#llewyn davis imagine

[bits-and-babs]

𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐑 — 𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐖𝐘𝐍 𝐃𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐒

-> OCT. 18 : HAIR PULLING

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

WC: 1013

[Kinktober Masterlist] [Main Masterlist]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

END

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

#llewyn davis x y/n #llewyn davis #inside llewyn davis #llewyn davis x you #llewyn davis fic #llewyn davis fanfiction #llewyn davis x reader #llewyn davis imagine #Oscar Isaac #kinktober #kinktober 2022

[dailyreverie]

Insomniac

Fall prompts 🍂 27. "I can't sleep"

(Requested by @apollo-enthusiast / @myfandomlikesandstories)

Pairing:��Llewyn Davis x reader

Word count: 689 words

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#llewyn davis x reader #llewyn davis x you #llewyn davis imagine #llewyn davis fanfic #llewyn davis fluff

[mochimoqa]

◆◇Mochi's Masterlist◇◆

(Yes, I already had a Masterlist pero I accidentally deleted it, so I needed to make it from scratch again-)

◆Blue Jones Masterlist

🎨♡Laurent LeClaire Masterlist

🌙Steven Grant Masterlist

🌙Marc Spector Masterlist

🔪🌙Jake Lockley Masterlist

💶Anselm Vogelweide Masterlist

👑Duke Leto Atreides Masterlist

🕷🕸Miguel O'Hara Masterlist

🌌Poe Dameron Masterlist

⚡️Basil Stitt Masterlist

🎸🐈Llewyn Davis

——————————————————

MEET THE CREATOR!

——————————————————

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

I'm best known for my c.ai bots, fics, and art!

Also best known for having an unhealthy obsession with Oscar Isaac-

I'm an amateur writer on here and on wattpad! (@/W3irdc0r3_dud3)

If you want a request either for art, bots, or fics, just send me a DM on Tumblr!

IMPORTANT!!

My requests are closed for now!!

My requests are open!!

——————————————————

Español ver.

——————

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

Soy mejor conocido por mis bots c.ai, ¿fics? ¡Y arte!

También mejor conocido por tener una obsesión enfermiza con Oscar Isaac.

¡Soy un escritor aficionado aquí y en Wattpad! (@/W3irdc0r3_dud3)

Si quieres una solicitud de arte, bots o fics, ¡envíame un DM a Tumblr!

¡¡IMPORTANTE!!

¡¡Mis solicitudes están cerradas por ahora!!

¡¡MIS PEDIDOS ESTÁN ABIERTOS!!

——————

Q&A!!

Q: Mochi, what music do you listen to?

A: I usually listen to indie music or some banda music. Pero, I love Kali Uchis!!

My favorite song so far! ^^

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#♡mochimoqa♡ #moon knight #moon boys #jake lockley #moon knight system #marc spector #anselm vogelweide #big gold brick #oscar issac characters #oscar isaac #oscar issac imagine #oscar isaac characters #blue jones #Blue Jones #jonathan levy #Laurent LeClaire #steven grant #llewyn davis #mikael boghosian #in secret #sucker punch #Moonknight #duke leto atreides #dune #leto atreides #duke leto x you #miguel spiderman #miguel o'hara #atsv miguel #miguel spiderverse

[luke-o-lophus]

Sooo I painted this yesterday....

#luke shares #oscar isaac #inside llewyn davis #llewyn davis #oscar issac characters #oscar issac imagine #fanart #art #digital art

[paperweightshopp]

Oscar Isaac from Inside llewyn davis looked so dirty

Ah, I love it

🥵

#oscar isaac #inside llewyn davis #moon knight #marc spector #steven grant #jake lockley #moon knight fanfiction #moon knight imagines

[geo-winchester]

350’s followers

So I’m really happy because even if it’s a little compare to many writer I follow, I’m happy and excited because there 350 people who likes my work, I never thought I’ll get this far and thank you so much for this, and as I always celebrate this things I’ll offers you some prompts 🫢

Prompt list 1

Prompt list 2

Prompt list 3

Autumn prompt list

Rules:

Send me an ask with the prompts with the character of this list.

