Discover Top Posts Tagged with #inside llewyn davis

guitar string scar

pairing: older! Llewyn Davis x male! reader

summary: You were failing guitar classes. Not because you couldn’t play. You could… sort of. But every Tuesday and Thursday your brain short-circuited the moment your hot teacher Mr. Llewyn Davis walked in. You spent more time memorizing the way his fingers moved on the fretboard than actually learning the chords. When he noticed how badly you were struggling in the group lessons, he offered something different: private sessions at his house. Just you, him, and the guitar. Ok and maybe his cat, Ulysses.

tags: mdni (18+). teacher/student relationship. unspecified age gap. music metaphors. mutual pining. praise kink. lap sitting. making out. teacher is a gentle and attentive dom. blowjobs. fingering. switching. fluff and smut. size kink (can you imagine an oscar character not having a big cock? i cant). calloused hands touching the reader. aftercare.

wordcount: 5,5k

a/n: this one is dedicated to the anon who said they enjoyed my Oscars text. this is my way of giving Llewyn Davis an ending where he turns to teaching and is no longer sad... and a different meaning for the title "Inside" Llewyn Davis

Every Tuesday and Thursday you sat in that stale band room with other students and your brain short-circuited the second he walked in…. Mr. Llewyn Davis. Black tshirt, worn jeans, that salt-and-pepper beard, and the way he moved like the whole world was just background music.

You spent half the class memorizing the way his fingers slid along the fretboard, the shift of muscle in his arm when he demonstrated a lick, the low rumble of his voice when he said things like “That’s the spirit guys”.

By the time you remembered you were supposed to be playing, everyone else had already moved on.

Your teacher noticed.

After the third week of you butchering the same four chords, he caught you at the end of class while the others packed up.

“You got a minute?”

You nodded, stomach tight.

He waited until the room emptied, then leaned against the desk, arms crossed. You noticed that eveytime he was being serious he would put his long hair behind his ear.

“Hey… I’ve seen you trying your best” he said and reached out and rested a hand on your shoulder, the weight of it was careful, making sure you were safe “What’s going on? You get stage fright in the group, or something else?”

You shrugged. It wasn’t exactly a lie, but it wasn’t the truth either.

“Look, some kids just don’t open up in a crowd. Nothing wrong with that. I’ve got space at my house on Wednesdays. Just you, me, and the guitar. We can take it slower, work on things without everybody watching.” He smiled a little, the corner of his beard twitching. “Might help you focus.”

Your heart kicked hard. You should have hesitated. Instead you heard yourself say, “Yeah… okay…. thanks Mr Llewyn”

So now here you were.

Sheet music was stacked crooked on top of a upright piano at your teachers living room when you walked in. It was every musician's paradise.

"Grab a chair," he said, nodding at the table. He was already tuning, one boot up on the rung of his own chair, guitar resting easy against his knee.

“I, uh… I practiced alone in my room until midnight,” you admitted. It sounded dumb the second it left your mouth.

“That’s what I thought.” He set the guitar down and leaned forward on his elbows, looking straight at you. “Some kids need quiet. Nothing wrong with that.”

"I'm just not that good," you said, too fast.

"Says who?"

"I don't know. Me."

"Play me something. Whatever you've been working on." he says giving you a small encouraging smile

Your hands were already betraying you. You made it maybe eight bars before the chord change slipped and the notes scattered. Heat crawled up your neck.

“Keep going,” he said, voice easy, like you hadn’t just butchered it. “You kept the rhythm going even when the change slipped, most beginners freeze up completely.”

“I messed it up.”

“Everybody messes it up. That’s the whole damn thing.” He leaned back, fingers drumming once on the body of his guitar. “Jimi Hendrix wasn’t born knowing how to set his Strat on fire. You think Clapton sounded like that first time he picked up a guitar? Hell no.”

You wondered if he’d noticed how your eyes kept drifting to the way his biceps shifted under the sleeves of that black shirt when he played or the silver in his beard.

