#what about llewyn

[ivystoryweaver]

Rip all the fics I would’ve written for other fandoms but I can’t pry myself out of the grip of Oscar Isaac characters

[wewontbesleeping]

guys llewyn peed on Alice I have never been so upset in my LIFE

[my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction]

Play Me

Llewyn Davis x afab!Reader • Rating: 18+ pals Masterlist• ao3• want to be tagged? | request info • Kinktober 2024 Masterlist • Day 8: Fingering

Summary: You run into Llewyn at a party.

A/N: Thank you so much @thexsanctuaryx for betaing!

Warnings: kissing, fingering, swearing, terrible jokes, please let me know if I have missed a warning!

Word Count: 849

It wasn’t how you’d exactly planned to spend your Tuesday evening, with Llewyn pressed up against you in a cramped little room. 

Your friend had dragged you to a friend’s of a friend’s of a friend’s party in their newly moved into apartment. 

And with the amount of people there, it looked like their new place was going to need a huge clean up after the night was over. 

Your friend had only really wanted to go so she could shoot her shot with some guy she’d been making eyes at who was going too. She’d been very upfront about it and you’d agreed to go as moral support. 

You’d planned to just hang out and eat as much free food as you physically could. 

So your current situation was a little different than your previous objective. 

When you’d run into Llewyn you’d been pleasantly surprised. 

“And to what do we owe the pleasure of your company?” You’d teased and to your shock, he’d smiled. 

“I’m just here with Dave,” he’d motioned to the crowd behind him. “You?”

“I’m just here for the free food.” 

“Excellent idea.” He’d grinned at you, leaning against the wall. “I’ll join you.” 

Halfway through your makeshift feast you’d paused. He’d been regaling you with stories and anecdotes the whole time, beaming when you snorted and laughed. 

“How come you’re in such a good mood?” You’d asked.

“Aren’t I usually?” He’d leaned close, nudging his shoulder against yours.

“Llewyn...” 

“It’s just nice to see you.” He’d shrugged a little bashfully, “Is that okay?” 

. 

You’d followed him when he took your hand in his and pulled you into a tiny utility room, kissing him back when he pressed his lips eagerly to yours as he pushed you up against the wall. 

His mouth was warm, the faint taste of beer on his tongue as he slipped his fingers under your top and ran them along the waistband of your jeans. 

He pulled back, breathing hard. “Can I make you come?” 

Your brain had malfunctioned for a moment, your ears taking a second too long to process. 

“Please?” He asked sweetly, his voice husky and thick. 

You’d swallowed and nodded, not trusting your voice. 

He grinned, eyes sparkling as he undid your trousers and pulled them off your legs dizzyingly fast, yanking down your underwear with them. 

“Here,” he’d hooked your left leg over his hip, kissing you hard as he slowly ran his left hand down your stomach and to your folds. 

You jumped as his touch grazed your clit and he groaned into your mouth, humming in appreciation as he slipped two fingers inside. 

The sound of your slick echoes in the small space, your wetness allowing him to glide in so easily.

He moans louder, swearing as you gasp, “fuck, you feel nice.” 

You bite your lip, breathing hard as he slowly works his fingers in and out of you, circling them as he rubs your clit with his thumb in time. 

He kisses you again, licking into your mouth and pressing close. 

You grab hold of his shirt, holding onto him for dear life, rolling your hips as he moves. “Oh god…”

“That good?” 

You nod, barely able to form words as pleasure runs along your nerves.

He grins at your expression. “Knew you liked me.” He breathes.

You manage to give him a glare, about to tell him to lovingly fuck off but he strokes your walls purposefully at the exact moment you open your mouth, making you cry out. 

“Fuck yes, that’s it.” He groans, watching you intently as you squirm and shake. “You can be loud, no one’s gonna fucking hear.” He rocks against you, pressing his straining erection against your thigh to take the edge off.

“Llewyn,” you whine.

He picks up the pace, fucking you faster with his fingers and making colour dance at the edge of your vision. 

The deep stretch is maddening, the way he curls and strokes sending shivers of sensation up your spine. 

“Your fingers are so big,” you mutter in a half sob. 

“That’s not the only thing that’s big.” He groans and then chuckles, “Sorry, that’s awful.” 

 You pull him closer, licking into his mouth and yanking at his curls until he whines blissfully against your lips. 

The pressure in your stomach tightens, twists, makes you gasp and quake until finally it shatters. 

You cry out into his mouth, smothering your moans with his lips as your body convulses under the weight of the pleasure.

He works you through it, stroking and teasing and only stopping when your body starts to relax. 

When he pulls back he’s smiling softly and slowly pulls his fingers out of you as he places your leg back to the floor. Llewyn stays close, while you recover, stroking your cheek with one hand while he shoves his fingers into his mouth and groans. 

“That was fucking great sweetheart, but I didn’t get to see you finish.” He slowly drops to his knees, running his hands up your thighs. “So I gotta make you come again, yeah?”

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[theoutcastrogue]

Ballads of the Hanged: Swinging from the Gallows Tree

A mixtape of execution ballads and assorted tales of guilt, wrath, terror, and defiance on the gallows, where all men are brothers.

[on spotify]

21 tracks, 1h 15min in full (spotify lacks one song)

I teased this many moons ago, and I finally finished it. No booklet in PDF form (too much hassle), but I got extensive liner notes, which you can also read here, for more pictures and a wider format. Enjoy!

LINER NOTES

1. Hans Zimmer - Hoist The Colours

Heave ho thieves and beggars never shall we die

What a heartbreaking thing to say on the scaffold. But we have to start with theatrics and a drum roll, and our introduction needs no introduction.

2007, from Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End OST lyrics: Ted Elliott & Terry Rossio music: Hans Zimmer & Gore Verbinski

2. Shirley Collins - Tyburn Tree (Since Laws Were Made)

Next stop, Tyburn: England's most notorious gallows. In The Beggar's Opera, the highwayman Macheath (later also known as Mack the Knife) observes that if they hanged rich criminals like they hang the poor ones, "'twould thin the land". Shirley Jackson subtly changed this to the better.

Since laws were made for ev'ry degree to curb vice in others as well as me, I wonder there's no better company on Tyburn Tree.

But since gold from laws can take out the sting, and if rich men like us were to swing, it would rid the land their numbers to see upon Tyburn Tree.

recorded 1966, released 2002 in Within Sound lyrics: John Gay, from The Beggar's Opera, 1728 music: traditional ("Greensleeves"), 16th century

3. Joan Baez - Long Black Veil

A country ballad about a man falsely accused of murder, who lets himself get dragged to the gallows because he won't reveal his alibi: an affair with his best friend's wife. It's been covered by a million people, here's Baez live.

The scaffold is high, eternity near, She stands in the crowd, she sheds not a tear, But sometimes at night, when the cold winds moan, In a long black veil she cries o'er my bones.

1963, from In Concert Part 2 lyrics & music: Lefty Frizzell, 1959

4. Oscar Isaac with Punch Brothers & Secret Sisters - Hang Me, Oh Hang Me

A poor boy who got "so damn hungry he could hide behind a straw", made his last stand with a rifle and a dagger, and has been all around this world, and is positively done with it.

They put the rope around my neck, they hung me up so high Last words I heard 'em say, won't be long now 'fore you die Hand me, oh hang me, and I'll be dead and gone Wouldn't mind the hanging, but the laying in the grave so long

2015, from Another Day, Another Time: Celebrating the Music of "Inside Llewyn Davis", after Oscar Isaac's rendition in Inside Llewyn Davis, 2013, in turn after Dave Van Ronk's rendition in Folksinger, 1962 lyrics & music: traditional American/unclear origin, folk song with various titles (I've Been All Around This World, The Gambler, My Father Was a Gambler, The New Railroad), first recorded by Justis Begley, 1937

5. Chapel Hill - Seven Curses

Cover of a Bob Dylan song, telling us the dark tale of a judge who's about to send a man to the gallows for stealing a horse, promises his daughter he'll show clemency if she agrees to sleep with him, and then reneges on his promise.

The next morning she had awoken to know that the judge had never spoken she saw that hanging branch a-bending she saw her father's body broken These be seven curses for a judge so cruel

2013, from One For The Birds lyrics inspired by Judy Collins's "Anathea" (1963), in turn inspired by the traditional Hungarian ballad "Feher Anna", who curses the judge "thirteen years may be lie bleeding" lyrics & music: Bob Dylan, recorded 1963, released 1991 in The Bootleg Series

6. Ewan MacColl - Go Down Ye Murderers

A song about Timothy Evans, a man accused of murdering his wife and child, which he denied until his last breath. They convicted him and hanged him in 1950. He was 25 years old. Three years later the real murderer, his neighbour John Christie, confessed, and the case played a major role in abolishing capital punishment in the UK.

The rope was fixed around his neck, and the washer behind his ear And the prison bell was tolling but Tim Evans did not hear Sayin' go down, you murderer, go down

They sent Tim Evans to the drop for a crime he didn't do It was Christy was the murderer, and the judge and jury too Sayin' go down, you murderers, go down

1956, from Bad Lads and Hard Cases: British Ballads Of Crime And Criminals lyrics & music: Ewan MacColl

7. Jennifer Lawrence - The Hanging Tree

One of the stranger things that can happen at the hanging tree is camaraderie. "On the gallows tree, all men are brothers", to quote A Feast for Crows, and when the state murders, then in defiance, an execution ballad can become a protest song. Many have in real life, this one is fiction, from The Hunger Games. Wisely, the director asked the composer for a simple tune, nothing elaborate, something that could be "sung by one person or by a thousand people".

Are you, are you coming to the tree? Wear a necklace of rope side by side with me Strange things have happened here, no stranger would it be If we met at midnight in the hanging tree

2014, from The Hunger Games: Mockingjay – Part 1 OST lyrics: Suzanne Collins music: James Newton Howard

8. Let's Play Dead - Heaven and Hell

A fairly traditional execution ballad written recently for the series Harlots. Margaret Wells sings it to herself for consolation and courage, as she sits alone in a cell, waiting to get dragged to the gallows.