Characters:

-Oscar Isaac: moon knight boys, Santiago “Pope” Garcia, Poe Dameron, Nathan Bateman, Duke Leto, Richard Muñoz, Jonathan Levy, Llewyn Davis, William Tell, Bud copper, Kane.

-Taron Egerton: Gary “Eggsy” Unwin, Jimmy Keene, Robin Locksley, himself.

-Top gun: Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw and “Hangman”

And again thank you so much for following me, lots and lots of love💙💙

#poe dameron x reader #poe dameron imagine #steven grant x reader #marc spector #jonathan (scenes from a marriage) x reader #marc spector x reader #jonathan levy x reader #jake hangman seresin x reader #jake seresin #jake lockley x reader #jake lockley #santiago garcia x reader #santiago pope garcia x reader #nathan bateman x reader #duke leto x reader #leto x reader #llewyn davis x reader #william tell x reader #richard muñoz x reader #taron egerton x reader #jimmy keene x reader #eggsy unwin x reader #rooster x reader

[runa-falls]

recent reads - july '23

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

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

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

poe dameron

alabanza*^~ - @brandyllyn [ao3]

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

din djarin

miscommunication*^~ - @ezrasbirdie [ao3]

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

henry cavill 

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

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

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

geralt z rivii

outlander*^~ - @leva [ao3]

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

kylo ren

cruel world*^~- @worm_girl [ao3]

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

[not reader-insert:]

reylo (my comfort ship)

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

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

bamon (TVD) (my other comfort ship)

spellbound*^~ - @ladyloec

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

one-shots (all are reader-inserts!)

moon boys

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

weightless~ (steven angst) - @m00nsbaby

call me* (feral!steven) - @writefightandflightclub

acts of service^ (marc fluff) - @ivystoryweaver

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

nathan bateman

indulge me* - @leoluved

poe dameron

wasted on you*^ - @campingwiththecharmings

blue jones

a long night** - @melodygatesauthor

beg** - @“”

santiago garcia

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

say my name*~ - @writefightandflightclub

threesome: santi x reader x frankie* - @youvebeenlivingfictional

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

miguel o’hara

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

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

surrender* - @romanarose

llewyn davis

anchor* - @bits-and-babs

ezra prospect

darkness* - @ezrasbirdie

joel miller

what comes after*~ - @softlyspector

frank castle

all up in smoke^ - @saintmurd0ck

raymond smith + tangerine x reader

who you belong to*~ - @youvebeenlivingfictional

#fic recs #recent reads #poe dameron #din djarin #the mandalorian #henry cavill #geralt z rivii #kylo ren #reylo #bamon #jake lockley #steven grant #marc spector #nathan batemant #blue jones #santiago garcia #miguel o'hara #llewyn davis #ezra prospect #joel miller #frank castle #raymond smith #tangerine #series recs

[blue-sadie]

.Marvel.Universe.

Request Page

Platonic = 🌼 Fluff = 🌺 Smut =🌹 Lime =⚘️ Angst = 🥀 Yandere =🍁

Imagines

Temptation - Bucky 🌹

Khonsu's Turn - Khonsu 🌹

Gentle Touch - Loki 🌺

Sit Upon The Throne - Loki 🌹

Praises - Marc 🌹

Combos

After Class Punishments - Moon System 🌹

Reflections - Moon System 🌹

Incorrect Quotes

Crusty... What? - Bucky, Natasha

Drabbles

Oneshots

Drive On - Jake 🌹

Take A Breather - Miguel 🌹

Blood Flood - Peter 🌺

Combos

Save Him - Moon System 🥀🌺

Three For The Price Of One - Moon System 🌹

Series

Different Versions Oscar Isaac Characters: Moon System, Marcus, Shiv, Basil Stitt, Jonathan Levy, Llewyn Davis, William Tell, Cecil Dennis, Robbie Paulson, Outcome 3 (David), Santiago Gracia, Kane, Nathan Bateman, Leto Atreides, Poe Dameron, Peter Malkin, Bassam, Prince John, Orestes, Laurent Leclaire, Oscar Isaac