“Besides… I figured if I got you away from the crowd, you might stop staring at my hands long enough to actually play a chord.”

He did.

Your face burned. “I…I was just trying to follow what you were doing,” you stammered, the excuse sounding weak even to you. “To learn the fingerpicking and… stuff.”

“Relax, kid. I’ve been doing this a long time. We’ll work on the guitar first… then maybe we’ll work on that focus problem of yours.”“

He nodded toward your guitar. “Now. From the top. And breathe.”

You tried again. Slower. It was better. at least the rhythm didn’t completely fall apart.

“Eyes on your fingers, not on me, kid. the guitar's not gonna learn itself”

You nodded quickly, cheeks still hot, and tried to focus. He leaned forward and tapped the headstock of your guitar.

“Drop D,” he reminded you.

Your fingers fumbled. They wouldn’t obey.

Professor Llewis just watched you, calm, like he had all the time in the world.

“Easy”

Before you could overthink it, Mr. Llewyn Davis set his own guitar aside and patted his thigh. “C’mere, kid. Sometimes you just need to feel it.”

Your brain went blank, but your body moved anyway. He guided you gently onto his lap, reached around, lifted your guitar, and settled it properly across your lap so the body rested against your thigh and his. His arms came around you.

“Follow my lead, okay?” His voice was low right by your ear. “Touch where I touch. Play how I play.”

His callused hands cupped yours, left hand over your fret hand, right hand guiding your picking fingers.

Your skin was still soft against his rough and experienced grip.

You could feel the raised guitar string scar on the back of his right hand.

“Yeah, that’s from a G-string that snapped on me in ’98. Came back and bit me good during a gig. You play long enough, you’ll have your own war stories. Little badges of honor.”

He adjusted your fingers on the fretboard, pressing them down into a clean Drop D chord with his own. “There. Feel that? Not too much pressure. Let the strings do the work.”

You tried to focus on the strings, on the vibration traveling up through the body of the guitar, on keeping your shoulders down the way he showed you.

But it was almost impossible.

All you could register was the heat of his chest against your back, the way his beard brushed your temple when he leaned in to check your left-hand position, and how perfectly his fingers guided yours across the frets.

Your hands were still shaky, but they were following his fingers now, learning the shape of the music through his touch.

The music came easier.

Your back rested more naturally against his chest. He must have felt it too, because his grip softened, still guiding but no longer correcting every tiny movement.

“Look at you, you’re relaxing into it now. I knew you could. Keep that wrist loose… yeah, just like that. Beautiful.”

“Not bad. Not bad at all.” Mr. Davis hummed low in approval. His voice carried that slight rasp, the gravel earned from decades of smoky bars and late-night gigs.

He gave your hands one last encouraging pat, then gently shifted you so he could stand. He crossed the room to a wooden shelf packed with records and pulled out a well-worn sleeve.

“I’ll put on some Bob Dylan, Maybe it will inspire you.” he said, sliding the vinyl from its jacket with practiced care. The needle dropped with a soft crackle, and soon that familiar harmonica and guitar filled the room.

Mr. Llewyn Davis came back and settled behind you again, pulling you carefully against his chest like he wanted you to feel safe.

“Leonard Cohen was like that too, you know. Could barely play more than a few chords, but the second he hit that first one you always knew exactly which song was coming. That’s all you really need sometimes.”

“You can do this too. You’re already doing it. You’re just a little nervous right now, that’s all.”

“…What’s got you so nervous, kid?” he asked after a beat, voice low and kind. “Is it the playing? Or is it something else?”

You stayed quiet, heart hammering too hard to answer.

The words wouldn’t come.

He didn’t push. Instead he let the silence sit for a second.

“Alright,” he said, tone shifting back to something lighter, almost playful. He nodded toward the dreadnought resting against the couch. “You are a Gibson boy, aren’t ya?”

You swallowed “More like a Fender boy.”