I'm no more a sinner than any man here I'm no less a saint than the priest at god's ear But now I am snared, they will punish me well With a ladder to heaven and a rope down to hell

2018, from the single Heaven and Hell, for Harlots Season 2 Episode 7 lyrics & music: Let's Play Dead

9. Odetta - Gallows Pole

Probably the most well-known execution ballad of the 20th century, thanks to several iconic renditions. This one remains my favourite.

Hangman, hangman, slack your rope, slack it for a while I think I see my father coming, riding many a mile Papa did you bring me silver, did you bring me gold? Or did you come to see me hanging by the gallows pole?

1960, from At Carnegie Hall lyrics & music: traditional (Child 95 / Roud 144), known under many other titles ("Hangman", "The Maid freed From the Gallows", "The Prickle-Holly Bush"); this version is directly influenced by Lead Belly's "Gallis Pole" (1930s), and they both informed Led Zeppelin's 1970 version

10. Johnny Cash - 25 Minutes to Go

Peak gallows humour, uproariously funny and defiant, and somehow still conveying the terror of a man who's about to die and emphatically doesn't want to. Performed live at Folsom Prison.

Then the sheriff said boy I'm gonna watch you die, 19 minutes to go So I laughed in his face and I spit in his eye, 18 minutes to go Now here comes the preacher for to save my soul, 13 minutes to go And he's talking about burning but I'm so cold, 12 minutes to go

1968, from At Folsom Prison lyrics & music: Shel Silverstein, from his 1962 album Inside Folk Songs

11. Johnny Cash - Sam Hall

A classic execution ballad with many versions (see here for its complicated history), some of which are stoic and dignified, and others humorous. But this one brims with rage. Sam Hall will not be repenting on the gallows, and he'll see you all in hell.

My name it is Sam Hall and I hate you one and all And I hate you one and all, damn your eyes

2002, from American IV: The Man Comes Around lyrics & music: : traditional, 18th century broadside ballad, Roud 369

12. Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds - Up Jumped the Devil

A song about a man doomed from the start to play the villain’s part, and the origin of this blog’s #swinging from the gallows tree tag.

Who's that hanging from the gallow tree? His eyes are hollow but he looks like me Who's that swinging from the gallow tree? Up jumped the Devil and he took my soul from me

1999, from Tender Prey lyrics: Nick Cave music: Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds

13. NOT ON SPOTIFY: Dead Rat Orchestra - The Black Procession

This ballad imagines a sinister procession of 20 criminals (black tradesmen brought up in hell!), each with their own specialty (it's mostly thieves of some sort), on the way to the gallows. The last and worst of them is the thief-catcher, and if one of them is innocent, they'll all go free. But of course none of them are. It's written in thieves' cant (lyrics and more context here), and the chorus means: "Look well, listen well, see where they are dragged, up to the gallows where they are hanged."

Toure you well; hark you well, see where they are rubb’d, Up to the nubbing cheat where they are nubb’d.

2015, from Tyburnia: A Radical History Of 600 Years Of Public Execution lyrics: from The Triumph of Wit by J. Shirley, 1688 music: Robin Alderton, Daniel Merrill & Nathaniel Robin Mann

14. John Harle & Marc Almond - The Tyburn Tree

And where does the Black Procession lead? To Tyburn, of course. The dark gothic side of Marc Almond.

The Tyburn Tree, I weep for thee, blood in the roots 'Tis not a tree with bark and leaves of spring awakening 'Tis not a tree with blossom and fruit, 'tis not a tree No boughs to bend beneath the unruly breath of winter No memories of woods warmed by spring's sweet touch 'Tis not a tree — take a ride to Tyburn and dance the last jig

2014, from The Tyburn Tree (Dark London) lyrics: Marc Almond music: John Harle

15. CocoRosie - Gallows

Speaking of dark and gothic.

They took him to the gallows, he fought them all the way though And when they asked us how we knew his name We died just before him, our eyes are in the flowers Our hands are in the branches, our voices in the breezes And our screaming is in his screaming

2010, from Grey Oceans lyrics & music: Sierra Rose Casady & Bianca Leilani Casady

16. The Tiger Lillies - Hang Tomorrow

In their Two Penny Opera, the pioneers of dark cabaret reimagine Brecht’s Threepenny Opera, and take all the suaveness out of Mack the Knife. Here they also take all the fight out of him. What's even left? A pathetic empty husk, a bastard (let's not forget that Brecht's MacHeath is no rogue with a heart of gold, he's a horrible man) who can't even be intriguing. How disturbingly pedestrian.

So here I am in jail again, oh god it stinks of piss I've been in here since I was young, so I can reminisce It's looking rather grim this time, it's looking rather bad But if I swing tomorrow in some ways I'll be glad

2001, from Two Penny Opera lyrics & music: Martyn Jacques

17. Tom Hollander - Ballad In Which MacHeath Begs All Mens' Forgiveness

In The Threepenny Opera, Mack the Knife stands on the scaffold and asks for pity. No point being judgmental now, that he's about to die. He morbidly describes how his dead body will end up, and then he lashes out at everyone, cops and criminals (same difference), while still begging them all for forgiveness. Very VERY sarcastically. The ballad's concept is borrowed from François Villon (see below), and this translation is unusually bold (honorific, see here and here for other translations and context).

You crooked cops with your Mercedes, your mobile phones, your trendy jackets, your cuts from drugs and dice and ladies, your Scotland Yard protection rackets.

Let heaven smash your fucking faces, slash you and let the blood run free and break you in a thousand places. I've pardoned you. You pardon me.

1994, from The Threepenny Opera - Donmar Warehouse Original Cast lyrics: Bertolt Brecht 1928, loosely inspired by François Villon's "Ballad of the Hanged" c. 1489, translated by Jeremy Sams 1994 music: Kurt Weill 1928

18. Saga de Ragnar Lodbrock - Ballade des pendus

And here's the OG Ballad of the Hanged, written in the 15th century by the OG poète maudit, François Villon (translation here). It paints an indelible picture of strung up corpses swaying in the wind, decaying, pecked by birds, ravaged by the elements and time. And crucially, it's in the first person. The hanged speak, begging their fellow-humans for pity, and god for forgiveness.

Frères humains, qui après nous vivez, N'ayez les cœurs contre nous endurcis, Car, si pitié de nous pauvres avez, Dieu en aura plus tôt de vous mercis. Vous nous voyez ci attachés, cinq, six: Quant à la chair, que trop avons nourrie, Elle est piéça dévorée et pourrie, Et nous, les os, devenons cendre et poudre. De notre mal personne ne s'en rie; Mais priez Dieu que tous nous veuille absoudre!

recorded 1979, released 1999 in the Saga de Ragnar Lodbrock reissue lyrics: François Villon, c. 1489 music: Saga de Ragnar Lodbrock

19. Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds - The Mercy Seat

Honorary inclusion, a song not about hanging: the mercy seat is the electric chair. But the lyrics are a punch and this is a torrent of a song, a whirlwind, a masterpiece, a 7-minute cynic snarl. So it couldn't possibly get left out of this compilation.

And the mercy seat is awaiting, and I think my head is burning And in a way I'm yearning to be done with all this measuring of proof An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth (a life for a life and a truth for a truth) And anyway I told the truth, and I'm not afraid to die (and I'm afraid I told a lie)

1999, from Tender Prey lyrics & music: Nick Cave

20. Graveyard Train - Ballad For Beelzebub

And after? Welcome to Hell, ladies and gents, and bards. (Bards are rogues, too.) The Graveyard Train play a kind of Southern Gothic (but very southern, they're Australian), and here they entertain the thought of a band that ends up in hell and has to keep playing, without end, for an audience that can't hear. What a bleak prospect.

Well the air on the stage is burning our lungs And we're all going deaf from the beating drums And you can't see a thing for all the blood and the sweat in our eyes

Well we played till we died, and now we're all dead But the Man says we got to get up there again And you can't come down till the brimstone turns to ice

2008, from The Serpent And The Crow lyrics & music: Graveyard Train

21. Samuel Kim feat. Colm R. McGuinness - Hoist the Colours

Yo ho, all together Hoist the colours high Heave ho, thieves and beggars

But we won't end in hell. The only acceptable ending to this compilation is the triumphant version (wait for it) of its beginning: a pirate's end. Traditionally the gibbet, yes, but also the ghost ship that still sails, the ripple that still travels, and the story that still gets told.

Did I stutter the first time?

NEVER SHALL WE DIE

[eyelessfaces]

he'll be gone in the morning

llewyn davis x reader

summary: you wish he would stay. he never does.

alternatively, two times llewyn is gone when you wake up, one time he's not yet.

warnings: there's honestly more smut than plot lol this was an excuse to write llewyn smut; unprotected piv sex (this man never learns), tipsy sex where both parts consent and are aware of what's happening, creampie, oral f receiving, praise kink, both parts are desperate, plot is based on angst, fear of abandonment i guess?, self doubt from both parts, a bit of self sabotaging from llewyn because is it really an oscar isaac character if he's not self destructive

tags: friends to ??lovers I guess, f!reader, unspoken feelings, reader has hair that's long enough to brush away from her face, fluff, yearning

word count: 2.8k

I haven't been sane about llewyn for the past few days. again. it usually takes me weeks to write smut because it makes me go insane but I wrote this in like eight hours so...... yeah. not sane about this man at all.

masterlist | taglist | ao3

updates blog @eyelessupdates

It’s the same as always; he slept there last night, on your worn out couch, too old for him not to get a sore back after a whole night on it. You remember looking back at him as he tucked a pillow behind his head, a soft smile over his lips when he looked over at you before you turned the light off and reluctantly disappeared through the hallway to go to your room, by yourself.

He’s gone now, his own blanket you had gifted him on his most recent birthday messily folded and put back where it usually rests. If it wasn’t for the unfinished cup of coffee and the ashtray gathering a few cigarette butts sitting over your coffee table, it would be like he was never there in the first place.

