rested his forehead against hers, breathing heavily. "You know," he said, his voice low and rough, "I’m just trying to take care of you. Even if I’m shitty at it."

Y/N smiled, her fingers brushing through his hair. "You’re not shitty at it. You’re just... intense."

He chuckled, leaning in to kiss her again, this time slower, more deliberate. His hands slid down her sides, tracing the curves of her body with a familiarity that made her shiver.

They had been together long enough that moments like this were comfortable, easy. But tonight, there was an undercurrent of something more—a need that had been building for days, weeks, maybe even months. Llewyn’s hands moved with a kind of urgency, pulling at her clothes, his lips trailing down her neck as she gasped softly.

They didn’t talk much after that. There was no need to—everything they wanted to say was communicated through the way they touched, the way their bodies fit together perfectly, like two pieces of a puzzle.

Later, as they lay tangled in each other’s arms, the room dark and quiet except for the distant hum of the city outside, Llewyn’s head rested on her chest, his ear pressed right over her heart.

"Really?" Y/N asked, her voice sleepy but amused. "You’re checking my heartbeat again?"

"Mm," he mumbled, not moving. "Just making sure."

She laughed softly, her hand running through his hair. "You’re ridiculous."

He didn’t answer, just snuggled closer, his arm tightening around her waist. She could feel his breath, warm against her skin, and despite everything—the chaos of their lives, the uncertainty of the future—she felt at peace.

"You’re not going anywhere," he murmured after a long silence. "Not without me."

"Promise," she whispered, kissing the top of his head.

There was a beat of quiet, then Llewyn lifted his head, looking at her with that familiar smirk. "You know," he said, "if we ever get married, you’re gonna have to let me check your pulse during the vows."

Y/N groaned, throwing her arm over her eyes. "You’re impossible."

He laughed, settling back against her chest. "Yeah, but you love me anyway."

She smiled, her heart beating steady and sure beneath his head. "Yeah," she whispered, "I do."

And with that, Llewyn finally let himself relax, content in the knowledge that for once, he didn’t need to worry. Her heart—and his—were right where they belonged.

"Next time, I’m spiking your coffee with a heart monitor, just to be safe."

[kitmon]

Keys Are Under the Mat {3/?}

Llewyn Davis x OC

Summary: Struggling singer/songwriter, Llewyn Davis, has faced the rough and tumble world of the music industry as well as the callous hand of life. When an up-and-coming folk singer makes a trip back home and finds herself at the hands of the battered down couch-surfer, her first thought is to offer him a bit of compassion.

Warnings: Cursing, sexual themes, themes of depression

The magnificent structure stood tall on a street corner within the heart of Greenwich Village. It held a lovely charm of something that’s lived for so long. The red tint of its brick-lined walls having been stained with the countless snow and rainstorms it’s endured but it only reminded those that looked upon it that it was a feat of structural genius plucked from the imagination of architect, Emery Roth. It was one of the reasons, she’d chosen it.

The Devonshire House was home to the wealthy and elite with sizable apartments and little English touches that she found herself enamored with after being surrounded by buildings just like it during her small trip to London in the spring. It was home for now, or at least until she was sent to another state or another country by her manager. But that was something to consider at a later point in time. Now, all she could find herself thinking on was how much she’d enjoy getting out of the powdery streets of New York and into her condo, where chamomile tea lay nestled somewhere in her cupboards waiting for her.

James came around to her door and opened it. He offered his hand for her and she took it, the soft cashmere of her glove fitting nicely into the beaten leather of his own. She took a prudent step onto the crunchy layer of ice that encased the sidewalk, James keeping close watch of her movements. Once she was steady he made his way to the trunk and unlocked it, pulling out her guitar case with ease. She was next to him in an instant, reaching out to take the case, but his hands inched away, keeping it just barely out of her reach.

“James?” She questions, looking up to find the subtle crease in his brow and the attentive sheen in his eyes.

“Let me carry this for you, Dotty,” he insisted, but she saw right through to the bottom of his shallow actions and knew right then that his intentions weren’t all too pure. Any other day she’d let him accompany her on the short trip to her apartment, but now that he was only trying to interfere with her guest, she’d have none of it.

“Oh, I’m sure I can carry it, James,” she persisted, reaching the rest of the way to grip the handle as James let it slip from his fingers, knowing not to fight her on these things. “It’s only a short walk through the lobby.”

His frown reflected his distaste, but he let her do as she pleased. She held a tight grip on her case as she moved to walk towards the front doors, where the misfortunate doorman stood at its side, snow dusting his shoulders and his cap. But before she could take a step, James caught her hand with a soft grip, not enough to really stop her but just enough to let her understand that what he was saying was urgent.

She turned her head down to look at his hold that had traveled further down, now grasping onto her hand. A flurry of puzzlement invading her senses as her sight flitted onto his shaking eyes.

“Stay safe, Dotty.” He pleaded, the poor quiver in his well-built hand bringing her back to the reality of the situation; the effect it had on others. Her eyes softened, and she plopped the guitar case into the snow, reaching for the hand that held hers and giving it a reassuring squeeze with both of her own. She lifted it up towards her before placing a soft kiss on his knuckles. He really is patient with her and she appreciates his sticking by her side. Lord knows how many times she thought he wouldn’t.