Mr. Davis let out a short, warm laugh that you felt against your back. “Fender boy. Christ.” He shook his head “we’ll fix that. Can’t have you sounding all thin and twangy forever.”

He gave you one last gentle squeeze before standing up “Come on. Let’s go upstairs. I’ve got a few guitars up there. You can pick up anything you like.”

The room upstairs was beautiful, you couldn’t believe it. a half-dozen guitars resting on stands. a couple of older acoustics that looked like they had stories.

it is nice to see your teacher outside the rehearsal room. It feels personal.

“Take your time,” he said softly, watching you with quiet pride. “Whatever speaks to you.”

You wandered slowly and then pointed to a beautiful dark cherry red acoustic guitar on the corner. Subtle wear on the body from years of playing.

“Good eye,” Mr. Davis said

He picked it up and handed it to you. You sat on the edge of a worn leather chair, but when you tried a couple of chords the strings were noticeably out of tune.

“Here, let me tune her for you,” he said, taking the guitar back with careful hands.

He settled on the chair across from you and began tightening the pegs. You watched the way his scarred fingers moved with practiced ease.

Then a sharp PING

the high E string snapped suddenly, whipping back with a loud crack.

“Damn,” He shook his hand once where the broken string had grazed him and gave you a reassuring grin. “Happens to the best of us. This old girl hasn’t been played much lately. My fault for not checking her first.”

He set the guitar down gently and looked at you “We’ll put fresh ones on together. Sound good?”

You nodded.

Mr. Llewyn Davis stood up and squeezed your shoulder on his way out.

While he was gone you couldn’t stop staring at the guitar collection and the spot where he’d been sitting. You kept replaying the way his black t-shirt had pulled across his chest, the flex of his forearm when he handled the guitar, the low rasp of his voice. You wondered what it would feel like if he never put distance between you again, if those callused hands stayed on you instead of the strings…

When he came back, you watched him the way you always did… too attentive.

Instead of sitting across from you again, he lowered himself onto the wide arm of your leather chair, close enough that his thigh pressed lightly against your shoulder.

He opened the pack of strings slowly, then caught the edge of the plastic with his teeth and tore it open.

“You know…I’ve seen the way you look at me during lessons.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

He didn’t sound upset. If anything, his tone stayed gentle “It’s alright, boy. You don’t have to hide it from me.” He pulled out a new high E string and began threading it through the bridge with steady hands.

“…You can talk to me. Or we can just keep playing. Whatever you need.”

He leaned in a little closer, carefully looping the string around the tuning peg, his arm brushing yours. “How’s that sound?”

You swallowed… the closeness, the rasp in his voice, the way he was making space for whatever you might say…it all made the words feel both possible and terrifying.

“…I… I like looking at you,” you managed, quiet. “A lot more than I should…”

Mr. Davis’s hands paused for a moment on the peg. He set the guitar carefully aside, then shifted off the arm of the chair and sat right beside you, thigh against thigh. “You can feel safe here.”

He reached over and rested his hand lightly on your knee.

“What do you like to look at?” he asked

You were nervous, heat already climbing your neck, but the quiet permission in his tone made the words come out anyway.

“The way you play,” you said. “H-how your fingers move on the fretboard. And… your biceps when the guitar’s on your lap. Y-your hands. Your long hair…Your beard….”

A warm smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Oh yeah?” He caught your hand carefully and lifted it, guiding your fingers to his jaw. The short, salt-and-pepper beard was softer than it looked. He pressed your palm against it, letting you feel the texture. “You like my beard?”

“Y-yeah…”

He covered your hand with his own, holding it there, warming it. You felt the contrast immediately, his calluses against your skin. The fingertips of his fretting hand were slightly yellowed, the pads flattened and worn-smooth from years of strings, the kind of hands that no longer felt the sting.

“Is this okay?” he asked, still attentive, still giving you every chance to pull away.