He almost always disappears before you can join him and tell him good morning, always escapes before you get the opportunity to ask him to stay for one more night, to get him to be sure he has a place to stay at the end of the day.

He never writes notes anymore the way he used to the first few times you let him crash at your place, like he’s now used to your kindness; you don’t mind, you’re glad he feels comfortable staying here to the point where he doesn’t have to apologize when he knocks at your door anymore.

You don’t mind, it’s the whole opposite actually; you just wished he would stay.

—

Your cheeks are hot from the booze, or maybe – no, most definitely – from Llewyn’s mouth on your neck. 

His beard is softly tickling your sensitive skin as he kisses and nips at it, forcing a – treacherous – almost silent whimper out of your mouth at the same time you sink your head into the pillows to grant him more access. It makes him laugh, it fucking makes him laugh smugly to see how he’s turning you into putty in his hands. Your hand instinctively buries in his hair to get a grasp onto something, and he gets a taste of his own little game when you softly tug on his thick curls and earn a small moan from him. Good to know.

Your body only feels warmer when his hands roam along the sides of it, slowly but surely stripping you of your layers until your top half is completely bare as he continues his assault over your neck, biting and sucking on it, making sure there will be visible proof that he went there for the guys staring at you too intensely at the bar to see. 

Then his mouth trails down, again and again. He takes his precious time kissing your collarbone, the top of each breast, from your sternum down to your stomach. You cup the back of his neck as his curls softly tickle your skin and as he brings a special attention to your lower stomach, not giving in what he knows you need, teasing as his fingers press onto your hips before they eventually curl into the hem of your underwear as he continues leaving small, warm kisses to your stomach, sliding the piece of clothing off your hips and down your legs before he tosses it away. 

When he finally moves and spreads your legs apart, it’s not to slide his warm tongue over your cunt like you would expect or hope for, it’s to gently kiss your left thigh and run his hand over your skin burning in the feverish heat of anticipation; the prickle of his beard softly teases the ticklish inside of your thigh, his warm mouth just inches away from where you truly want him, the sensations increased tenfold by the booze. Each trail of his hands and mouth leaves you more sensitive, head spinning already when he’s not even giving you what he knows you truly want from him yet. 

When his mouth shifts again, it’s to give your other thigh the same treatment; soft nibbles while his hand gently caresses your warm skin before he runs the tip of his nose from the inside of your thigh up to your knee, looking back up at you desperately waiting for him to do anything concrete. 

“Llewyn please” you whine needily, throwing your head back into the cushions of your bed as he chuckles and slowly makes his way down to the inside of your thigh again, hot breath teasingly fanning there.

“Tell me what you need, angel” he demands, murmuring close to where you want him as his thumb softly brushes your bare thigh. His eyes dart back to you, raising an eyebrow when you only whine his name as a response.

“You” you slur out, fingers wrapping around his forearm to get something to hold onto. His warm, half lidded eyes make something flutter inside your stomach, his mouth and hot breath close to your soaking slit making your breath halt. “Please”

You softly gasp as both of his hands squeeze the flesh of your ass, firmly grabbing onto it to pull your body closer towards him, no longer intent on teasing you or making you wait; he'd make you beg longer if he wasn't so damn eager to taste you. 

He dives in and presses his flattened tongue against your folds, and you feel the same way you did earlier when you got to your feet after a few drinks; your head spins, your lower stomach burns just the way it did when drinking that whiskey. 

It's a bit messy, a bit rushed and maybe even desperate but not even close to being unpleasant as his tongue laps at your slit, beard harshly rubbing against your sensitive skin. 

He hums to himself as his lips close around your clit, sucking and pulling weak moans out of you, looking up at your through half lidded eyes when his middle finger slowly and carefully pushes inside your slick channel, his free hand stroking along your thigh caging his head. 

He’d praise you more if his mouth wasn’t so damn busy, if your reactions weren’t so damn attractive as he mouthed at you pussy and wouldn't dare stopping, because you look so fucking pretty like this. Disheveled, high on pleasure for him, twitching under his tongue and clenching around the finger inside you.

His ring finger is quick to join alongside the other, stroking your tight walls until he meets the spot that makes your back arch and your breath run short.

He’s barely satisfied until he makes you come on his mouth and fingers twice, until his name and your weak moans and whines are all that can come out of your mouth, until your legs are shaking around his head, until you have to ask him to ease up.

Your chest heaves heavily, your whole body burning and seeming to melt into the mattress from the couple orgasms Llewyn just gave you. You smile dazedly when you look back down at him in between your legs, his cheek mushed against your thigh, his eyes closing contentedly when you run your fingers through his dark locks.

You feel your heart thump hard inside your chest again when he crawls back up to you, his mouth pressing against yours before it opens to let his tongue slip inside.

Your movements are hurried as you fiddle with the buttons of his shirt, impatiently blindly progressively getting it open before you’re finally able to slide it off his shoulders.

You hum a soft, reluctant groan into his mouth when you realize he’s wearing an undershirt, meaning that you’ll have to pull apart from his mouth to get it off. He takes care of the task, stripping himself off the tshirt before throwing it across the room, and quickly links your mouths again when he hovers over you, letting out a deep groan when you cup and feel him through his pants. 

You can't help but smile into the kiss when he chases your touch, all but humping your hand before you pull it away to undo his pants, his tongue desperately licking into your mouth when he hurriedly – and a bit messily – strips himself naked. You’re pulled away from his mouth as he looks down when your hand closes around him and pumps his cock, his breath halting, hips thrusting to meet your movements.

Your leg snakes behind him to pull him closer, your chest burning again with anticipation when he takes his cock in hand and aligns with your entrance. You both let out a synchronized groan as he carefully pushes inside, easily sliding in, your sensitive channel slick from your previous orgasms, but still tight around him. 

He’s gentle as he starts to thrust in, hand firmly planted besides your head, teeth sunk into his bottom lip in concentration. His vision sways from the alcohol; it was way less noticeable when he had his face in between your legs, when he didn’t have to use the rest of his body, when he didn’t have to rely on balance.

His eyes close when your hand cups his cheek, fingers softly scratching his beard while you whisper praises he’s far too gone to truly take into account, too lost in the feeling of your cunt softly contracting around him. His thrusts grow more and more desperate as he goes, less precise, the muscles of his thighs twitching as the familiar feeling quickly starts to gather inside his stomach, exhaling moans like laying in bed with you is a one time opportunity, like it’s the last time he’s ever gonna do this.

“Not gonna last long,” he mumbles dazedly between breaths before you quickly assure him that it’s okay, your hand cupping the back of his neck to pull his face close to yours again.

His tongue mingles with yours in a heated, desperate kiss before he pulls away and sinks his head against your shoulder, huffing out a loud breath when he feels himself getting close, trying not to tip over the edge before you do.

“Come on dove, come on” he begs you, his warm breath fanning over your neck when one of his hands gently holds onto your waist.

He feels like a lucky bastard that you come just seconds before he does; you let a soft cry out as your last orgasm hits you, this one softer than the two previous ones, feeling like a warmth washing through you as Llewyn stills when he reaches his end and spills inside you, eyes rolling back as a soft groan escapes his lips.

His body crumbles over yours as he lets out a loud sigh, pressing small kisses to your cheek, fingers softly running along your arm.

You want to give the affection back to him, want to kiss him until he's out of breath, but all your body does is close your eyes; Llewyn has drawn all the energy out of you, he has loved you until you became numb.

You instinctively know it's early in the morning when your mind awakes, an unpleasant heaviness clouding your head from the alcohol, and a soft ache between your thighs. You hum softly in your still half asleep state, turning around and changing positions to get more comfortable, reaching for the man you spent the night with, hoping you could snuggle to him.

Your eyes are still shut as you reach for Llewyn, your hand only passing along the ruffles and creases of the fitted sheets of your bed.

Your eyes eventually open when you know you have to come to terms with the fact that he’s gone, he’s fucking gone again.

— 

You don’t know how it has happened again when you only wanted to address the issue at first, still mad at him when he knocked and when you opened the door, still mad that he had left like you were just a meaningless one night stand the other night, someone he would never see or hear about again.

But then he seemed so exhausted, so out of it and so crushed by every responsibility resting over his shoulders that you figured it would be better to bother him with the question later instead of overburdening him now.

Then things slipped, again. So fast and so casually at once, like it was simultaneously the right and wrong thing to do. 

You don’t know why he’s in your bed again, but maybe on your part you do, because you will have to one day just admit that you love him.

You can’t help but feel like you’re missing something regarding him. Why is he in your bed again, sober, head resting over your chest and arms tightly wrapped around your waist if it was all the alcohol’s fault that you stepped further into your relationship the other night? Why is he in your bed again if he regretted it last time and felt he had to run away, again?

You swallow thickly as those questions overwhelmingly cloud your mind, trying to chase them away when you continue to absentmindedly run your fingers through his soft, long curls. It’d be a damn mood breaker to trap him into questions like while you’re still enjoying your respective post-high haze, and you would pass as too fucking ungrateful after the things you have just done, but you have to know why he acts like this, why he runs away but somehow always comes back.

“Llewyn,” his name weakly comes out of your mouth, your fingers stopping in their trail. You can hear your own breathing when you await his response, which eventually never comes. 

He's sound asleep; it'll wait, again.

—

You had almost forgotten Llewyn had been there last night when you wake up to the sound of ruffling around the bedroom.

The only source of light in your room is the full moon light seeping through your window, faint but present enough to make you aware of your surroundings.

Llewyn is standing on the other side of the room, gathering his clothes scattered around the room that you so carelessly threw aside when in a hurry last night.

“What’re you doing” you mumble sleepily as you roll over his side of the bed, arm extending as if to reach for him. He looks over at you like a deer caught in headlights, stopping as his pants are already halfway slid up his thighs.

“I uh, I have to head out” he replies in a low mutter as he resumes his action, approaching and shoving in his pocket the pack of cigarettes laying on the bedside table.