“There’s nothing to worry about, James,” she coos, running her thumb over his sharp knuckles that bloomed with the heat at her touch. His chin tucked itself into his chest as his head dropped and his hand planted itself on his hip in exasperation. He let out a brittle chuckle as his head rocked at the absurdity of it all.

“Jesus, Dorothy, you’re—,” his breath lay caught in his throat, not sure of what to say or what to do. His hand splayed over his forehead, trying to reach for the words.

“An idiot?” She offers, a wide grin inching its way up her features. “You can call me an idiot, James, I know that’s what you’re thinking,” she giggles, watching as his face unwound from the tightly woven distress he wore before into a broad smile that twinkled with the lights of the buzzing village around them.

“You’re not an idiot, Dotty,” the smile still present on him but his words were all resolute. “Just... dewy-eyed.”

“You trust too much in others.” His face turned pensive, now matching the solemn words he spoke. “One of these days these people’ll stomp on your fire, they’ll put you out.”

“You worry too much.” She patted the hand that ceased its quivering and was still cradled in her own. She brought her own to his strong chin, caressing it in assurance. The sharp stubble on his chin tickling the pad of her thumb.

She sent him off when the cold nipped at her nose and the snow began to seep into her boots, reminding her of how much warmer it’d be inside. She was sure her company wouldn’t mind the thought of it as he trembled under the umbrellaed visor that loomed over the entrance of the building, grasping for any kind of warmth as he waited on her.

They entered the large and spacious lobby, bringing a gust of chilly night air that swept across the floor and caused a chill to prickle at their skin. The checker-tiled floor was damp with the snow that clung onto travelers' feet even after wiping them at the door. The warmth and the wafting scents of early winter encased them as they stepped through to the elevator; smells of gingerbread and cinnamon gluing themselves to their heavy coats. She remains silent but her eyes shrink when her smile widens to wiggle her fingers at the lady occupying the front desk; Rachel, her name tag boasted. And the older man standing guard at the elevator watched with glee as his favorite resident stepped forward, offering this drear and heady day some sunlight in the form her kindness.

“Good evening, Henri,” she greets sweetly with closed eyes and an acknowledging lilt of her head.

“Good evening, Dotty,” he speaks, the remnants of a French accent lacing his words as his eyes filled with warmth, adoration as if looking at his own daughter.

“How’s Pepper? Poor thing still recovering from her cold?” She chances at small talk as Llewyn occupies her side, hands stuffed inside the eaten-away-at satin pockets of his blazer. He listens in on the conversation between friends as he looked up and around the box. Nothing all too new, similar to the one in the Gorfien’s complex he thinks.

“Oh, yes, she’s doing well,” he reassures, catching Llewyn’s ear as he does. “S’been reading a lot. Just finished a science-fiction novel. Never read one myself but I might give it a try the way she’s been raving ‘bout it.”

“I’ll have to lend you one sometime,” she offers, grasping onto the handle of her case with both hands in front of her as the elevator lets out a resounding ding at reaching her floor.

The dense metal doors slid wide open, showcasing a broad hall, decorated with simple vases holding lovely arrangements of purple hydrangeas, guelder roses, and dahlias all of which complemented the eggshell wash of the walls.

“Tell Pepper I said ‘Hello,’“ she requests, stepping out onto the divine and gleaming hardwood tile, still facing Henri as her steps walked her backward. She gives a final wave goodbye as the doors slid shut and Henri wished her farewell through the fracture between doors.

She spun on her toes to redirect herself forward. The clicks of her chunky heel meeting the tile could be heard against the walls as the two patrons within them remained silent. Llewyn stayed analyzing his surroundings, noting the broadly spaced doors and the high ceilings.

“Pepper is Henri’s wife,” she inserts into the still air, filling Llewyn in on the conversation she could quite easily assume that he was listening in on. “He adores her,” she continues. “Always speaks about how she’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him.”

Llewyn looks away from the polished doorways to find her rubbing her thumb at the worn handle of the guitar case as she daydreams. His lips parted as if he were going to speak, say something to her but the attempt was shunned when she abruptly stopped at the last door on the hall, setting her baggage down and planting her feet on the blue Persian doormat placed just in front of it.

She fiddles with the ring of keys she pulled out of her— to all appearances—bottomless coat pocket. She stuffed the copper key into the hole once she finds it and opens the door. She steps to the side, her back placed along the hard oak allowing him in before her. He takes a step inside and surveys the flat; it was pristine, all clean colors coating the area, and it was reminiscent of the paintings of heaven he’d seen somewhere before. And he had only stepped foot in the foyer.

The welcoming home of a dog bark reverberated off the walls. Bounding around a sharp turn and nearly slipping on the corner of a rug comes a long-snouted dog, large and gaining speed preparing to jump onto Llewyn. His leap caused the musician to stumble back a few feet holding onto the slim limbs of the pup.

“Oh! No, stop that, Beau!” She scolds, turning from her work of locking the door to assist the dog back onto the floor. She holds him close at her side, patting his snow-white locks to steady him.

“I’m sorry, he gets excited when there’re guests,” she explains as the dog stares up at Llewyn, eyes wide and glossy with a happy-go-lucky grin shaping his mouth as he panted in excitement.

Llewyn looked on before he felt the gentle press and rub on his leg. He peeked toward the floor and found a slender grey and white spotted kitty rubbing her side against the rough material of his slacks. Her light fur decorating his grey-toned pants as she maneuvered.