“...Y-Yeah…”

He covered your hand with his own, holding it there for a moment, then slowly guided it away. Instead he laid his palm flat against the center of your chest, feeling the rapid thud beneath your shirt.

“Your heart’s going like a train,” he murmured “I like the rhythm of it.”

Before you could answer he shifted, drawing you carefully onto his lap the way he once guided your hands on the guitar. Where the instrument usually rested, you were now. He leaned in and pressed his ear to your chest, listening.

Your fingers found their way into his long silver-streaked hair almost on their own, carefully stroking through the strands while he stayed there, breathing with you.

he sat back just enough to meet your eyes. Without a word he reached down, caught the hem of his black t-shirt, and pulled it off in one motion, tossing it aside. Bare skin, the solid line of his chest and shoulders…

He guided your hands to the bottom of your own shirt. You hesitated only a second, then lifted it over your head. The air between you felt charged as skin met skin. You were sitting fully on his lap now, bare chests pressed together, the heat of your teacher everywhere on your body.

His eyes stayed locked on yours while one of his callused hands settled at the small of your back, holding you there.

Your fingers stayed buried in his long hair, carefully threading through the silver-streaked strands as he pressed closer… The soft scrape of his beard brushed along the side of your neck, warm and rough at the same time…

He lingered there, breathing against your skin… Neither of you rushed. His hands moved with the same attentive care he used on the guitar… one at the small of your back, the other sliding up between your shoulder blades, pulling you flush against him until there was no space left. You felt every callus, every worn pad of his fretting fingers as they pressed into your bare skin…

Your faces hovered close, mouths almost touching, both of you breathing heavy. His eyes stayed on yours, checking, waiting, the heat in them unmistakable.

Then you got the courage to close the last inch.

The kiss was hot and wet from the first contact… slow at first, then deeper as he tilted his head and opened for you. Your guitar teacher’s beard scraped lightly against your chin while his tongue met yours… One of his hands slid higher into your hair, the other tightening at your back, pulling your bodies together hard enough that you could feel the solid strength of him.

You could feel the slight tremor in your own hands as they stayed buried in his hair, nerves still humming under your skin even as heat pooled low in your stomach. Professor Llewyn must have felt it too, because one of his hands slid up to cradle the back of your head, thumb stroking slow circles against your scalp in a quiet rhythm that said I’ve got you. No hurry.

“We go at your rhythm,” he said

You nodded, still nervous, but the careful way he held you made the nerves feel less like fear and more like something electric.

The leather of the chair creaked softly beneath you both. He broke the kiss only to trail his mouth lower, lips and the soft scrape of his beard finding the side of your neck. He kissed there slowly.

“I’ve seen you in classes,” he murmured against your throat “The way you sit, the way you try to concentrate…”

His mouth traveled lower still, across your collarbone, then down to your chest. He paused, checking your face once more, before closing his lips around one nipple. The wet heat of his tongue, the gentle pull, the faint drag of his beard against the sensitive skin made your breath hitch. He hummed in quiet approval when you arched into him, the vibration traveling straight through you.

“Your body is so beautiful…” your teacher praised softly, switching to the other side, licking and sucking with the same focused patience he gave a difficult chord.

The contrast of the wet heat of his tongue and the scratch of his beard on your skin was almost too much.

He gave you a small smile, then carefully shifted you just enough so he could stand. You watched as he unbuttoned his jeans and pushed them down, stepping out of them until he was left in only dark boxers.

“Fuck… those thighs” you thought

He let you look as long as you needed before sitting back down and guiding you onto his lap again.

This time there was almost nothing between you. He settled you close, the heat of his bare skin and the thin barrier of his boxers pressed against you. His hands returned to your back and the nape of your neck, pulling you in until your mouths met in a series of deep, wet kisses. His tongue guiding yours… His arms wrapped around you… it was too damn good to be true.

“Let’s get you out of these clothes,” he murmured, voice and rough like a blues riff after midnight. “Be naked with your teacher.”