“Don’t,” his gaze darts back at you as you speak, stopping in his movements, in fear that he might have heard it wrong. “Stay” you demand, almost beg as you look up at him, almost all ready to go and leave you hanging like always. He exhales softly and sits down over the edge of the bed, hand reaching out to you to brush your hair back from your face. “Please.” you add, tiredly blinking.

“Okay.” he simply declares in a soft whisper, fingers gently tracing your face. Your eyes close as you lean into his touch, sleep still holding a tight grasp over you.

“Why do you keep leaving” you monotonically, weakly ask, your tone successfully translating the hurt you feel. “All the time” 

He halts and pulls away from you, like your reproach suddenly makes him undeserving of touching you. He takes some time before answering, and you're almost lulled back to sleep before the sound of his voice brings you back to reality and makes you open your eyes again. “I don't want you to think I'm doing all this just for a bed to sleep in” he explains, lips pinching skeptically.

You huff out softly, nuzzling against your arm. “It makes me think you're doing this just for a vagina to stick your dick in, Llewyn.”

“Shit, yeah. I'm sorry” he scoffs and sighs, looking out the window in reflection before looking back at you. “It's just– It's the whole opposite. I care about you. I don't wanna fuck this up” he declares, his hand coming to rest over your extended arm. “I didn't start right, I know. I’m sorry angel.” he pauses, softly chewing on his bottom lip. “I thought it was the right thing to do.”

You exhale, somehow ironically relieved that it's only this, that you're not the main part of the problem, that he actually wants you as much as you do. Your stomach flutters at the feeling of his thumb softly rubbing your bare skin, and you weakly but softly smile when you finally look back up at him.

“I only ever wanted you to stay” you mutter, hand reaching to cover his over your arm.

He tiredly smiles back at you, at last erasing the conflicted frown over his face.

“I only ever wanted to stay.”

—

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

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

[ominoose]

𝐎𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐫 𝐈𝐬𝐚𝐚𝐜 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐫'𝐬 𝐀𝐬 𝐓𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐬

Characters: Steven Grant, Nathan Bateman, Llewyn Davis, Jake Lockley, Blue Jones Summary: Oscar Characters characters teaching subjects at school. Warnings: None WC: 1.7k

𝗦𝘁𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗻 𝗚𝗿𝗮𝗻𝘁 - 𝗛𝗶𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗿𝘆

His natural passion and accidental ability to hyper-fixate on things means he can teach all the required topics with ridiculous detail, but we all know which subject he dominates best.

The vast majority of the students adore him. Mr Grant’s lessons are always fun, he lets the class make posters (that include all nine members of the Ennead), do Kahoot quizzes, create live re-enactments of historical events. Even when he’s just talking off a power point, his voice, mannerisms and tendency to act things out has the children engrossed and giggling. 

The classroom walls are absolutely littered with posters, some bought and some done by students. There's inspiring quotes, positivity kittens and Egyptian puns.

Not only is he a good teacher, but a good mentor. Being autistic himself, he notices any neurodivergent or “othered” kids and makes it a point to find what they’re passionate about and working it into their curriculum. If someones struggling he’ll arrange one-on-one time, asking them what they’re strengths are not just to help figure out how to work with them, but to remind them they have strengths.

While most students do love him, the few troublemakers know he’s not the strictest and thus will absolutely take the piss. Feigning ignorance and struggles as an excuse to why they missed a deadline or didn’t do the homework. Steven, the optimist he is, is always happy to give second, third and fourth chances. It does take that long for him to realise they’re not genuine, and yet he’ll still try, convincing himself that he’ll be able to turn them straight with the magic of friendship.

𝗡𝗮𝘁𝗵𝗮𝗻 𝗕𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗺𝗮𝗻 - 𝗖𝗼𝗺𝗽𝘂𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗦𝗰𝗶𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲

It would be like finding a needle in a haystack trying to find a single student in the many years Nathan had been teaching that didn’t, at least at one point, absolutely despise him. Mr Bateman was far from the friendliest, lax teacher to his students, bordering on a bit of an asshole really. He had an absolute zero tolerance policy for time wasting, messing around and not giving 100%. All students were expected to keep up, get the work done on time and spend time studying and completing exercises at home. If you didn’t do that, you weren’t trying hard enough.

The common conception of a hard-ass wasn’t ill fitting, but it wasn’t without reason. Mr Bateman was a hard-ass because he wanted his students to grasp every opportunity at their disposal and stretch their potential. Some people were born smarter, some learned quicker from a young age but every single person could better themselves regardless of whether they started at Level 10 or Level 0. 

It also shouldn’t be said that he wanted students that simply obeyed. It was a story passed down to students about the time a student, in a fit of frustration and defiance to the teacher that always pushed them, completely disregarded the set code structure and wrote their own entirely new one that completed the aim function. While everyone would expect them to be given weeks worth of detention and a reaming, but Mr Bateman simply smiled, said well done and moved on with the lesson. Apparently the kid managed to get a full paid scholarship into top university, but that was just hearsay. Rumour has it his middle name is Hamlet too, snickering students will whisper.

Besides his rigid teaching style, not much is known about him. The classroom is minimalist, only a coffee flask and a pot of three black ballpoints sit on his desk. The walls are sparse beyond a handful of posters about common coding knowledge.

𝗟𝗹𝗲𝘄𝘆𝗻 𝗗𝗮𝘃𝗶𝘀 - 𝗠𝘂𝘀𝗶𝗰

The beginning of every new school year followed the same routine. Kids would hear their music teacher was a published artist, get insanely excited, go to class then realise published was not synonymous with success and wither with disappointment. Mr Davis gave up caring years ago, at least he finally had a steady gig, albeit at the cost of his soul.

Classes were average. Sometimes students were treated to his natural singing voice, something that always sparked smiles and attention from the kids, but usually lessons were Llewyn bearing through kids bashing piano keys and drum pads as he wandered around and did his best to tutor them through it.

To kids that were required to take the class, it was alright. Mr Davis wasn’t a hard ass, although it did drain his soul to see kids blind to the brilliance and potential of music. His homework mostly consisted of practicing at home or listening to different genres. To kids that genuinely enjoyed music, it was bliss. Mr Davis was no dream mentor for sure, he was quite stubborn about what he thought “good music” sounded like, but when he sat with someone he could share the passion with, the kid would feel like an equal. 

The classroom was always open to kids that wanted time to practice, he knew what an escape music could be, and would never hesitate to sit and work out a song or even add his guitar to whatever a student was playing.

The room was a riot on a good day. All sorts of instruments littered and surrounded the desks, posters of musicians and notes and the different types of brass instruments lined the walls and there was always something playing in the background. A basket of fruit and cereal bars was always sat fully stocked next to the door, with a “Help Yourself” sign stuck to it. No one knew why, and no one ever thought to question it.

𝗝𝗮𝗸𝗲 𝗟𝗼𝗰𝗸𝗹𝗲𝘆 - 𝗦𝗽𝗮𝗻𝗶𝘀𝗵

Spanish was always a full class, no matter what year or whether the students actually cared about Spanish. Students either swooned over him or wanted to be his friend. Mr Lockley knew, although had no clue why, but who cares as long as he was able to spread some Spanish around. The point is, Mr Lockley had no enemies at school.

Like a typical Spanish teacher, the register was taken in Spanish, if you wanted to ask to go to the toilet it had to be Spanish and if you wanted to pass notes in class they had better be in Spanish. He wasn’t the most forgiving, the man expected homework to be in on time and god help you if it was google translate. Mr Lockley would call you out, make you re-do it in his class at lunch or give detention to repeat offenders.

If students had been doing reasonably well he’d bring in some traditional Latin American foods for students to try, turn on a Spanish movie or even treat them to a little story about his past. Remember the Chef in Ratatouille that killed a guy with one thumb? That's the type of nonsense he talked about, albeit a bit more kid friendly. Most of the stories were embellished tales of him saving a grannies purse from being stolen, but some students always wondered about that hardened, broody looking teacher.

Mr Lockley prefers to keep his help to class time, long past learning his lesson about the very obvious students that came to him giggling and blushing behind their hands. On a rare occasion however, he will accept a student that comes knocking, overly apologetic and pleading for just a little help on their assignment, especially if the student is a quiet one. His lunch is set aside and he gestures for the student to take a seat before going over it with them, helping them with pronunciation, never shaming them or getting annoyed if they make a basic mistake. At the end he’ll even teach them how to say shit in Spanish, if they can keep it a little secret.

The classroom has posters of different Latin American countries, verbs and nouns, the different gendered terms. His desk was a little cluttered, a ‘Mejor Profesor’ mug, papers half marked and some drawings done by students hung nearby.

𝗕𝗹𝘂𝗲 𝗝𝗼𝗻𝗲𝘀 - 𝗖𝗵𝗲𝗺𝗶𝘀𝘁𝗿𝘆

No one's favourite teacher but everyone knew him and had something to say. If a student had him later in the day they’d need to pray the morning classes were well behaved or pray they knew someone in said classes that could give a heads up on his moods. It didn’t matter either way, you could walk in one him sucking on his lower lip and glaring the entire class down and walk away with him smiling and patting backs. It was every student for themselves in that class. The only consistency was the white lab coat he wore. 

There were obvious favourites, usually people who found a good balance of kissing his ass but not too overtly, asking for help while still expressing basic knowledge. If you asked too many questions, he would openly sigh or ignore you for someone else. If you gave an answer he thought was stupid, he wouldn’t hide the hands raking over his face in annoyance. If you were quiet and kept to yourself, you’d skirt by okay until one day in the middle of a lesson he calls your name with a faux chirp, predatory smile and ask a question. Answer correctly and you can rest assured he'll (probably) leave you alone for the next few lessons, answer wrong and enjoy doing exam questions as practice.

Detention for even a hint of a Breaking Bad reference. Openly hated a student named Jessie. Weirdly, students notice it's not the chemistry part that annoys him, it's the inaccurate portrayal of drug transactions and the costs. No one has dared ask why he knows so much about that.