“You’re not allergic, are you?” She questions with concern, lifting herself up from her kneeling position against the pup and making her way to scoop up the fur fiend in her arms. She held the cat like a mother would hold her newborn child while the animal butted it’s sleek head against her owner’s, begging for her attention as her purrs grew louder.

“I’m sure Penelope wouldn't mind spending some time in my room.” The cat continued to fight for her affection, ramming its head into her cheek as she spoke.

“No, no I’m fine,” he watched her interactions with her pets with a skeptical expression, shaking his head to let her know there was no need for any of that. Her head bobbed in understanding, her eyes gazing toward the floor as she subconsciously scratched at Penelope’s chin, much to the kitten's pleasure.

There was a bout of silence that lingered as she set the feline on the floor to roam. She lifted herself and patted her hands at her wool coat to remove the excess white fur from her gloves. She sighs deeply, her body relaxing. She starts to fiddle with the large buttons on her coat, plucking them through the holes then shimmying out of the thick material.

“If you’d like, there’s food all in the pantry and in the fridge.” She nods her head to the left, down another room in the general direction of the kitchen as she steps toward a coatrack. She hangs it up neatly before moving to her gloves, snatching the fabric off of each finger before pulling off the whole garment and placing them in her coat’s pocket.

He followed the nod of her head, leaning forward and looking off to find an expansive kitchen, bright and clean with rows of cupboards and drawers holding ripe fruits and fresh vegetables and grains.

“I’ll go get the first aid kit.” His eyes were yanked back to her toeing off her boots stabilizing her self on a nearby wall, wiggling her toes under her sheer black nylons once they were free. Her feet padded along the floor as she made her way towards the bathroom.

Llewyn watched her tread off before glancing up and down the walls making his way to the plush looking couch he found once turning the corner of the long corridor. He plops himself onto the perfect seat looking out the Georgian style window it was positioned near and onto the bright city lights flickering as the city thrived.

His head jerked when he felt the gentle landing of Penelope on his thigh. He watched as she let her paws wander over the expanse of his lap, searching for the best spot to rest. His mind initially wishes to pick her up and place her on the floor, but once he sees her settling in a comfortable ball he couldn’t find it to disturb her. Resting the hand that lifted in attempts to push her away now landing on her fur, stroking tenderly. Penelope’s purrs of content could be felt as he lifted his head and continued to watch outside.

The alluring sight and sound weren’t expected on Dorothy’s part as she turned the corner, holding a white package and halting her steps to look on for a moment longer. It was a humorous contrast; a big scruffy man nursing a soft and tender kitten in his lap, looking to be enjoying it nonetheless!

“I think Penny likes you,” she states as she steps toward the couple, bringing Llewyn’s attention to her form as she enters. His hand came to a standstill and Penelope lifted her head see the same sight.

His eyebrows puckered and his eyelids came closer in a squint. “What?”

She stepped forward toward an accompanying ottoman. She lifted its side and dragged it across the rug laying it in front of him and plopping herself on the plump material.

“Penelope,” she clarifies, not looking up at him as she flicks the latches open and rummages through the contents of the kit. “She seems to like you.”

“Oh, right, I guess so.” His eyes drifted from her onto Penelope, meeting the feline’s steel eyes that stared up at him. They silently insisted that he continue to brush her and he did, reaching at her head and traveling to the base of her spine.

Dorothy pulls a damp rag that she’d been holding prior and folds it a few times before offering it to his face, asking for permission to continue. With no hesitance on his side, she proceeds to clean at the tarnished skin. Burning red wounds and purple splotches coated his flesh. Luckily for him, there weren’t all too many and although the seriousness of each varied, there wasn’t a need for stitches. But her mind thought it right to at least clean them up.

“So, are you gonna tell me why you were half dead in an alley, or am I just gonna have to leave that to my imagination?” She jested, a smile pulling its way onto her features. An attempt in her part to lighten the mood.

“I was mugged, just my fucking luck,” he laughed humorlessly, wanting to shake his head but her fingers guided it back to where she could reach.

“Yeah, the guy wasn’t all too happy when he found out there wasn’t much to steal.” Her calculative pats ceased their rhythm when the sigh of a sentence left him. It was a subtle change in motion, hardly enough to notice, but it was there. Her emotions taking control for a split second at the sheer desperation in his voice. A voice so gruff, it must have been the subject of hurt too many times. She could only imagine how much shit could have been kicked in his face and how little anybody else could have cared at the moment. She knows it, she’s felt it.

After cleaning all the free blood and grime on his features she packs the little case up and moves to the kitchen. She placed it on the countertop and turned to pull open the freezer door, the frigid air hitting her as her hand reached in and brought back out an ice tray. She kicked the door closed with her elbow and set the tray on the opposite counter. In a graceful manner, having navigated the kitchen many times, she pulls at a drawer choosing a small dishrag and closing it with a thump. She popped a few cubes from the tray and placed them in the rag, folding it to hold them securely. She walked it back to the living room and leaned down to reach Llewyn’s line of sight. Her hand reached to press it against the bruise over his eye but quit when she realized that he could handle it, there was no need to mother him she figured. She instead opted for offering it in the palm of her hand.