His hands moved with the same careful attention he gave a new set of strings, sliding under the waistband of your pants, thumbs brushing the sensitive skin just above your hips as he waited for your nod. Once he had it, he eased the fabric down and off, taking your underwear with it, until you were bare in his lap.

He pulled you flush against him again, the thin cotton of his boxers the only thing left between you.

The picture of your clothes on the floor of your teacher room full of guitars suddenly feeling like the only place in the world that mattered.

His rough, callused hands began to move more freely over you now that you were bare in his lap. The pads of his fretting fingers traced slow paths down your spine…

When those hands reached the curve of your ass they settled there, squeezing gently. The contrast of his rough palms against your smoother skin made every touch feel sharper.

You could feel the individual calluses, your teachers worn-smooth fingerprints…

“That’s it,” he murmured against your mouth “Such a good boy”

One hand stayed on your ass, kneading slowly, pulling you tighter against the thin barrier of his boxers so you could feel his hard heat.

You were already so fucking hard. Nervous but fucking hard. It was impossible not to get excited with your teacher playing with your body the say you have seen he play with his instruments.

His rough hands kept roaming your back and ass, squeezing and stroking while the soft-rough drag of his beard trailed lower. He kissed down your chest…across your stomach and the edge of your hip until he was sliding off the chair and settling between your thighs on the floor.

He looked up at you, eyes dark and steady, checking one last time.

When you nodded, he leaned in and pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your thigh, beard scraping lightly against the sensitive skin.

Then he took you in hand, stroking once with those callused fingers before guiding the head of your cock to his lips.

“Fuck… look at you,” he murmured

He licked a broad, wet stripe from base to tip, then took the head into his mouth, tongue swirling slowly. The heat and wetness made your hips twitch.

One of his hands stayed wrapped around the base, the other slid down into his own boxers. You watched him palm himself through the fabric, then push them lower so he could stroke his cock in the same slow rhythm he used on you…. deliberate pulls while he worked his mouth up and down your length.

“Come here,” he shifted onto his back on the wide leather chair, then carefully turned, lifting his hips and presenting himself to you… ass up, thighs spread, the solid curve of him offered without hesitation.

You were nervous. Hands a little unsteady as you lined yourself up but his guidance was patient. One of his hands reached back to hold himself open for you while the other stayed on your hip, encouraging you.

When the head of your cock pressed against him, the first push was slow. His body yielded carefully, the tight heat of him surrounding you inch by inch. It felt like velvet, impossibly soft. So fucking delicious.

You sank in deeper, the drag of him around you almost overwhelming.

“Fuck… yes,” your teacher groaned

You bottomed out, hips flush against the firm curve of his ass, and stayed there for a moment, breathing hard. His beard brushed the leather of the chair as he turned his head to look back at you “You can move… give me more… I want it.”

You started slow, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in, feeling every inch of that heat.

“hmmhmmm… just like that. fuck, your cock feels incredible”

His hands gripped the edge of the chair, body rocking back to meet you. Every time you pushed in, he clenched around you just a little, encouraging,, making sure you knew exactly how much he wanted you Inside.

the way he kept pushing back onto your cock, the constant stream of praise… it all hit at once. You gripped his hips harder, fingers digging his skin.

The wet sound of your cock sliding in and out of him filled the room. Your balls slapping harder…

“Fuck yeahhhhhhh,” he groaned

You couldn’t believe it was real. Your teacher Mr. Llewyn Davis was on his back for you, ass up, taking every hard thrust like he needed it.

The way his body clenched and opened around you, the sight of his own cock hard and leaking beneath him… it was almost too much.

He was just as naughty as you were. One of his hands reached back to grab your thigh, pulling you deeper, while the other stroked his cock in time with your thrusts.

All the nights you spend touching yourself to the image you kept in your mind of your teacher lead to this.