Mr Jones’ door is usually locked at lunch and after class, he'll blatantly ignore any student that knocks and continue eating. On the stray chance a rare student manages to find him outside the class and has the balls to stop him, with his trademark sigh he'll begrudgingly set up a day and time to help them. It'll be a one-on-one session filled with eyerolls and being talked down to, but you'll get lots of extra knowledge and he'll even throw some of his old textbooks at you for free. Weirdly, he won't bother you in class anymore, just giving you a little smile out the corner of his eye.

The classroom has old periodic table posters from the teacher that retired years before him, and classroom rules about remembering to wear goggles or you'll go blind. The only thing on his desk besides several piles of paper is teacher mugs with variations of chemistry puns he pretends to hate.

[winniethewife]

Oscar Isaac Characters as angsty Quotes/Lyrics

Steven Grant: I am not a violent dog, I don't know why I bite

Marc Spector: I am not your pet, I never liked you, I don't care about you, I won't wait for you. I bite.

Jake Lockley: I suppose if it worked, we'd be dead already

Llewyn Davis: I Know I could have Loved you (But you would not let me) 

Kane: I'm well beyond you now, and travelling very fast

Leto Atreides: No good deed goes unpunished

Blue Jones: It is sometimes an appropriate response to reality to go insane.

Nathan Bateman: Genius must ever be imperfect.

Santiago Garcia: A hero of war, Is that what they see? Just medals and scars, So damn proud of me.

Abel Morales: I can pardon everybody’s mistakes except my own.

William Tell: I lost a game you couldn't even lose in.

Poe Dameron: When heroes fall from the sky, many more will learn to fly.

Rydal Keener: If you're not having me nor I you that doesn't mean I will stop loving you 

Peter Roiter: I love you in every universe

Mikael Boghosion: I got soul, but I'm not a soldier

Miguel O'hara: Listen, don't meet your heroes. If you meet your heroes, you're always going to be disappointed.

Jonathan Levy: Maybe then you could've loved me like you don't know how to

Outcome 3: I could disappear forever and it wouldn’t make a difference.

Orestes: If I'm a pagan of the good times, My lover's the sunlight

~

Masterlist

Taglist: @silvernight-m @queerponcho @boredzillenial

[faretheeoscar]

L💟

I did a little self insert with Llewyn yesterday...

Llewyn is my comfort character; he is the character that introduced me to Oscar 10 years ago when I went to the movies alongside with my college friends (that were cinema nerds), that dragged me to watch "the new Coen Brothers film" when i had no money (Llewyn coded) and didn’t know what to expect about the film.

I remember I ended up crying, devastated and with so many questions after the movie-- (and also with a huge ass crush on the protagonist who I later found about was from the same nationality I am, like we are both half Guatemalan and I think that connected me even more to him) --that even my friends that studied cinema at the time wouldn't know how to answer to me.

I've done a deep dive on this movie so many times, i could give a Ted Talk about it hehehe

It's not only Oscar that lures me to Llewyn, i like to think that Llewyn lured me to Oscar (and then of course ex machina, star wars and all the major things came and I wasn't able to look back lol).

His story about the struggle to find a place in the world, to his personal story with grief that I can relate to more than I would like to and finally the struggle of taking the path of the artist has touched me in different ways throughout the years. From college when I felt that my majors was not what I really wanted to do in my life and I felt truly lost, to nowadays when I finally decided to follow the career my heart desired and literally crossed an ocean to be able to do it and I still feel lost but in a much happier and better way.

Anyway why am I giving this long explanation for my self insert drawing? I don't know, i just love Llewyn so much and i can't shut up about him anytime I get to watch the movie again, specially when it hits a nerve in my life, and rn I'm passing through a rough patch so, yeah it spoke to me last night when I rewatched it with some friends.

Stay safe fellow artists, and hug your Llewyn.

[blue-sadie]

The Musician

Llewyn Davis x Friend Reader

Series Masterlist

Prt 6 of the Different Versions Series

Summary: waking up at 00:31 in the morning and not being able to fall asleep maybe water will help right or something... else

Warning: couch sex

Yn/3rd person pov

I moaned out as I stretched out my arms pushing my head back into the pillow, the glow of the digital clock illuminating a little bit of the room, it read 00:31 I groaned turning over to cuddle into the duvet.

But I just couldn't fall back asleep I turned onto my back huffing before sitting up, I stayed there intil I felt ready to stand up, I flicked the duvet off of me groaning as the cold hit my warmed skin, my teeth chattering slightly as I moved out the room.

My arms clasped around my sides to keep the remaining warmth I had as i got to the kitchen I looked puzzled at the lights flicking each one on intil I got it right, my eyes squinted at the sudden light but slowly adjusted as I made my way to the cupboards looking for the glasses.

I filled the glass up with water taking a few sips of it before sighing how much more of this is there going to be, will I ever get back home or will it be an endless cycle? Would I ever see my old life again see my lovers again.

I took in a deep breath placing the now empty glass into the sink and leaned onto the counter some of my hair falling into my face I was deep in thought when a buzzing filled the apartment, my heart lept a few beats as I straightened up walking over to where the noise was coming from.

I came to what looks to be the entryway with a call box by the door that's where the noise was coming from "hello" I asked pressing down the button on the small box "hey yn its llewyn, long time no see" the person murmured letting out an awkward chuckle before speaking again "I'm sorry I know it's late but I need a place to stay".

The man sounded like marc "yea of course" I said pressing another button to open up the man door the call ended as he made his way up, I waited by the door shifting on my feet tiredly a huge yawn left my lips as I heard him knock.

"Hi" I mumbled opening the door and I was right it was another marc and like the one before he had a beard just a bit more tame and less gray hairs "hey yn" he smiled nervously as I looked down at his belongings, in one hand he held a guitar case and in the other a fluffy ginger cat.

"Come in come in" I beckoned stepping aside for him to walk inside he hummed happily walking past me into the lounge placing his stuff down before turning to me "thank you really yn thank you" he smiled, the cat purring as it lay on the blanket "no problem" I smiled "do you want anything water, food" I offered intertwining my fingers together as I stared at him.

He shook his head "no thank you I had some stuff after my gig" he murmured gesturing to his guitar I nodded staring at it, the case looked somewhat damaged but still in good shape "how was it" I blurted at making him frown his brows a little bit "how was the gig" his mouth twitched upwards "better then usual someone asked if they can book me for a party" his smile brightened up the room as he spoke about it.

He seemed so interested in it like when steven speaks about different things as he takes me around the museum, I giggled slightly and urged him onto the couch and I took a spot beside him "that's really good llewyn" I smiled placing a hand on his knee making him pause for a brief second his eyes looking between my hand and me.

"Sorry" I said retracting my hand but he caught it mid way "no no" he muttered holding my hand in his "I just.. I" he trailed off staring into my eyes as his thumb grazed up and down my hand "there's always been some I wanted to tell you" he whispered slowly shifting in his seat.

"I wish to be something more" he said making my breath hitch.

"I want to be with you" this was the same why marc asked me out almost the same exact words "what I'm trying to sa-" I crushed my lips against his interrupting his words, he gasped against my lips his hands moved to grasp my hips holding them tightly "yn" he groaned moving his lips to my neck leaving little love bites and hickies as he goes.

My hands went into to his hair tugging his roots as I felt his teeth against my skin "I just got to have you" he muttered his hands slowly moving down to the ends of my nightie "then you can have me" I whispered making him groan as he pulled it up to expose my black lace panties "of fuck" he muttered breathlessly as he ran his finger tips along the hem that was around my waist.

I teasingly rolled my hips against his whining out as I felt him stiffen underneath me "l-llewyn" I murmured moving against him making us both moan out his hands slightly dug into my skin as I moved against him "please" I whined, his breathing deepened as his hands wrapped around my thighs before flipping us over so I was pressed into the cushions and he was on top.

"I'm going to fuck you so good all the neighbour's will know my name, my muse" he breathed out, the name he called me made a shiver run up my spine, his hands moved to the front side of my thighs slowly pulling down my underwear and threw it onto the floor, his eyes stared down at my body with hunger.

His hands working their way back up to my thighs massaging my skin intil he reached mid thigh his eyes flickering to meet mine as they slowly make their way to my core two of his fingers ran up and down my slit making me shiver while the other used his thumb to slowly rub my clit in circles "f-fuck" I moaned pushing my head further into the cushions.

His smile turned into a sly smirk as he worked his two fingers inside me, curling and moving them inside of my entrance, my legs shaking slightly "llewyn please" I begged wrapping my legs around him he grinned devilishly pulling his hands away from my core to take out his cock from his pants.

He pumped his cock a few times as he stared down at me "are you ready for me my muse" he asked teasingly as he leaned down to me, I nodded eagerly my eyes becoming half lidded as my legs tightened around him, he slowly moved his cock to my entrance teasingly my cores lips before pushing in "fuck your so tight" he groaned.

My thighs clenched slightly as he started to move, he leaned down whispering things into my ear as he thrusted in and out "shit llewyn" I moaned he chuckled and pressed his lips to mine as he increased his strokes, the power of his thrusts sending me further into the couch cushions.

My moans were wavering as I moved my hands to his shoulders clenching them tightly "y-yn" he groaned as I tightened around him "getting c-close" I whined feeling myself getting closer to cumming "me to" he growled his nails digging into my skin as his thrusts wavered.

He growled out but smiled as I screamed out as I cam around him, he did a few more thrusts before yelling out himself before filling me up with his seed "fuck" he muttered breathlessly moving one of his hands to run through his hair before slowly pulling out of me.

"Your my everything, the reason I still try, my beautiful muse"

[drifting-pieces-blog-blog]

Oh, there is some discourse about Oscar Isaac playing the mk system because he is not jewish. I have no say in the matter as I am not jewish, so I thought I'd ask

Oh! Okay! I'm willing to bed you are the same anon that sent this ask? Or maybe not and just someone with similar questions.