“Here,” she encouraged. Llewyn meeting her eyes and reaching to take the package. Her hand pointed to the discolored mark that had started to swell as she continued. “Leave that on for a while, it’ll still be bruised but it’ll stop the swelling.” He offered a grateful nod, albeit short as he applies the needed pressure holding in the sharp grunt that wanted to escape. Her eyes roved over his beaten build, and she continued to repress the urge to overstep boundaries and coddle him. But her resolve won as she impelled her hands up and off her knees to stand straight and head for her bedroom.

Her bare feet peeked out of her door as she inched it open, revealing herself with dampened hair all ruffled and sticking out from when she tossled it with a towel. She was already snuggled up in striped pajamas that her figure drowned in. The sleeves reached the tips of her fingers and the fabric of the pants pooled at her feet.

After brushing her short locks into place and putting rogue streaks of hair back where they belong, she set the comb haphazardly onto a countertop; it was a common trait that often led to the displacement of many items. She took creeping steps towards the living area to peek inside. The television’s screen was pitch black as he made no use of it and the whole room stood still. There was no record on the turntable and no upturned knobs on the radio, rendering the room silent. He just sat, and stared out the window, twiddling at Penelope’s fur.

She felt intrusive when she stepped into his quiet place, a scoundrel plank of wood creaking when she took a step. Her head lifted to find him staring up at her, offering a sheepish smile as an apology for her trespassing. She stood straight and clasped her hands in front of her, pulling at the sleeve of her sleepwear as she offered the bathroom to him, pointing down the hall to make it clear. He nodded and lifted Penelope out of his lap and set her onto the floor. His frame stalked towards Dorothy as she held his stare, mouth sealed shut as to not make a peep. When he stepped beside her and continued to watch her face, holding his position yet saying nothing, the tension rose. Her head hung, cutting that thickening line, and she smiled to herself, the red racing up her neck and spreading along her flushed cheeks.

He watched her shuffle before walking down the hall.

The guest room she introduced him to was a standard size with a queen-sized bed placed along a wall. It was all furnished and decorated to fit the home, but it held its own touches unique unto itself.

He wasn’t presented this luxury very often, usually taking advantage of Jim and Jean’s raggedy couch or the Gorfien’s slight upgrade of a not-so-raggedy couch. He even offered taking rest on her own but she insisted that there was no need. It was a three-room condo, with a single resident and her pets, all other rooms were left untouched unless she had visitors which wasn’t very frequent. There wasn’t any point in letting the opportunity pass only to have the room collect more dust.

As he stepped inside, she continued to stand at the threshold, watching his eyes scan the room as they ultimately fell onto the bed.

In the bathroom, he pulled his clothes back on, opting to sleep in his tattered t-shirt and his wrinkled slacks. But on the nearly made bedspread lay a brand new shirt and folded just underneath was a pair of flannel pajama pants to keep him warm as she knew the window would let in peeks of air from time to time. She doesn’t say anything about the gesture and neither does he. He only takes it in his hands and feels over the material, holding in his mind the joy that overflows. But he looks at her, shirt still in hand as he thanked her with the dull gleam in his eye.

Her lips upturned slightly and she turned her head to the side, averting his solemn gaze.

Turning to walk away, her hand floating over the door frame as she turned, only tightening slightly when she halts. She curses her awful memory before retracing her steps, placing her back in the middle of the threshold ready to give him some information she left out.

“I’ll be gone early tomorrow, there’s food all in the cupboards so you can help yourself, and if you leave, go ahead and lock the door,” she finishes, her words holding a nonchalance to them, sleep already taking over. He nods his head and turns back to pulling at the tight tuck of the sheet wedged under the corner of the mattress. She gives a nod of the head as well, and once again tries to step away before another memo invaded her action.

“Oh, also, one more thing,” she chirps. “If you need to come back, there’s a spare key under the mat.” It’s a subtle offer, given for unknown intentions on her part. She wasn’t sure why but she enjoyed his company, the thought of coming home to someone other than Beau and Penelope, but he didn’t have to know that.

She leaves, her hand ultimately slipping from the doorframe it had been resting on and falling to her side.

“Hey,” he calls, taking a step to catch her before she was out of war shot. “Thanks, for all of this, it’s really... look, you didn’t have to—“

“I know,” she interrupts with a smile, “but I wanted to.”

She switches off the hall light with a flick and hollers a good night. She wrangles her pets, luring them in with sweet calls as they follow into her room. Beau saunters toward their shared bed, Penelope already cuddled up in the comforter until Beau leaps on as well and shakes her up.

Dorothy watched in amusement as she brought the door in. It closed with a click but her hand lingered on the handle, eyeing it. Her fingers floated over the lock, debating on her next choice, ultimately deciding on switching it with the sharp turn of her wrist. The room was secure and she was safe in that knowledge.

She trudged herself to her little nest, lifting the covers and cozying herself in the company of her pets, surrendering to her exhaustion.

Taglist:

@rosemarysbaby13

[l8rs-gat0rs]

Masterlist!

Welcome! Here are all my fics in one place (^_^)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Inbox status: Closed for requests :( but open for chatting!