You leaned over him, chest to his back, one hand sliding up into his long hair to hold him while you fucked him harder, the soft scrape of his beard against your wrist another constant reminder of exactly who was underneath you, moaning…

You slowed eventually, unable to control yourself… both of you were breathing hard. Your teacher turned carefully beneath you, guiding you back until you were sitting on the wide leather chair. Then he rose onto his knees between your spread thighs, still fully hard, his big cock impossible to ignore.

He leaned in first for a deep, wet kiss, the soft-rough scrape of his beard dragging across your cheek and jaw. One callused hand stroked your hip while the other reached down.

“let me take care of you” He spat into his palm, then pressed one rough finger against you, circling slowly before easing it inside.

The pad of his fretting finger felt thick and textured as it pushed deeper. He worked it carefully, watching your face the whole time, then added a second, scissoring gently, stretching you open with patient strokes.

“Can you take it? It’s going to hurt a little bit.” you knew he was asking you this because his size was too much for a tight ass like yours.

“Yeah… I can take it.”

He nodded, kissed the corner of your mouth, then withdrew his fingers. He stroked more spit over his cock, lined himself up, and pressed the thick head against you. The first push was slow…pretty slow… letting you feel everything…

He kept the thick head of his cock pressed right there, not pushing further yet, just letting you feel the heavy, blunt pressure against you.

“Breathe for me… good boy.”

When he finally began to push, the stretch hit immediately… a deep burning that radiated outward as the thick head forced you open. You could feel every millimeter of the flare of him, the way your body resisted at first, then slowly yielded under the steady pressure…

He stopped halfway, still only partially inside, and stayed there so you could feel it fully… the heavy weight of him spreading you, the slick heat, the relentless stretch that made your nerves light up…. His callused thumb stroked the inside of your thigh in slow circles….

“You’re doing so well. Just feel it…”

Teacher Llewis stayed patient, giving you every second you needed while the burn slowly softened into a deep fullness.Only when your breathing evened out did he push the rest of the way in… until his hips were flush against you and every thick inch of him was buried inside.

“Is this okay?”

“Yeah…”

He kissed you once, lips soft then slid his arms under your back and thighs. In one steady motion he stood, lifting you with him, still fully inside you.

The shift made the fullness even more overwhelming…. every step he took sent a deep, rolling pressure through you.

He carried you carefully out of the guitar room and down the short hall to his bedroom, pressing soft lingering kisses to your face the whole way, on your temple and the corner of your mouth… the strongs arms you’ve been staring at for months are now carrying you…

He lowered you onto his bed with the same care, never pulling out, settling you back against the sheets while he stayed deep inside.

“Fuck… you look so good here boy”

A soft meow came from the foot of the bed.

His orange cat Ulysses was curled on the blanket, watching them with mild interest. Mr. Davis glanced over and gave a quiet affectionate huff. “Off you go, Ulysses. We need the space.”

The cat stretched, hopped down with a soft thump, and trotted out of the room.

You couldn’t help the small and breathless smile that tugged at your mouth. it was unexpectedly cute, the way he talked to his cat even now.

He smiled back, just a little, then leaned down and kissed you again, still buried inside you.

He stayed deep inside you, letting you adjust to the heavy stretch, then carefully shifted both of you until you were sitting at the edge of the bed. He stood between your open thighs, still buried to the hilt, and leaned over you so your faces were only inches apart.

His eyes stayed locked on yours as he began to move.

The first slow pull-out made you feel every thick inch of him, the drag intense and overwhelming. When he pushed back in it was just as deep, filling you completely again.

“Look at me” he murmured “will you let your teacher teach you things?”

He thrust harder, the wet sound of him moving inside you filling the quiet bedroom. His eyes never left yours.

“That’s it… good boy. Taking your teacher’s cock so well.”

One of his hands slid between you to stroke your cock in time with his thrusts, the rough texture of his palm adding another layer of sensation while he kept fucking you at the edge of his bed, eye to eye, claiming you with every deep stroke.

“Good boy,” he praised, never looking away for you “You’re close. I can feel it. Don’t hold back. Come for your teacher.”