Modern Day

Medieval/Fantasy

Omegaverse

Crossovers

Preferences

Flashing Lights - Marc Spector, Jake Lockley, Peter Parker, Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes 🌺

Movie Marathon - Jake Lockley, Peter Parker, Pietro Maximoff, Bucky Barnes 🌹

NSFW and SFW Alphabet

Headcanons

Apologizing After A Fight - Moon System

Dating An Artist - Moon System

they accidentally hurt you when having a nightmare - Moon System

Them when Your On Your Period - Stephen Strange, Loki Laufeyson, Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers, Peter Parker

#marvel x reader #marvel imagine #marvel fluff #marvel #marvel smut #marvel fluff imagine #marvel fanfiction #marvel angst #marvel angst imagine #marvel smut imagine #marvel x you #marvel x y/n #marvel x reader smut #marvel x reader angst #marvel x reader fluff #marvel universe #marvel universe x reader

[my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction]

Fanfic Recs List!

(not necessarily written in November, but that’s when I read ‘em!)

🎀 - fluff ☔ - angst 🍑 - smut

🎀Soup (Llewyn Davis x GN!Reader) - @myfandomlikesandstories

🎀The Ferris Wheel (Steven Grant x Reader) - @soonknight

🎀Marc Spector, Jake Lockley and Steven Grant x male reader - @gatorbites-imagines

🍑Satisfactory Part 1 (Jake Lockley x Fem Reader) - @welcometostayingawake

🍑☔️Moonlight Serenade (Steven/Marc/Jake × Male!Reader) - @smallraindrops-blog

🍑MIRROR'S EDGE (Marc Spector/Steven Grant x f!reader) - @astroboots & @thirstworldproblemss

🍑Gold Skinned and Eager (Steven Grant x Reader) - @fettuccin-e

🍑Family Affair Jake Lockley x F!Reader - @bit-dodgy-innit

🍑"Touch yourself." (Steven Grant) - @kittyofalltrades

🎀I don't trust anyone else to take care of me like you (Marc Spector) - @softlybarnes

🎀Hugs & other things like Love (Jake Lockley x F!Reader) - @wysteria-clad

🎀Lucky To Be Yours (Marc Spector x Fem!Reader x Steven Grant) - @screwtodd-stevesherdaddynow

🍑Eager (Steven Grant x F!Reader) - @luke-o-lophus

🍑Yellow (Marc Spector x fem!Reader) - @romanarose

🎀come out (jake lockley x reader) - @eyelessfaces

🍑Unapologetic (Steven Grant x F!Reader) - @villainvindicator

🍑Moonlight (Steven Grant x F!Reader) - @softlybarnes

🎀 Date Night (Steven Grant x GN!Reader) - @midgardian-witch

🍑The Tour Guide (Steven Grant x Reader) - @howaboutcastiel

🎀☔️Through the looking glass (Nathan Bateman x GN!reader) - @writefightandflightclub

🍑 Insatiable (Poe Dameron x f!reader) - @dameronscopilot

🍑☔️ Untitled (Poe Dameron x f!reader) - @dameronscopilot

🎀☔️Survive Now, Then Flirt (Poe Dameron x GN!Reader) - @flightlessangelwings

🎀orange (poe dameron x reader) - @eyelessfaces 🎀☔️neurotic mess (poe dameron x reader) - @eyelessfaces

🍑Full (Santiago "Pope" Garcia x reader) - @romanarose

🍑Mine. (Santiago "Pope" Garcia x F!Reader) - @burstanddecay

🎀TERMS OF ENDEARMENT (santiago x frankie x f!reader) - @astroboots

🎀countdown (Santiago “Pope” Garcia x Reader) - @milllenniawrites

🍑trust me (Santiago “Pope” Garcia x F!Reader) - @poedameronscopilot

🍑Body Worship (William Tell x GN!Reader) - @eroticandawkward

#fanfic #fanfic recommendations #fanfic recs #moon knight #steven grant #marc spector #jake lockley #llewyn davis #poe dameron #santiago pope garcia #nathan bateman #william tell #oscar isaac #oscar isaac characters

[bits-and-babs]

War Cry || Llewyn Davis x Reader

-> Rating: 18+

-> WordCount: 10.7K!!!!