Well, Moon Knight came out over two years ago now. So most of the discourse over it is pretty old news at this point. If it is starting up again, it's just beating a dead horse. Or maybe there are new fans that are just blazing their own trail and not checking out that neat trail that's already been blazed.

Either way, I'm not upset about it. Learning is learning and I'm here for questions.

SO! Let's get into it!

Now, this may surprise a few of you… But I'm not Oscar Isaac. I know… I know… A real let down. This means that I can't speak on his behalf and everything I say is what I have picked up, and could be wrong.

As far as I am aware, he is not a practicing Jew. Meaning, he probably doesn't go to Shul or keep the Sabbath. He might! I don't know. I also don't know if he's Catholic or Christian or how he was raised or what his current belief system is… If it is on Wiki somewhere, I still can't say I know because how do you Wiki someone's personal religious beliefs?

What I DO know… He has Jewish Ancestry!

These quotes are taken from two interviews that are easily looked up on Google:

When asked how he felt about playing an Orthodox Jewish man for "Inside Llewyn Davis" (not his first or last Jewish role), here was his responce:

“We could play that game: How Jewish are you?” he said to interviewer Alexis Soloski, who is Jewish. “It is part of my family, part of my life. I feel the responsibility to not feel like a phony. That’s the responsibility, to feel like I can say these things, do these things and feel like I’m doing it honestly and truthfully."

Isaac referenced the fact that he has some Jewish heritage on his father’s side.

Of his roots, Oscar said, “My grandfather was French in Guatemala and my father is Cuban but he grew up in the States as well. I came to the States when I was five months old and I grew up my entire life mostly in Miami, between Miami and New York.” He is the third Oscar in the family. “My father and my grandfather were both named Oscar,” he revealed. “I am the third Oscar. It’s from the Academy Awards. Isaac is Jewish from my father side. I am definitely a big mix of many things.”

Now, I COULD get into semantics. His Jewish ancestry comes from his father's side and there is discourse in the Jewish system on Patrilineal vs. Matrilineal and what makes a Jew a Jew. I'm not going to get into that because it has WAY more involved than I'm willing to get into and that is probably why Oscar asked the "How Jewish are you?" question (He's known to be cheeky and that could be taken as a very cheeky question).

In MY books, If you have Jewish ancestry and you acknowledge it and consider it a part of you, then you are worthy of playing all the Jewish people you want in movies/shows/plays. ....As long as you are respectful and do your best to do it right.

And that is what I love about Oscar. He WANTS to get it right. He wants to honor the parts he plays and he understands when he has an important part that needs to be done right and with care.

Now, Oscar doesn't have DID (as far as I am aware), but he did the research and connected with people that Do have DID to make sure he offered a fare and honest and respectful tribute to it. Is it going to fit everyone with DID's shoes? No. But it is a very multi(LOL) colored disorder that presents in many different ways and because it is a Show meant to be visual to an audience that doesn't understand how it works, of course he's going to have to play it up a bit and the editors and directors are going to have to add flourishes that don't always agree with everyone so that we, a visual and auditory audience, can see a representation of this disorder that we can understand.

You know what's fun about being Jewish? You don't have to see it or hear it to demonstrate someone is Jewish. I can watch almost any movie or show and go "That guy's Jewish." How do I know? I don't. But in my head, he's now a Jewish character and I'm connecting to him that way.

You know what they DID do in Moon Knight? Oscar wore a Star of David necklace. There was a mezuzah on Steven's door. Steven had a Shabbat table set up. Steven is a Vegan to avoid having to risk not eating Kosher.

(I see Shabbat candle, decorative Menorah, and a Kiddish cup. I really hope he moves those (should be two but we only see one, Maybe it's behind the other) candles before he lights them. His fire hazard apartment gives me anxiety. Let's just hope his Havdalah candle doesn't set the place ablaze).

They could have done more to show his casual Jewish life, but you don't need to. This is Steven Grant pretty much living a Jewish life. I'm not sure what people were expecting him to do? Dance the Horah and have Peyot? This is more than what Comics Moon Knight has done to show his Jewish side for a LONG time (minus some good runs in the OG run and Recent MacKay run).

Anyways, I'm not sure who did decide to toss in those little details, but I deeply appreciate them and love them for it. And I love that Oscar is aware of and acknowledges his heritage. Not only that, but that he strives to represent it in a truthful and honest way.

Anyways, I hope that answers your question... There's a lot I could get into, but others have honestly done it better ages ago.

Is Oscar a Jewish man? I don't know. Probably not? BUT... If he suddenly said "I'm Jewish" I'd welcome him to the tribe with open arms. I think he's earned a little Challah. He's certainly a Mensch in my book.

[atopvisenyashill]

A timeline of the ruling princes and princesses of Dorne from Meria Martell’s death to the formal union of Dorne and the rest of the Seven Kingdoms in 187 AC.

Anything marked with a * means it’s a canon date. The rest are speculation and a lot of math on my part. I also made up the names for a few characters as well! Also rip the quality on this but when you click it, it looks better.

More explanation under the cut.

Where I ran into most trouble in trying to figure out this timeline when we have not nearly as much information as we do about literally every other major Great House of Westeros, is the line from Morion the Mad to Qoren Martell. There’s several quick changes in princes during that time and we don’t even know what their relation is to one another in several instances. So I tried working out the timeline in a few different ways - I tried it with Mara Martell, Morion’s heir, as his very young daughter, as a twin sister, as a younger sister, and I finally settled on her being his much older aunt as making the most sense.

I think it makes the most sense because Morion is considered young and yet his father was Prince for a very long time; it doesn’t make sense that a ruling prince would wait so long to have an heir unless in a parallel to Jaehaerys’ later issue, several of his heirs die and leave the line of succession a bit uncertain. So I concluded that Morion’s father, who I named Voren, had several older children that died, likely during the Vulture King’s first war (we know it’s suspected Deria was funding him) so when Voren died, the throne went to his reckless, dumb ass youngest son, Morion. With Morion dying without any children, the throne passes next to Deria’s second child, Mara, and the Nymeros Martell line descends from them. This also makes sense because in canon, Morion was angry that his father didn’t send soldiers to kick the Iron Throne out of the Dornish Marches during Lord Rogar’s War; if Voren had children that had died in a previous conflict, it would make sense that he’d hesitate to get involved again.

Qoren was also a bit tricky. He had to be old enough to fight in the Stepstones War against Daemon, but young enough to not be married yet and be considered a potential match for Rhaenyra two years later. After a lot of wondering how in the hell I make that work, I finally figured - again, similar to Cregan Stark and Jaeherys, that there was a surplus of heirs at this time. Mara would have come into her throne already old with children and grandchildren, and her heir would come into the throne also already old, same as Meria/Nymor/Deria. Makes sense that the prince before Qoren was therefore a grandfather or great-grandfather, and that Qoren’s father never took the Sunspear Throne.

I stopped at the unification of the Seven Kingdoms simply because we get absolutely no information on what was going on in Dorne until Doran’s mother. Apparently, Dorne was real quiet during the Blackfyre Rebellions, hah.

And as for names...

Voren - we have several instances of Dornishmen with names that end in the -en sound. Doran, Oberyn, Llewyn, Yoren, etc. It seems like a common naming quirk, similar to the Northerners being really fond of -on and -ard endings. I thought Voren sounded the most like a real name.

Ellario - We have Elia and Ellaria so I figured there should be a male version of the name. I didn’t want to use Elio, so Ellario was born.

[ivystoryweaver]

Day 21: Can't Find the Words (Llewyn Davis)

Notes: Llewyn Davis x gn!reader. Llewyn doesn't feel worthy of a home, domestic fluff

Word Count: 522

Three months since you let Llewyn into your bed.

Two months since he wormed his way into your heart.

One month since you let him share your home.

Llewyn was a beautiful, scattered, devoted, intense, tormented disaster.

He was messy. Dishes piled up. Yet he kept his few belongings in one corner of the den, out of your way.

He often paraded around the house in underwear, or sometimes, nothing at all.

You bought him a winter coat last week. He cried, then wrote a song about it.

He would disappear sometimes for a few days and you would cry.

"Don't wanna be a burden," he would halfheartedly explain, gripping his guitar case guardedly.

"You're not...Llewyn, this is your home now." Reaching for his case, you tried to lighten his load in every way possible. "Come on inside."

He tried to cook sometimes but he burned everything. You ate it anyway.

Gave you all the change from his tip jar "for rent".

He waited every night for you to invite him to bed. He seemed to love your cat and your fireplace, but what about you?

"I can get you your own bed, if you need space," you tried to explain. "If you don't want to sleep with me. You can still stay here."

Booted feet shuffled as he raked a gloved hand through his curls. "I can take the couch, it's all right."

You sighed, exasperated, but not angry. "Llewyn, do you have feelings for me? At all?"

"'Course I do, I..." He stroked his thick beard contemplatively. "You just..." Waving his hand around him, he shook his head. "This is all - it's too much."

"What's too much?" You pressed. "Me? I can give you space."

"No. No, it's not that. I just...can't find the words, really."

Reaching for his hand, you relented. "It's okay."

The next night, he came home late, but found you right away. "Sorry. Had a gig. Good tips."

"That's because you're brilliant," you sweetly returned.

He smiled so big it made the corners of his eyes crinkle.

You nodded toward the stove. "Chili?"

"Uh, soon. Got something for you first."

Gently grasping your hand, he led you to the living room, nodding for you to sit on the sofa. Your heart quickened as he reached for his guitar case.

"Wrote you something."

"Oh wait, let me get my wallet."

"What?" He chuckled, fixing his guitar strap over his shoulder.

"You don't like to play for free. I'll pay." Your eyes twinkled with mischief.

"I'll play for you anytime, sweetheart."

The song was somehow about home. Lyrics told you how he drifted, how he wandered, but now his heart had a tether. The beautiful tenor of his voice weaved and turned exquisitely over the arpeggios plucked by expert fingers.

Your eyes and cheeks were wet as he strummed the final chord.