He fucked you harder, the bed creaking under the force of it, his beard scraping your cheek as he leaned in even closer. His hand on your cock never slowed, driving you past the point of control.

“Come on… give it to me.”

The moment you started to spill over his fist he groaned like he’d been waiting for exactly that…hips still slamming into you, eyes still locked on yours, riding every pulse of your orgasm while he kept stroking you through it.

You came in thick and pulsing waves while your teacher kept fucking you through it. every thrust forcing another rush of pleasure out of you.

Your cock spilled over his rough fist, coating his fingers. He loved it, licking your cum from his hands almost immediately, his eyes never left yours as he as feeling your flavor on his mouth.

His rhythm faltered. His grip on your hip tightened. A rough sound tore from his throat. “Fuck— I’m gonna come,” your teacher moaned “I’m gonna fill you up—”

He drove in hard one last time and stayed there, buried to the hilt as he came inside you. The first thick spurt hit deep, hot and sudden, flooding you with so much that you could feel the pressure of it immediately.

A deep broken groan left teacher Llewyn davis as he lowered his full weight onto you… pinning you to the mattress while his cock pulsed inside you.

You felt every heavy jet of cum filling you past what seemed possible. It was too hot. His chest pressed hard against yours, both of you breathing heavy, the sweat-slick heat of his skin and the soft-rough scrape of his beard against your cheek and neck grounding you while he kept emptying himself inside you. his muscles tensed and released with each new pulse of release.

your tight ass forced to stay open around the thick length of him while more and more cum flooded you.

He stayed locked deep, breathing hard against your neck and lifted his head just enough to find your mouth and kissed you… the soft-rough scrape of his beard brushed your chin and the corner of your lips with every small movement.

“Oh boy…” he murmured against your mouth “you’re gonna kill me” An almost disbelieving laugh left him as he kissed you again, softer this time.

and you could feel the change happening inside you. His cock, still deep, began to lose its hardness, the intense stretch easing… The wet heat of everything he’d left inside you stayed, but the solid pressure lessened until, with a slow andd natural slip, it started to pull out of you on its own. A warm rush of cum that followed as it slid out completely.

His stomach was still pressed close to yours, the two of you almost glued together by the cooling mess of your cum between you. He glanced at the sticky shine on both of you and gave a quiet, affectionate huff of laughter. “Looks like we made a bit of a mess”

He carefully rolled to the side, then guided you farther up the bed until your head rested on the soft pillows. Without a word he opened his arm in quiet invitation. You settled against him, cheek on his bare chest, and he pulled you in close.

His fingers drifted into your hair, stroking slowly, the same careful rhythm he used when he was teaching you a new fingerpicking pattern.

“Rest a little,” he said quietly. His arm stayed solid around you, holding you against him while the last of the adrenaline faded.

After a while he pressed one more slow kiss to the top of your head, then carefully eased out from under you. You watched him cross the room, completely unselfconscious in his bare skin, and pick up an old acoustic that had been leaning against the wall. He sat on the edge of the bed again, one leg folded under him, and settled the guitar across his lap the same way he had settled you earlier.

“We’re not done playing yet…. Now that we found your rhythm…” he said, voice a little rough, fingers already moving into a slow, dirty blues progression, “…time to turn this into music.”

He let the chord hang, then added a teasing little hammer-on that made the note bend just enough to sound filthy.

A soft mrrrow interrupted your teacher.

Ulysses had appeared in the doorway, tail high, and hopped lightly onto the foot of the bed. walked straight across the blanket, sniffed once at the guitar, then settled himself with clear ownership right against Mr. Davis’s bare hip.

The teacher looked down at the cat, then back at you, and gave a quiet, amused huff.

“Looks like Ulysses wants in on the session too,” he said, still playing that chord “Guess we’ll have to make room for the whole band.”

#inside llewyn davis

Trending Tags

Recently Viewed Tags

#inside llewyn davis