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

Gif Credit doesn’t belong to me!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Masters of War.”

____________________________________________

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

”… the death planes

You that build all the bombs

You that hide behind walls

You that hide behind desks

I just want you to know

I can see through your masks”

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

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

“You that never done nothin'

But build to destroy

You play with my world

Like it's your little toy

You put a gun in my hand

And you hide from my eyes

And you turn and run farther

When the fast bullets fly.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What is your name?!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll do it.”

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

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

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

“I’ll do it.”

____________________________________________

”Like Judas of old

You lie and deceive

A world war can be won

You want me to believe

But I see through your eyes

And I see through your brain

Like I see through the water

That runs down my drain.”

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

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

”You fasten all the triggers

For the others to fire

Then you sit back and watch

When the death count gets higher

You hide in your mansion

While the young people's blood

Flows out of their bodies

And is buried in the mud.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hmm?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“C’mon Mercy! We’re headed out!”

____________________________________________

”You've thrown the worst fear

That can ever be hurled

Fear to bring children

Into the world

For threatening my baby

Unborn and unnamed

You ain't worth the blood

That runs in your veins.”

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

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

”How much do I know

To talk out of turn

You might say that I'm young

You might say I'm unlearned

But there's one thing I know

Though I'm younger than you

That even Jesus would never

Forgive what you do.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Uprising.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You could have married him then and there.

____________________________________________

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A dental assistant.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Is Llewyn Davis asking you to fucking kiss him?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

____________________________________________

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She looked so much like her father.

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

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

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

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

“Let me ask you one question

Is your money that good?

Will it buy you forgiveness

Do you think that it could?

I think you will find

When your death takes its toll

All the money you made

Will never buy back your soul

And I hope that you die

And your death will come soon

I'll follow your casket

By the pale afternoon

And I'll watch while you're lowered

Down to your deathbed

And I'll stand over your grave

'Til I'm sure that you're dead.”

END

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[eyelessfaces]

thunder only happens when it's raining

llewyn davis x reader

summary: you never expected a stormy night in greenwich village to bring things back to you, but when llewyn comes at your door for shelter you believe that bad weather might not be so negative after all.

warnings: angst, allusions to past sex

tags: gn!reader, their relationship is complicated, llewyn is insecure and believes he doesn't deserve good things, good ending dw

word count: 1.5k

The structure of your bed creaked as you turned around, the sound going unnoticed as a thunder clap loudly snapped at the same time. You swore it had made your poor window shake. It had to be close for it to be that violent.

You couldn’t sleep. You had gotten to bed what– two hours ago? And you couldn’t sleep. You were tired but your thoughts refused to quiet down and of course the thunder wasn’t of any help.

You turned around in your bed for what felt like the hundredth time tonight and laid on your back. The ceiling was faintly lit up every time a flash of lightning struck, quickly followed by the rumbling sound. 

You tiredly closed your eyes, trying to focus on the somewhat relaxing sound of the pouring rain, just trying to imagine what it looked like out there on the street. 

How the rain splashed against the concrete, how it ran down the awnings of store fronts, what funky and broken shapes the lightnings took, if they looked like that crack in the mug your mother had gifted you for one of your birthdays, the sound of cars passing by too fast and the sharp sound of tires against the water on the road.

Your breath thickened, your heartbeat slowed down and you could feel it– haziness taking over your body and finally welcoming you into what the dead of the night was made for.

Until your doorbell fucking rang. 

Sure you were of good help to Mrs Edwards; she was an old woman whose son could not afford sending her to a retirement home so you did what you could to give a hand– but past midnight? There were limits to your kindness.