"Nobody ever wrote me a song before," you tearfully whispered, reaching out for him as he set his instrument aside and knelt down in front of you.

"Nobody ever felt like home before," he returned, brown eyes adoring you as he pressed his lips to yours.

Angstember Masterlist || Misc. Masterlist || Main Masterlist

[wewontbesleeping]

$630 on vet bills this time <3

[ierofrnkk]

So Much More Than Everything

Llewyn Davis x reader (3.7k)

Summary: Llewyn needs your couch for the night. Some unspoken things linger between the two of you.

Content: 18+, gn!reader, smoking (Llewyn and reader), swearing, you make out with Llewyn but nothing more, angst, Llewyn is so, so depressed.

a/n: this sad wet cat of a man has captivated me. I can’t write anything but angst for him sorry lol. title is from ‘pictures of you’ by the cure

-

You knew Llewyn from the way he never put the pillows back on your couch, from the way that he always made himself breakfast in the morning with your eggs. From the way that he always remembered to lock your door when he left.

You didn’t mind the visits, nor did you mind the way that you always seemed to be his last resort when he needed a couch to crash on.

You like to tell yourself that you’re doing him a favor, helping him out after Mike’s death.

You know that it’s not the entire truth.

The Gorfeins were nice, and welcomed him into their home probably more often than they should, but sometimes he was too much for even them. When they send him away, you’re usually up next on the roster.

Which is exactly why now—at such an ungodly hour—he’s standing in your doorway, guitar case and bag in hand, looking at you with those big, tired eyes; he’s desperate.

There’s a Llewyn-shaped dent in the couch, carved into the material from how often he’s slept there.

You have the space, and he needs the sleep.

It’s late—you’re not even sure what time it is—but the heavy blanket of silence that’s settled over your apartment and the streets below indicate that it’s pretty late.

You consider chastising him for showing up at your door in the middle of the night, for backing you into a corner as far as letting him stay; you know that if you turn him away, you’ll be an ass for doing so.

You don’t have any choice in the matter.

You stand in the doorway for a few beats, debating if being a good Samaritan is really worth losing sleep over.

Unfortunately, you’re vulnerable to those soft, tired eyes of his.

He’s in luck for tonight.

After another beat, you step aside, allowing him entry into your apartment, which he immediately accepts as he steps inside.

He’s been here enough times now that your place is familiar to him, so he needs little help in getting himself situated.

—

You watch as he sets his things down beside the couch, taking extra care to make sure his guitar care is put down carefully—he’d probably be on the wrong side of inconsolable if anything happened to it.

Once everything is put away safely beside your couch, he takes a seat, running a hand through messy curls—you can see that he’s tired, and something about his demeanor says that a good night’s sleep probably won’t fix it.

“Sorry for the intrusion,” he murmurs, his tone soft as he breaks the silence in the room.

“Gorfeins couldn’t take me anymore; I needed an escape route.”

You shake your head—a knee-jerk response to his apology—you’re a little surprised that the Gorfeins have sent him packing, considering the way that they’re usually bending over backwards to accommodate him.

It’s apparent that something happened—probably some argument that’ll be forgotten by morning—but you won’t mention it unless he does.

“It’s no trouble,” you offer, tone matching his as you speak—as much as his appearance was unexpected and a little inconvenient, it doesn’t bother you as much as it probably should.

“They’ll come around.”

He gives a soft huff of a laugh, leaning against the back of the couch as he listens to you speak.

Deep down, he knows that you’re right. Within a day or so, they’ll be over the moon about having him over so that he can try Lillian’s “famous“ moussaka, or whatever it is that she makes the next time he comes to stay.

He lets your words linger in the air for a moment, glancing from the coffee table to the windowsill, searching for his pack of cigarettes.

You watch as he searches briefly for the pack of cigarettes that he absolutely did not bring in with him; it’s only a matter of time before he asks you for one, so you beat him to the punch.

There’s a pack of Marlboro Reds that you keep in one of the drawers of your kitchen. You’ll never outwardly admit that you keep them there for him, but you know that he’s the reason.

Quickly retreating to the kitchen, you return a moment later—having retrieved the pack—and hand it to him like you’ve been listening to his every thought.

“Here,” you say as you give him the pack, and he takes it with a degree of gratitude that you scarcely see from him.

You can see the questions behind his eyes: Why do you have this? How did you know? So, before he can spiral, you elaborate.

“I keep them for emergencies. Never know when someone—“ your gaze briefly flicks down to him where he sits on your couch “—might need one.”

He gives a silent nod of understanding, taking a single smoke from the pack and holding it lightly between his lips as he fumbles for his lighter.

With that familiar click, he lights that silver lighter of his and brings it to the end of his cigarette; the warm orange glow of the flame lights up his features in a way that is just unfairly pretty.

You try not to stare.

It doesn’t go very well.

His eyes are closed as he takes a drag; dark, long lashes stark against his skin. You wonder if it was even worth it to have offered him the smokes in the first place.

He exhales, and then extends a hand to you, lit cigarette held loosely between two fingers.

Definitely worth it.

You take a drag just as he did, and the two of you bask in this silent exchange for a few minutes.

A part of you considers talking to him, asking him what happened at the Gorfeins’, but you decide against it.

He doesn’t seem much for words at the moment anyway.

Llewyn takes another drag from the cigarette, reaching over the coffee table to flick the excess ash into the ashtray.

“You don’t have to pretend,” he chimes in after a long stretch of silence.

“I can tell you’re just dying for me to get the fuck out of here.”

Llewyn is the uncontested king of beating himself down; you’ve had the passing thought that he should make that his career instead of music.

You accept the smoke when he offers it back to you, taking a drag as you try to find the best thing to say to him.

“Don’t put words in my mouth; I never said that.” Is what you decide on.

That gives him pause, and it suddenly becomes hard for him to meet your gaze.

He reaches for the cigarette quickly once you hand it to him, immediately taking another drag. You should probably open a window. You decide that you don’t care.

When he exhales, you watch the way the smoke rises towards the ceiling, dissipating into nothing. He looks like he wants to float away and dissolve with it.

“Didn’t have to,” he murmurs, eyes trained on the wooden surface of your coffee table.

You don’t really have a response to that.

If you deny it, he can just insist that you’re lying to him, and if you accept it, you’re just hurting him further.

Changing the subject seems easier than trying to hash out your feelings about him.

“How long do you need to stay?” You ask, and it’s almost sweet.

He immediately seems grateful for the change of conversation, the slightest bit of tension releasing from his shoulders.

“Few days,” he starts, not as timid as he was before.

The usual rounds, then.

“Gonna see if Jim and Jean can take me in for a day or two.”

You know this game by this point—couch roulette—Llewyn will go through his address book, calling every number he has and praying that at least one person in the five boroughs isn’t pissed at him.

It’s got to be tiring.

“Doesn’t Jean hate you?” You ask, though the tone is much more lighthearted than the words suggest.

He scoffs, a sort of dry laugh that’s accompanied by a shake of his head.

“Probably, but it’s not like she’s going to kick me out,” he flashes you a smile, and for a moment you forget about everything else but him.

He offers you the cigarette again, but you turn it down politely—the ash has burned down close to the filter—he takes one last quick drag before putting it out in the ashtray.

You’re only the slightest bit embarrassed by the way your gaze lingered on his hand for a moment too long.

By this point in the night, you’ve silently decided that you’re not going to be going to bed anytime soon, not with the way he’s looking at you.

For as long as you’ve been letting Llewyn crash on your couch, there’s been a sort of something between the two of you that’s never quite been figured out.

You know that he’s had his fair share of problems with partners in the past—Jean, Mike, Diane, the list goes on—but that doesn’t deter you.

Maybe it’s that self-deprecating, sad puppy demeanor that draws you in.

That probably says something about you as a person, but you try not to dwell on it too much.

After a long beat of silence, he shifts on the couch, giving you a slight nod of his head, gesturing for you to come closer.

“Sit,” he requests, the tone of his voice the farthest thing from demanding.

You oblige, because it doesn’t hurt to sit near him every once in a while.

He looks pensive; though, when doesn’t he?

You watch as he brings a hand up, carding his fingers through those dark curls. Self-soothing, you think. The notion of having a serious conversation with Llewyn isn’t completely out of the question, but you know that it must be serious if he’s willing to talk about it.

He eventually breaks that silence again when he speaks, even though he’s not looking at you directly now.

“I appreciate you dealing with all of my bullshit.”

You want to grab him by the shoulders and shake him; tell him that it’s not bullshit; you’re fucked just like the rest of us. You decide against it for now, instead settling for a polite smile and a lingering glance.

You’re only a little hopeless.

He sees right through that smile, knowing you have more to say, but thankfully doesn’t pry.

It seems like neither of you are much for words tonight.

After a few beats of sitting side-by-side on your couch, shoulders pressed together, he leans against the back of your couch, letting his head fall against the cushions.

As if compelled by an external force (definitely not your own deep-seated desires), you follow his lead, leaning back against your couch and settling perhaps a bit too close to him.

You can feel how warm he is beside you, and for a moment, you’re convinced that you should be condemned to hell for even entertaining this—whatever this is.

All of that is forgotten when he wraps an arm around your shoulders.

You only feel a little like a middle schooler with their first crush.

“Llewyn,” you start, unsure of where you’re headed.

He seems to understand, interjecting before you can get any further.

“I know, I know. Indulge me for a second, would you?”

And you can’t say no, not when he’s so close, and god, it’s been an embarrassingly long time since anyone’s held you this way.

You’ve resigned yourself to the fact that this can all be explained away by the late hour.

He turns to look at you, and it doesn’t take much effort in the small space that’s left between you. From this close up, you could probably count every one of his eyelashes; he’d probably let you, but you’ll save it for another time.

He leans forward slightly, enough that his nose brushes yours and you can feel every breath—warm and soft—against your lips.

For the briefest of moments, you’re convinced that you’ve fallen asleep, that this is some sick dream, but you can feel him so close to you, and you’re reminded of the reality of it all.