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Request details:

You may request fics about any of the characters mentioned in the character lists (*except for the one-off list*). As of right now, I am only doing X reader fics.

currently I have only written female/AFAB reader, but I am open to writing for other readers as well. I want to be inclusive! if I do research and still feel like I am unsure if I will do it justice, I will let you know

~Character Lists~

These are the characters that I have written about, and are on this masterlist. (Also 1 or 2 characters I haven't written for yet but I am planning to)

Oscar Isaac Characters

Duke Leto

Llewyn Davis

Moon Knight system

Jonathan Levy

Poe Dameron (eventually, send requests if you have any)

Miguel O'Hara (eventually, send requests if you have any)

WLW characters

Eva

Midge Maisel

Juliette Fairmont

Captain Marvel/Carol Danvers

One-off characters

Joel Miller (special request)

(Credits to all the Gif creators)

💦=smut

🤍=drabble

🍬=fluff

🔥= Angst

Fics start under the cut

(All borders used created by @saradika )

Oscar Isaac Characters

Duke Leto Atreides

Kiss It Better 🍬🔥💦 | Leto finds his lover reminiscing about her childhood. She is having regrets, but the duke is determined to relieve her pain in one of her favorite ways.

Llewyn Davis

Old Friends 🍬💦 | An old friend knocks on your door extremely early in the morning looking for a place to stay. And who are you to say no to him when he looks like a sad puppy?

Moon Knight System

Complicated 🔥 | pairing(s): Marc x reader x Steven | The moon boys plan on confessing their secret crush. They are interrupted when they find her getting kidnapped after witnessing a robbery gone wrong, and they swoop in to save her.

The Mind Wanders 🍬🔥 | pairing(s): Steven x reader | you find out Steven's mind has been wandering. He's become quite entranced with another woman, and you won't stand for it. After you leave, Steven is determined to do anything, and everything to regain your trust.

Broken Promises 🍬🔥 | WIP

Jonathan Levy

A Good Morning 🤍🍬💦 | Jonathan wakes up one morning reluctant to go to work. y/n adds to that reluctance.

WLW Fics

Eva (Swarm)

Secret Thoughts 💦 | During one of your sessions with Eva you can't help but spill a secret you didn't think you would. Eva is thrilled to hear it and decides to fulfill your request.

It's always been you🍬🔥 | You and Eva have been dating for a while, Eva thinks the girls suspect something so she starts being more flirty with them. However, you don't take this very well, and you threaten to leave.

Save Me From Myself 🍬🔥 | You have social anxiety and Eva has been helping you with it. After messing up a game of Twister, you feel like you can't be helped so you decide to leave. Eva stops you from leaving, which leads to a confession.

The Golden Window 🍬 | Eva turns to the girls for some help telling you that she likes you, but it doesn't go as planned...

Miriam "Midge" Maisel

Hello Stranger 🍬 | You are at the- special...bar you frequent, and see a gorgeous stranger. You are Intrigued by her and decide to approach her.

Living The Dream 🍬 | WIP

Juliette Fairmont

A Vampire Romcom 🔥 | You're a transfer student at Lancaster academy and you bump into a cute girl, what are the odds she's also a cute Vampire?

Captain Marvel/Carol Danvers

You Got Some Time? 🍬🔥| The Captain's got some free time on her hands and so do you, you decide to have a night out because superheroes don't get many of those. As the night goes on, Carol decides time isn't the only thing she wants her hands on and you have the exact same idea.

A Christmas Carol 🍬| You're out in New York City with Carol and the biting cold starts to get to you. Thankfully Carol is there to keep your hands warm.

[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

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[freelancearsonist]

Goods and Services

Llewyn Davis x fem!Reader

Rated MA for graphic sexual content and a sugar baby-esque relationship

2,747 words

Commission: “Hi! A few weeks (months?? time isn't real) ago I sent in a thot about Llewyn sorta being a sugar baby to a young heiress. She basically gives him money so he can keep pursuing his music career because she thinks he's cute but it eventually devolves into a sugar baby/sugar mama (sexual) relationship even if the heiress is a bit younger than him. I don't really have a plot but I just love your writing and I'd be happy to read anything you dream up!”

A/N: This is a commission piece for the lovely @ficsilike-reblogged​! This one actually came to me pretty naturally and I hope it flows as well as I feel it does. I would really appreciate it if you all reblog and leave some commentary! :)

“He’s not here.”

Papi’s voice is always rough and grating, but it feels even more so tonight. It’s a simple statement that holds no venom, but your sour mood makes everything feel sharper.

“I know.”

Papi hums at your statement. “Never seen you here without ‘im.”

You hate the implication that you’re a part of him because you know it’s true. You don’t feel complete without him. Especially not at the Gaslight.

The weather was exactly the same the night you met Llewyn Davis.

It had been a long night at the governor’s mansion, surrounded by stuffy idiots who were twice your age and twice as boring.

You’d never stepped foot into the Gaslight before, which was why it ended up being your final stop. You needed something new, something exciting. It was as if fate was guiding you. 

Fate, apparently, has a sense of humor.

He’s playing when you settle at the bar and have a drink set in front of you. Tenor voice soft and soothing, fingers strumming against chords like lips forming words.

“Haven’t seen your face ‘round here before.” The bartender introduces himself as Papi, his eyes dark and tone expressive as he tells you about the man onstage.

Llewyn Davis. You’ve never heard the name before, but suddenly it’s all you can think about. You’re completely enraptured by his stage presence. You can’t focus on anything but the way his lips move and his foot taps against the bar of the stool he’s sat upon and the sound of his voice introduces you to a peace that you haven’t known since before you left your mother’s womb.

You’re well aware of the fact that you stand out in a crowd. Especially in Greenwich Village. Your clothes are expensive and your hair is impeccably styled and even your shoes probably cost more than a month’s rent in this place.