You sat on the edge of your bed, sighing as you pinched the bridge of your nose in frustration. You grabbed and put on the cardigan resting at the top of your clothes chair and joined your entry, deciding to keep the door chain locked before opening the door, assuming that you would just decline whatever request was on the other side of the door if it wasn’t important enough and go back to bed immediately after.

When you opened the door you had hoped it wouldn’t be important enough. You had hoped and you had wanted it not to be important enough.

“Fuck” you hissed, rolling your eyes when you saw the familiar face at your door.

“Baby– please” Llewyn bargained, and you chuckled at the nickname. 

How dare he. 

“Don’t bullshit me and keep your little names to yourself Llewyn.” you spat, closing the door and immediately hearing a sigh at the other side of it.

“Come on please.” he pleaded. “It’s pouring out there. Last time I saw a rain like that I was still with merchant marines.” 

“Yeah well last time I saw you it was still summer and you were clean shaven.” you snickered.

He sighed and closed his eyes, resisting the urge to just put on a show and go as far as getting on his knees. He knew he had fucked up and he knew you were resentful so it was going to be a pain and a long journey to get your trust back.

“Look– I’m sorry. I know it’s been long. I really need a place to stay tonight and you’re my last hope and I knew you’d be awake. Please” he asked, his voice muffled.

“I was just falling asleep when you rang.” you chuckled sarcastically.

He muttered a quick “shit” under his breath and came to the conclusion that he would have to turn around and already leave the building. 

You cursed under your breath, bringing a hand to your forehead in despair, and quickly fumbled with the door chain before opening the door.

Llewyn raised his eyebrows in surprise, and you rolled your eyes and made way for him to get inside. 

“Thank you. Thank you dove” he said as he came inside and put his stuff down next to the couch. 

“How’d you get inside the building” you asked as you sat down on the couch, trying to redirect the conversation and trying to shrug off the fact that the pet name made your heart ache.

He frowned slightly. “You gave me the code to the intercom… And even your keys, remember” he said as he took off his drenched coat.

“Oh yeah of course.” you muttered, putting your forehead against the palms of your hands, remembering that it was how close you used to be. “Yeah.” you nodded, biting your lip as a nervous reflex. If only you could punch him, or kiss him, but you couldn’t decide which one you’d rather do or both, and in what order you would do it. 

“Figured you’d be mad if I used my key and you woke up to me sleeping on your couch unannounced. Are you mad at me?” he asked, and you closed your eyes when you noticed the audacity he had to ask that question. “–for distancing myself” he added when he saw you weren’t replying.

“I know why I’m mad at you.” you snapped, looking up at him. “Goddammit Llewyn I haven’t seen you in two months!” you whisper-shouted, trying not to wake up the entire building.

“I know,” he hissed. “I’m sorry. I had things to figure out on my own.” he said as he plopped down next to you on the couch.

“Jesus we– we went from sleeping together every week and practically living together to–” you searched for your words but your emotions denied you the favor of seeming composed. “To you leaving one day without a word and not coming back.”

He had woken up next to you in your bed, your head resting over his chest, mouth slightly opened, breathing steadily. You looked so peaceful, and the way the 10am ray of sunshine embraced your naked figure made you look like a painting. It hit him all at once; he couldn’t stay.

You deserved better than him– he knew he was in love with you and he had to run away. For your own good; he had nothing good to provide you, on the contrary.

Llewyn winced and sighed in shame.

“I fucked up, I know” he muttered as his hand rested on your back. “I’m sorry, okay?”

You sighed and leaned to rest your head over his shoulder. Because even if you were mad at him you still had missed him and you were glad that he was back.

“Fuck you Llewyn Davis” you mumbled, like a child that had just been caught doing something they’re not supposed to do. He chuckled before leaving a kiss at the top of your head. “I have your fucking toothbrush here, if it means anything to you.”

He licked his lips and nodded, what you couldn’t see because you were fiddling with your own hands.