His words from a few moments ago echo loudly in your ears—just indulge me for a second, would you? All you can think about is how you’re indulging him simply by letting him stay the night—you don’t owe him this—but his nose brushes yours, bringing you back to the present, and you’re not thinking about who owes what anymore.

You don’t even register when exactly his hand ended up at the side of your face, palm cradling your jaw in a way that makes your heart flutter in your chest.

You know it’s been impossibly difficult for him, from his music to Mike and everything in between—it’s been hard. That’s what you’re using as your excuse when you let him draw you in closer, and the brush of his lips against yours is all the convincing you need.

He kisses you softly, but there’s a tinge of desperation behind it, like he’s a man starved.

Knowing Llewyn, he probably is.

He’s holding you carefully, though, like you’ll break apart if he holds you with any sort of real weight. It’s only when you bring a hand up, encircling his wrist with your fingers, that he comes to his senses.

The hesitation melts away, and he finds his confidence, which is only usually reserved for his six minutes onstage at the Gaslight.

The kiss deepens, but in a way that you really wouldn’t have expected from Llewyn. It’s hungry, like he’s been waiting his entire life for you to give him the go-ahead.

His beard is a little rough against your skin, but you don’t mind; it’s grounding you to the fact that he’s the one you’re kissing. No one else, not someone who’s going to leave the second he’s gotten what he’s wanted.

Llewyn can’t leave. It’s not like he has anywhere to go if he does.

It’s not long before you stop him, hands finding gentle purchase on either side of his face, pulling him away from you and creating that space between the two of you.

He goes willingly, giving no resistance when you move him.

Llewyn may be an idiot, and impulsive, but not that much.

“Is..are you..” he manages, seemingly unsure of where to look; your eyes, your lips, the clock on the wall.

“I’m not doing this, Llewyn.”

For the briefest of moments, he looks utterly dejected, his eyes going round and his brows pinching together slightly, before the expression fades away into something more neutral. He nods, and before he completely shuts off for the night, you quickly do damage control.

“Not tonight,” you emphasize, brushing a gentle hand through his dark curls.

He seems to accept that a little bit better, nodding again in acknowledgment and leaning into that slight touch of affection.

You hold him in that half-embrace for a while, something he seems to deeply appreciate. You don’t quite realize how much, until you meet his eyes once again and see that they’re glassy, wet with tears that threaten to fall.

“Llewyn..” you start, though not really intending to finish your thought.

He gets it, blinking a few times and sniffling for good measure.

“It’s sad, I know,” is the first thing he says, as self-deprecating as he’ll ever be. “Crashing on your couch and then crying like—like some fucking kid.”

Your hand finds its way to the back of his neck, fingers resting gently on the skin. You give him space, leaving the floor open for him to continue, if that’s what he wants.

“I feel totally fucked, you know? Like- like if I don’t get it together right now, I’ll end up—I don’t know—selling ballpoint pens, or some bullshit.”

You bite back a laugh—only because the example he gives is a little ridiculous—but you still listen intently, nodding along as he talks and gets his frustrations out.

“I don’t know how much longer I can do this,” he settles on, leaving it vague—intentionally or not—whether he means music, or life as a whole.

You decide to ignore it for now.

“I’m not making any fuckin’ money off of this new solo-record bullshit, my sister keeps telling me to just…hang up the guitar and go back to the merchant marines.”

He shifts in his seat, staying close to you but needing just a little room to breathe.

“I don’t even have my own place—“ he scoffs, the sound dry and bitter. “I don’t even have a fucking winter coat.”

You avert your eyes at that. You feel bad, obviously, but you know that it isn’t his goal—he’s not trying to make you feel guilty, but you do. It’s in your nature.

You let his words marinate for a few moments, settling like a warm blanket over the chilled night air.

For a brief period, the only sound in the room is Llewyn’s breathing, and the occasional noise from your radiator, fighting to keep your apartment warm from the cold outside.

“This just…feels like a fight I’m always going to lose.”

It’s hard, hearing him talk about himself this way. Not like it’s anything new, but it’s still hard to hear; you care about him too much to think that he likes himself so little.

The sad part is, you know that it’s true.

“You have a lot of fight left in you, Llewyn Davis.”

You don’t even think about the words as you say them, just knowing them to be true and thinking no further than that.

He nods, sitting on your words for a few moments. The glassiness in his eyes is back—a shine that’s subtle in the dim light, but present nonetheless. It doesn’t take a genius to know that your words have struck a chord deep within him, but this time there’s no apology necessary, no damage control to do.

He needed to hear that, and you both know it.

There’s a little bit of pressure from your hand on the back of his neck, and in a surprising act of vulnerability, he leans with your touch, wrapping his arms around you and resting his chin on your shoulder.

You hold him like that for a little while, focused on the sound of his breathing and the beat of his heart.

“Don’t sleep on the couch,” you start, speaking without thinking once again. “My bed’s big enough.”

You can hear the way his breath catches for a moment, before you feel him nod against your shoulder—he’ll gladly share your bed with you any day.

There are a few more beats of silence before he speaks up.

“I’m sorry for trying to sleep with you,” he murmurs, his tone dancing a line between being serious and joking.

You laugh softly, and you swear that you can feel the way the tension lifts from his very bones.

He laughs with you, and you’re convinced that his voice has never sounded better.

For the sake of his sanity and his career, you decide against telling him that.

Eventually, he pulls back from the embrace, his eyes still a little red and watery, but he’s clearly done crying. You’re just happy that he got it all out of his system.

He doesn’t go far, staying close enough that you’re able to feel his breath against your cheek, and it’s not very long before he’s leaning in for another kiss.

You let him kiss you. It’s different this time.

It’s soft, and vulnerable, and everything that Llewyn never allows himself to be. He tastes faintly of cigarettes and mint, but you find that you don’t mind it all too much.

It’s him.

You pull away eventually, just enough to press your forehead against his, your nose brushing his every now and then.

“Come to bed with me, Llewyn Davis,” you tell him, saying his name with more reverence than you’ve had for anything you’d ever said in church growing up.

He nods briefly. He wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

You stand, and he follows, looking both out of place and fitting in perfectly.

He’s occupied little corners of your life for longer than you’ve realized, until this moment, at least.

The extra blankets you keep behind the couch. The spare key that you’ve left with your super “just in case he comes”. The pack of cigarettes that lives in a drawer in your kitchen.

He leaves his things on the couch—he’s not sleeping there tonight, so for once, it’s going to just be used for temporary storage.

As you head to your bedroom, he follows close behind, kicking his shoes off somewhere along the way.

Your bed isn’t anything impressive, but it’s big enough for the two of you.

He seems grateful for anything better than a couch. You bite back a tease about how your couch “isn’t good enough” for him.

The covers are pulled back, you settle onto your bed like you do every night, and after some very light persuasion, he joins you.

He all but melts into the mattress, and you briefly wonder how long it’s been since he’s actually slept in a proper bed.

The thought is pushed aside when the weight of his arm settles around your waist, and you can’t imagine being anywhere else. For a moment, you ask yourself why it took you so long to get him here.

Everything happens for a reason, you figure.

“Sleep,” you tell him gently, still feeling a vein of tension in him as he holds you.

“We’ll figure something out.”

It’s an offer, laid out on the table. You don’t mind him being here, and he doesn’t have anywhere else to go. It just makes sense.

He’s not going to be one to turn down such an offer, so you feel him nod behind you, his arm tightening around your waist minutely.

“Okay,” is all he says, and it’s enough for you.

Llewyn is like a cat that no one really owns, but that everyone kind of cares for. You’ve taken him in, shown him that there is some semblance of hope left for him.

Maybe you just have a soft spot for the strays.

[bornforastorm]

do u have any fave holiday / ny / wintery / decembery movies 👀

Boy do I!!

I bet you've seen plenty of these, but here are the first ones that immediately leapt to my mind, in chronological order:

REMEMBER THE NIGHT (1939) - thee wintery holiday movie for me. unsung masterpiece, extremely sexy.

MEET JOHN DOE (1941) - holidays but make it miserable and moral. sometimes the holiday season is about being glum! Also I love to see young Gary Cooper's big sad eyes in the snow.

(^^both of those are currently streaming on the criterion channel!!)

NEVER SAY GOODBYE (1946) - I think Errol Flynn should be on any winter/holiday list. He's pure cozy to me, and especially in his comedic mode. This is a Christmas comedy of remarriage! A big marine picks him up under the arms and carries him around!!

BELL BOOK AND CANDLE (1958) - wintery and whimsical! And features gay witch Jack Lemmon so what more could you want (there should also always be one Jack Lemmon movie on every holiday list and while The Apartment is the obvious one, it's never been quite what I want in winter)

DOCTOR ZHIVAGO (1965) - a pure Snow movie. ideal to put on while you decorate and then spend ten minutes here and there getting lost in Omar Sharif's eyes.

METROPOLITAN (1990) - Whit Stilman is New York and Metropolitan is his New York Winter Holiday movie. Charming, witty, delightful.

THE MUPPET CHRISTMAS CAROL (1992) - an obvious one but the best. Career best Michael Caine, career best Muppets. I wonder-- too much Gonzo for your taste??

INSIDE LLEWYN DAVIS (2013) - one of my favorite movies of all time, so sad so cold, maybe more of an early February movie than a December movie, but good winter, good new york, good music.

CRIMSON PEAK (2015) - it's giving winter 🤌 it's giving blood on the snow 🤌 it's giving ghosts 🤌 it's giving Gothic 🤌

THE GOLDFINCH (2019) - I am the sicko who really likes the movie of The Goldfinch. But here's the deal...... it's wintery. It's cozy. the vibes are immaculate (to me). Ends on Christmas in Amsterdam and that feels great!!

[eyelessfaces]

keys

llewyn davis x reader

tiny short fic for my wet cat boyfriend llewyn<3

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

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

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

word count: 0.8k

masterlist | taglist | ao3

updates blog @eyelessupdates

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know what it is.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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