You know there are a lot of curious customers, wondering what a chick like you is doing in a place like this. But you hardly even notice them. Your eyes are on Llewyn and Llewyn alone.

And suddenly, his eyes are on you.

His fingers almost falter against the strings of his guitar when his eyes meet yours, voice fading out as he inhales sharply, as if choking on the lyrics of the song he’s singing. He recovers easily though—in fact, you’re not entirely sure that the moment isn’t imagined. 

But his eyes are still on yours—dark and tormented and tragically beautiful. How can a simple gaze teach you so much about this man?

Time seems to go slower than bearable as he finishes his set and neatly tucks his guitar into its case.

And then suddenly he’s seated on the stool next to you, fingers wrapped around a glass of scotch.

“Llewyn,” he introduces himself quietly. His voice is somehow impossibly more beautiful when it’s directed at you. “You were... payin’ attention more than anyone ever has. What did you think of the set?”

“Llewyn...” his name feels wonderful on your lips. “Do you do private shows?”

He does something like a double take at your question. “P-private shows?”

“Like, we go somewhere a little quieter and you sing for me and I pay you.”

Llewyn’s face is bright in the dim light as he thinks over your offer. “You’re not gonna... like, kill me, are ya?”

“Why on earth would I kill the most beautifully talented man I’ve ever met?”

It takes Llewyn a while to get used to you. Or, more specifically, the way you live. Being an heiress to one of the biggest oil fortunes in the country has provided for you a lot better than folk music has for Llewyn.

He joins you for dinner the third night—just the two of you in the huge penthouse that Llewyn could get lost in. He didn’t even know apartments could be this big, and it’s definitely a culture shock for him.

You can learn a lot about this man just from being around him—from the small hints he drops in the way he speaks and acts. You know that he was once a partner act, but he hasn’t provided anything about his partner yet. You know that he has the tortured mind of so many artists—that things often seem so dark and unbearable for him. You know that he blames himself for all of his misfortune, where it’s obvious that some of his troubles are just a cruel trick of fate.

He blushes every time you hand him a check—he’ll never get used to making more from you in a couple hours than he would if he played a full set at the Gaslight every night for a week. He’s so scared that he’ll fuck this up—that you’ll want to stop seeing him or you’ll get tired of his voice. He’s already formed some strange emotional attachment to you, and he can’t bear to lose it.

You kiss his bearded cheek at the door, and suddenly you know. You know he’s attracted to you, that he wants to become acquainted with you deeper than the play-for-hire thing that’s been going on.

And you want more, too. You’ve never admitted it to yourself before, but you’re not the slightest bit surprised by the revelation.

“Do you have somewhere to stay tonight?” He’s let it slip before that he tends to hop between his friends’ couches, and you hate that you’re hoping his answer is negative.

“Uhh... not... not yet,” he shrugs bashfully. “I was gonna head over to Jim’s and see if they’ll give me the time of day.”

“What if... what if you stayed here?” You ask quietly. “I’m sure you could use a good night’s rest and a hot shower. I have a guest room.”

Llewyn doesn’t want to impose, but he wouldn’t dream of turning down such an offer. Especially not from you.

Llewyn takes a little longer in the shower than he normally would, cleansing his body of sweat and exhaust that he wouldn’t think twice of if he were with anyone else.

He doesn’t think you’ll want to sleep with him. He honestly doesn’t believe himself to be worthy of someone like you, which is a ridiculous notion. But still, he prepares himself like he never has before—just in case.

There are fresh clothes on the guest bed when he emerges from the en suite bathroom in a cloud of warm and comforting fog. A bit too big for him, but he doesn’t mind. He honestly kind of likes how baggy and soft they are—they hang around his body like a soft, tentative hug.

You change into a soft, silky robe and recline on the couch while Llewyn showers, two glasses and a bottle of wine on the coffee table and a hope in your heart that Llewyn will decide to seek you out rather than going immediately to bed.

You’re just about to give up hope when Llewyn emerges, fingers tangled together in front of him nervously, looking more warm and comfortable than he’s been in years.

“Wine?” You offer with a soft, relieved smile.

He bites his lip, completely unaware of how attractive that simple gesture is. “Yeah, please.”

You pour him a glass and carefully hand it to him, folding your legs under your body and pushing your chest forward. Your robe parts just a little bit over your cleavage, and Llewyn’s breath gets caught in his throat.

“Th-thank you. For the wine, and for letting me stay here.”

You smile brightly as he sits beside you, distancing himself respectfully. Maybe he’s not interested. But there’s only one way to find out.

“Can I be frank with you, Llewyn?”

He clears his throat nervously. “Y-yeah, of course.”

“I... I’m attracted to you. And I’m wondering if there’s another service I might acquire from you.”

Llewyn nearly chokes on his wine. “I’m not... th-that kind of hire—“

“I know!” You quickly recover, lip dragged between your teeth. “I know, Llewyn. And... if you don’t want that, I’m perfectly fine continuing our relationship the way it is. But I can’t deny the fact I want you. And if you want me too... what’s the harm?”

“I don’t want you to regret this,” he sighs, voice quavering with anticipation. “I... I rely on you. I’m sorry, but that’s the truth.”

“If anyone is going to regret this, it’s not going to me. You can say no and nothing will change, love. But if you want this, I don’t want to waste another moment dancing around it.”