“It does. I guess I got scared and felt obliged to fuck it up like I do with every good thing happening to me” Llewyn was so used to failure and bad luck that he wasn’t sure if he could actually handle anything good happening to him. “I’m sorry. I mean it”

You sighed for the hundredth time tonight and shifted so your head could rest over his lap. He looked down and softly smiled at you, and he felt his heart sink when you took his hand in yours and tangled your fingers together. You were mad he had left but the relief of him coming back to you felt stronger. Even if it was for shelter. 

“So… what’s with the beard?” you asked, reaching for his face with your free hand and kneading your fingers against the short facial hair.

“Can’t put my hands on a razor as often as I used to be able to.” he shrugged. 

You hummed in response.

“I like it. It looks good on you. You look good.”

“Thank you angel” he weakly smiled at you.

You smiled and closed your eyes, just appreciating the relaxing silence mixed with the outside sounds of rain and storm. He rested his head against the back of your couch and just watched the reflection of the flashes of lightning, still holding your hand.

“Alright” you said opening your eyes and standing up from the couch. “I’m gonna go to bed or I’m just gonna fall asleep on your lap” you declared before a yawn escaped your mouth.

“I wouldn’t mind baby” he smirked as he reached for the blanket folded over the back of your couch.

You chuckled and smiled at him.

“Llewyn you– You don’t have to take the couch.” you nodded pinching your lips. He stopped his action and looked back at you, freezing like a deer in the headlights. “Come on… come to bed.” you pleaded, your heart aching as the words left your mouth. “And don’t leave in the morning. Stay with me.”

A sigh of relief left your mouth when he crashed into your arms with apologies mumbled over and over again into your neck, your arms enveloping him as your fingers ran through his damp curls. 

“I’ve only felt truly comfortable here with you” he whispered, face buried at the juncture between your neck and shoulder. 

“Then stay here with me, and stop running away”

Maybe he deserved this. Maybe he could allow you to be the only good thing in his life.

—

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[mochimoqa]

Helping out

Llewyn Davis x Gn!Reader

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

(Imagine him checking you out like this OML 🤭)

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

Y'know, just getting the day over with.

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

"What the...?"

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

"Hello? Is someone okay?"

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

Your eyes widened.

"Oh my god- Are you okay!?"

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

"Are you okay?"

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

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

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

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

He sighs and nods.

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

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

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

"I never really asked what your name was."

"It's Llewyn, Llewyn Davis."

"Then Llewyn, how did this happen?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Aww... thanks..."

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

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

You blush and smile lightly at him.

"I promise..."

Holy cow, this was a tough one to do 😭

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

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

#♡mochimoqa♡ #llewyn davis #inside llewyn davis #oscar issac characters #oscar issac imagine #oscar isaac characters #oscar isaac

[glimeres]

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wait a minute...

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

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

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

I gues the whole point of this post...

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

#this post has been brought to you by a bottle of wine #greek mythology #ancient greece #odyssey #joel coen #ethan coen #o brother where art thou #broadway #epic: the musical #musicals #hadestown #the lightning thief #musical #.txt #posted

[loud-mouth-loser]

don't let go

summary: your ex needs somewhere to stay for the night

pairing: llewyn davis x reader

rating: angst

warnings: angsty-angst, cursing, kissing, mentions of cheating

word count: 1.5k

-=+=-=+=-=+=-=+=-

Your body seizes up at the sound of the buzzer. You already know who it is. It is futile to ignore, but you still try your best, reading each word in your novel a little more intensely than necessary. 

By the way the rings keep rolling in, it’s obvious that he saw you were home from your lamp’s glow outside your window. You groan at yourself as you slowly walk to the intercom next to the door, cringing as he presses the ringer again. 

The worn button is slammed down with your index knuckle and you take a deep breath before speaking.

“Hello? Who is it?” There’s always a chance it could be someone else, but it rarely is. 

“It’s–uh, me, Llewyn.” You roll your eyes, knowing exactly how this will play out. 

“No.” 

“Wait-please, don’t hang up. I just-I really need a place to stay tonight, then I’ll be out of your life forever. Promise.”

“Llewyn,” You sigh, hating how he keeps dragging you into his problems. “You said that three sleepovers ago.”

