Aug 8
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waterloo to anywhere + a letter to love by caitlyn siehl
a little freedom gig mr. carlos sketch because its his birthday (happy birthday) and im sick and cant do better currently
hes so annoying i love him 😇 x
did you see the stylish kids in the riot? shovelled up like muck, set the late night on fire…
(young) graham coxon and carl barât i drew almost two months ago
Dirty Pretty Things
Eddie Munson x Fem Reader
Eddie Munson Fanfiction
Chapter 1. // Chapter 2. // Chapter 3. // Chapter 4. // Chapter 5. // Chapter 6. // Chapter 7. // Chapter 8.
Summary: This is the chapter where it shifts from desire to devotion. The walls finally come down. Eddie confesses how much this means, and you let him know you feel it too. The sex is soft, slow, and emotional—every thrust, every kiss, every word soaked in love neither of you knows how to say yet. But it’s there. And it’s real. And when he tells you that you feel like home, you realize he already is yours.
Author’s Note: This chapter… this chapter. It’s the one where lust meets love. Where Eddie stops hiding behind dirty talk and really lets you see him. The way he touches you here? It’s not just about getting off—it’s about feeling safe, held, and wanted in a way that breaks both of you. And yes, there’s still sex. But it’s different now. Filthy, yes—but emotional. Heavy. Real. Thank you for falling with me.
Word Count: 3,040 words
Disclaimer: 18+ Mature
Chapter 9.
Say It Like You Mean It
You don’t know how long you lay there afterward.
The room is still. Warm. Quiet except for the soft hum of the fan overhead and Eddie’s breathing against your neck. His arm is heavy over your waist, his chest pressed to your back, and his cock is still buried inside you, soft now—but he hasn’t moved. Not even a little.
You don’t want him to.
It feels like everything in the world is outside that room, and right now, you don’t care if it ever comes back in.
Then, softly, his voice:
“You feel like home.”
Your heart skips.
You turn your head slightly, just enough to see his eyes—wide open, staring at the ceiling like he can’t believe he said it out loud.
“Eddie…”
He blinks. “Fuck. Sorry. That was… dumb.”
“It wasn’t,” you whisper.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.
You reach up and gently touch his jaw, turning him to face you.
“Say it again.”
He swallows, voice rough. “You feel like home.”
You lean in, kiss him slow—soft, deep, meaningful.
And when you pull back, you rest your forehead against his and whisper, “Then let me stay.”
His whole body shudders.
You don’t say I love you.
Not yet.
But it’s in every kiss, every touch, every breathless sound he makes when you shift your hips and tighten around him again.
He pulls out slowly, gently, and you gasp at the loss—until he pushes you onto your back and moves between your thighs, mouth soft on your belly, your hips, your thighs.
“Wanna take my time this time,” he murmurs. “Wanna make you feel it.”
You’re already shaking when his tongue finds your clit—slow circles, then soft suction, then gentle flicks. He groans into you, like he can’t get enough, like tasting you is the only thing keeping him alive.
“Eddie,” you whisper, your hand in his hair. “Please…”
“Shhh,” he soothes, licking up your folds, teasing your entrance. “I got you.”
You come quietly this time. Moaning into your arm, legs trembling, cunt clenching, your thighs locked around his shoulders as he rides it out with you, licking until you’re whimpering from overstimulation.
He kisses up your body afterward, trailing warmth up your ribs, your breasts, your throat. When he gets to your mouth, you pull him in and kiss him like you’ll never get the chance again.
“Let me inside you,” he breathes. “Slow. Just once. Just like this.”
You nod, wrapping your legs around his waist, and he slides in with a low moan, forehead pressed to yours.
He starts moving—gentle, deep, tender.
No dirty talk this time.
No growling.
No teasing.
Just soft moans, slow thrusts, skin on skin, and fingers that never stop touching you.
“I’m scared,” he whispers, buried deep inside you.
You blink up at him. “Of what?”
“Of how much I fucking feel.”
Your heart cracks open.
“Me too,” you whisper.
He kisses you again. And again. And again.
You don’t rush. You don’t need to.
You make love.
Real, slow, consuming love.
You cry a little.
He does too.
And when you both come, it’s quiet. Shaky. Intense. Like the kind of orgasm that only happens when your heart’s in it.
After, he stays inside you, one hand on your heart, the other tangled in your fingers.
And for the first time, neither of you is scared of the silence.
look at what I found at the charity shop:
I don't know why it exists or where it's from
but I couldn't NOT get it
as, I suspect, the only person in quite a radius who
a) knows DPT
b) likes DPT and
c) is madly in love with Carl and expresses that by buying anything related to him
I simply had to. So I am now the proud owner of a vintage Y2K Dirty Pretty Things raincoat (?).
And now the question is: should I wear it to the Babyshambles gig??