Time seems to move slower than usual as you watch Llewyn carefully set his wine glass on the coffee table. And then suddenly he’s on you, lips working harshly and wonderfully against yours, beard scratching deliciously against your face. He hovers over you as his arms gently guide you to lay back against the couch, and he whines softly when your leg wraps around his waist to tug him closer.

“What do you charge for this kind of performance?” You giggle breathlessly as his lips dance down your neck.

“This one’s on the house.”

He only protests a little bit when you hand him a check in the morning, eyes attached to the memo line.

Thanks for making me feel alive.

It becomes something of a routine over the next month or two. You meet Llewyn at the Gaslight, make out with him in the car on the way to your penthouse, listen to him play for you, and then he fucks you hard and deep. Or rather, you fuck him—he’s a perfect bottom and the noises he makes while you ride him are arguably more beautiful than the songs he sings for you. And he leaves in the morning, after you cut him a glorious check and he kisses you deeply to thank you.

You don’t put a label on it. Llewyn introduces you as a friend to his friend Jim, and you suppose that’s what you are. A very good, intimate friend.

But it sends a pang of doubt through your heart, too. He might as well have called you his employer.

The chilly breezes of Spring are gone, and the first month of Summer brings about a rather illustrious event that your father insists you attend despite your repeated protestations of such affairs.

Black tie. Champagne that could bankrupt a common household. Hours of small talk. Not a single aspect of these business events are your forte. And, on top of all of it, you need a date.

Llewyn’s beautiful face is nestled between your thighs, warm and wet tongue lapping eagerly through your folds, when the idea hits you.

“I have to go to a business auction next week,” you tell him through a series of moans. “I need someone to act as my arm candy. If you wanna come... I’ll buy you a tux. And I’ll pay you.”

Llewyn simply smiles and buries his face deeper in your cunt. He’s so sweet and incredibly eager to please—he would never dream of saying no to you.

He’s nervous. You can tell that much from his fidgeting fingers and the way his lip is eternally clamped between his teeth. Still, it warms your heart that he’s trying so hard for you. His curls and neatly styled, and he had a razor in his hand when you told him that you wanted his beard in tact. “For afterwards,” you had told him with a wink and a smirk—you loved seeming him blush.

And he certainly makes for excellent arm candy. He’s gorgeous and he wears a tuxedo well, even though he doesn’t know it. His obliviousness might even aid how wonderfully handsome he looks like this. You can’t say you’re surprised—you’ve found him to be devastatingly handsome since the moment you first laid eyes on him.

He clings to you all night, an arm wrapped around your waist as he sips champagne and listens to a bunch of old men crone on about the stock market. You can tell he’s bored out of his mind, and you have every intention of repaying him for how remarkably well-behaved he’s being.

You drop to your knees for him the moment your penthouse door shuts behind the pair of you.

“You were so perfect tonight,” you praise him gently as you tug at his belt. His hands cup your face out of consideration for your carefully styled hair. “Made all those stuffy housewives so jealous of me. You were such a good boy for me.”

He whines at the sentiment, teething sinking into his full bottom lip, and although you haven’t released him from the confines of his pants yet you can see the effect the words have on him.

“You like when I tell you that, don’t you?” You goad with a smirk. “You like when I tell you what a good boy you were? How proud of you I was tonight?”

He melts into your hands as you wrap your fingers around his heavy length, a loud moan leaving his parted lips to match the way he vigorously nods his head at your question.

His head tilts back as your tongue teases his tip, and you give his thigh a soft smack to grab his attention. “Huh-uh, baby. Eyes on me while I reward my good boy.”

He’s whining and trying desperately not to thrust deep into your mouth when he spills down your throat, and you realize something.

You’re in love with Llewyn Davis. You’ve fallen in love with him and out of everything you’ve done with him, this is by far the worst. He deserves more than this life. He’s brilliant—more than arm candy, more than a pretty face, more than a beautiful voice. He’s everything, and... after all you’ve given him, it amounts to nothing because you fell in love and sentenced him to a life of being reduced to something less than he is.

You ask for nothing in return this night, after you’ve swallowed everything he has to give you. You still feel like you’re taking too much from him. 

He curls into you as he always does, naked body wrapped around yours and his face buried between your breasts, warm breath puffing pleasantly over your skin as he sleeps. He’s so warm and beautiful and bright and you feel so selfish to have him in your arms.

So you find yourself in the Gaslight a few hours before Llewyn usually shows up, mood sour as you listen to some moderately talented man who isn’t your Llewyn sing about lost love.

“He’s not here.”

You’ve grown used to Papi’s voice over the few months you’ve known Llewyn—even come to consider the bar’s owner something of a friend. He’s why you’re here.

“I know.”

Papi hums at your statement. “Never seen you here without ‘im.”

Llewyn has become a part of you, even to the people who knew him first. He’s a part of you, and you’ve become a part of him.

“I’m in love with him, Papi.”

He let’s out a noise halfway between an exhale and a laugh. “I know.”

You bite your lip, fingertip idly running around the rim of your drink glass. “What do I do?”

“Tell ‘im. Kid’s crazy ‘bout you.”

“But what if—“

“No buts,” Papi interrupts as he absentmindedly refills your glass. “You get too in your head and you won’t tell him. Don’t think about it. Just walk up to Llewyn and tell him—“

“Tell me what?”