“I know, but you’re…you’re all I have left, baby.” His voice is quieter. You could imagine him slouched into himself with desperation. You let out an irritated grunt at his words. 

“Don’t-You can’t call me that, Llew…” You’re beating yourself up at what a pushover you are. At this point, this whole exchange is just foreplay for what’s to come. It happens every time. “Fine. Just tonight…And you’re taking the couch.” You reluctantly buzz him in and mentally prepare yourself for the night. 

“Thank you, thank you, th-” He’s cut off by the beep inviting him in. 

—-

Llewyn used to be yours, like really yours. You were sure he’d be the one you’d marry, even with the small handful of dollars you had to your name. You had dated for a couple of years and moved in together for half that time. It certainly wasn’t domestic bliss, but you can’t expect that from a struggling musician. 

You’d work double shifts at the diner so he could follow his dream of being a music star. And it worked, for a while. But as you came home later and later, you saw each other less every day. 

And apparently, it got to him first because you caught him with your best friend Jean on your couch after a long day of slinging coffees. It didn’t make sense to you. Jean is married, Llewyn is leeching off of his long-time girlfriend, and you were funding his fantasy. Why would he do this to you?

Of course, you threw him out the next morning with his stupid guitar and scarf, telling him to get lost and never come back. And he didn’t for a while…well for a few months at least, then he came back asking to stay the night. 

You should’ve said no. Should’ve stood your ground and punched him in the face through the damn speaker, but you excused the freezing weather for your heart-aching desperation to see him again. 

He always starts off on the couch, the squeaky springs screeching with every move of his body. You’d be pissed at the noise if you weren’t already struggling to sleep. He has you staring at the ceiling thinking about what he’s thinking about. 

When you had enough, you get up, quietly tip-toeing to the kitchen to grab a glass of water. It’s an excuse to see him, but he doesn’t need to know that. 

His eyes are staring straight up in front of him, tangling and detangling thoughts around his head until he hears a floorboard creak from under you. He doesn’t make a move, waiting for you to initiate an interaction. 

You stand next to the counter, hip popped out to comfortably support your weight as you look at him. The eye contact is suffocating and you know he feels it too. He plays with his hands over the scratchy flannel blanket you shoved in his arms when he walked in. How can he look so adorable, yet be such an asshole? 

You swallow the rest of the water and drop the glass in your sink, looking back up at him. His large brown eyes look up from his lap and send you an inquiry, one that makes you want to melt through the floorboards. 

Your brain scrambles to hold you back from what you’re about to do. Nails pricking at your palms as your hands clench to your side. Just one night, you tell yourself, brushing off any regrets you know you’ll have in the morning. 

You send him a small nod before walking back to your room, leaving the door open as you climb back under the covers and wait. You pull on the delicate beaded string of your bedside lamp, turning it off and letting the city lights from your window illuminate small squares around your room.

Before long, his shadow takes up the doorway and he nervously looks around your room, waiting for you to tell him what to do next. His eyes look at all the spots where his things used to sit now replaced with random trinkets you forced yourself to buy to replace everything that reminded you of him. His white undershirt pulls against his broad shoulders, magnified by his tense posture. 

“Come here, Llew.” 

He slowly walks to the other side of your bed and sits on top of the covers, stiffly placing his hands on his lap, not knowing what to do with his body. He looks down at you over his shoulder, refusing to turn his whole body to face yours. He almost looks scared, like you’re about to yell at him for breaking a vase or something. 

You glare right back up at him in annoyance. He’s the one making this more awkward than is needed. He can’t seem to hold any type of eye contact after your interaction in the living area. 

“What’s, um, happening?” His voice is so small, almost endearing, but that’s not what you want right now. You push yourself onto your knees so your face is level with his and grab his stupidly perfect jaw with one hand, making him freeze up. You were never the one to take control like this during your relationship. 

You could feel the softness of his thick beard under your fingers and it pisses you off for some reason. Despite everything, you could still see the adoration in his eyes begging you to pull him in closer. 