His voice makes you jump—he’s early. You turn quickly to face him and see the concern in his dark eyes.

“I love you.”

It comes out before you really mean to say it—before you can greet him or search for any indication that he returns your feelings.

His jaw drops—bright eyes blink languidly as your words replay over and over and over again in his head. He hesitates for longer than he’s aware.

But then suddenly his lips are on yours, warm and soft, and you’ve never really acknowledged just how perfectly his mouth fits to yours.

He pulls back just enough to whisper “I love you,” against your lips, and then he’s on you again, pushing your legs apart so he can stand between them and press as close as physically possible to you.

And then, after a few beautiful minutes of basking in the moment, he pulls you to the bathroom so he can prove his devotion to you.

THE END

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[madswritingvoid]

First Meetings

Pairing: Llewyn Davis (Modern Record Store AU) x gn!reader

Words: 865

Warnings: A few swears but that’s it! Fluff!

A/N: I would just love to meet Llewyn Davis in a record store and fall in love okay???? Also this is definitely not a way for me to pretend a meet cute with the record store employee I’m in love with. Nope. Not at all :)

“Oh my god, no! No, absolutely not! I will not go through this again with you!” Jean moans as she throws herself down on the crates of records you were about to look through. 

Before she can react, you lunge for her, playfully messing up her bangs to make her move and dive into the records in front of you. “What do you mean, my sweet Jeanie? You don’t even know what I was going to say!” You huff, giving her your best pout. filing through the albums you know you’ve already looked over three times. “I just don’t know if I should finally cave and get Highway 67 Revisited or Born In The USA???” You hold both records up at her, giving your best please Jeanie help me look.

She groans from the crate she’s filing through across from you, looking over a Florence + The Machine album intently, “I don’t know why you didn’t just get them when we came two days ago,” she mumbles and finally points at the Bob Dylan album, “You drag me all the way down here on my one day off this week, we’re you distracted by something?” She pointedly asks, already knowing the answer. It’s no secret you’ve had a huge crush on an employee here. You don’t know his name, just that he has a beautiful voice that made you melt when you heard him at the Gaslight, and a crown of curls you want to sink your fingers into.

After seeing him play at the club, you resigned yourself to the fact you’d probably never seen him again, until two days ago when you brought Jean into your favourite record shop, Sonic Spins, and saw your mystery singer filing records with an employee lanyard on. You immediately felt too warm and told Jena you changed your mind, her following your eyes to the man before you booked it out of there. You didn’t see him in the window on your way to meet Jean, so you figured the coast was clear to actually shop today.

“You know I couldn’t stay and shop that day,” you hiss, “and shut up! He might be working today or shopping on his day off please don’t.” Holding her hands up in defeat, Jean sighs and changes the subject, “seriously though, you love both albums but you picked Dylan first so I think Bruce will have to wait,” she says matter of fact and you know she’s right. As much as you’d love to get both today you figure Bruce will be around next time.

Going to put the Springsteen vinyl back a deep voice makes you freeze, “I’m sorry but I have to respectfully disagree with your friend here. I remember you being here two days ago looking at both, so I think you need to bring Bob and Bruce home,” your wide eyes look and find yourself face-to-face with your mystery man, “plus I know someone who could swing a wicked employee discount for you.” He winks and you feel your heart drop out of your ass. Jean only scoffs and goes to the cash, leaving you alone.

“That, um, that’s a v-very good point,” you stutter once your brain finally comes back online, “but how could I take the discount of someone I don’t even know the name of?” It’s his turn to look shocked, forgetting he hadn’t introduced himself. He already knew your name, hearing your friend call it out the night he played the Gaslight. You looked so good he almost dropped his pick and when he finally got himself brave enough to buy you a drink you were already gone. Then, you walked into his work, his fucking record store, what were the odds? He watched you search through the titles while he restocked the new arrivals, staying close in case you needed help but almost as soon as you came in, you were gone again.

Not wanting to screw this meeting up, he sticks his hand out, “yeah right of course, what a fucking loser,” he mutters, “I’m Llewyn. Davis. Llewyn Davis.” You smile shyly back and move both records into the crook of your left arm so you could shake his hand and give him your name in return. He repeats it back to you as if he was trying to remember it, not like he hasn’t been thinking of it for days already. “Well Llewyn,” you shuffle on your feet, “I’ll take you up on that offer if maybe I could buy you a coffee after your shift? Or maybe a drink after your next show?” Taken aback by your newfound confidence, you straighten up a bit and hope you aren’t being too forward.

“Oh my god yeah,” he stutters, “yeah, that would be great. Here, let me take those and I’ll check you out - CASH you out and we can swap numbers?” He’s worried he’s talking too fast too excitedly, but all you do is nod back, a dazzling smile stretching across your face.

“That sounds great Llewyn, thank you,” you touch his arm before following him to the registers. You don’t know what will come next, but you can’t wait.

[mrs-lockley]

Masterlist (Updated 02/02/24)

Marvel

Across the Spider-Verse

Moon Knight 

Black Panther: Wakanda Forever

Star Wars

Poe Dameron

Triple Frontier

Santiago “Pope” Garcia

Oscar Isaac Other Characters

Llewyn Davis

Wait for Me (Orpheus & Eurydice AU, WOC!Reader)

[oscarisaacsspit]

and when i say i want him to moan his own name for me i'm the weird one 🙄