“I… fucking… hate you, Llewyn.” Your eyes bore into his, sending the message straight into his soul. The words are sharply enunciated to communicate the amount of ire your hold for him. His face drops into a frown, not expecting the malice that drips off your tongue.

You take a quick glance at his mouth and slam your lips onto him, not waiting for him to react before climbing onto his lap. Your contradictory actions confuse him, but he responds to you immediately like a practiced move. 

He quickly holds on to your hips and pushes your body closer to him, leaning deeply into the kiss. He groans out at the intensity of your actions, melting at the familiarity of your heat. 

You can barely hold yourself together as the rumble of his voice gasps out your name. You didn’t realize how real this would feel. How much you missed him. You feel your eyes begin to sting with tears as your throat tightens to hold back a sob. 

“Don’t talk.” You manage to get it out without breaking down, but he catches the waver of your voice. Llewyn pulls back and cradles your face in his hands, passing his calloused finger against your cheeks, inviting your tears to breach the dam you’ve held up for months. 

“Oh, honey.” He kisses each tear away, misty sad eyes pouring into yours as if he could possibly know how you are feeling right now. You frantically shake your head, pushing his hands off of your face. This isn’t how tonight is supposed to go.

“Please stop.” You sound defeated. You’ve lost the fight against yourself and you know that all you need is to be held, to be loved. You sit on his lap, taking deep breaths to calm down, resting your forehead against his chest, letting this silent moment caress the two of you. 

“Can we just pretend like I’m yours? Just for tonight?” The words are weakly whispered and bounced back to yourself. You can’t see his face but you feel his heartbeat thumping hard against you, warming his body, and in turn, yours. 

He hums softly, taking you back into his arms, squeezing you tightly. His other hand brushes through your hair, something he used to do whenever you were having a blue day. It felt good, like reliving a memory. 

“I love you.” He whispers it onto the top of your head, breathing you in, thinking this would be the last time he’d get you like this. The last time you’d be his. 

“I know.” 

It wasn’t.

#llewyn davis #llewyn davis x reader #llewyn davis x you #llewyn davis angst #inside llewyn davis #oscar issac #oscar issac x reader #oscar issac x you #oscar issac angst #steven grant #marc spector #jake lockley

[clonecaptains]

YA GIRL MET OSCAR!!!! i still can’t believe this is real?! that i can make this post?? meeting him was a dream come true. if y’all know me, you know ive been wanting to meet him for years. he’s as handsome and adorable irl as you imagine AND he’s an absolute sweetheart. so kind and warm. SO HAPPY AND SMILEY!!

when he signed my llewyn davis vinyl :’) i told him i couldn’t possibly thank him for what he’s done for me. esp playing characters that deal with mental health. he thanked ME and he said my name over and over and i couldn’t help but tell him i love him just one more time. i shook his hand :’) and i’ll never forget what it was like to look him in the eye !

(i also got a moon knight tattoo on this day - but i will post those photos when it heals)

PLS DO NOT REPOST TO INSTA OR TWITTER

#taylor talks #oscar isaac #nycc #ft* #i literally?? i can’t believe this is real

[geo-winchester]

300 FOLLOWERS

So this celebration turns in another celebration, I found out I reach the 300 followers I’m really thankful for everyone who read my stories and shared them, thank you so much! Thank you to everyone who send me a request, im working on them.

So my ask still open for your request, and you can send me request for the post of my tumblr birthday or of this one:

1. Forced proximity

2. Romance prompt starters

3. Prompt list #2

If you have any requests of the characters that I write for with the prompt you want! And again Thank you so much for follow me!

ASK ME

#poe dameron x reader #poe x reader #poe dameron imagine #poe dameron x solo!reader #marc spector x reader #steven grant x reader #jake lockley x reader #jonathan levy x reader #william tell x reader #llewyn davis x reader #nathan bateman x reader #santiago x reader #santiago garcia x reader #santiago pope garcia x reader #duke leto atreides #leto atreides x reader #taron egerton x reader #eggsy unwin x reader