#sorry if the volume is loud this is just what the animation app gives me

[cherryysocks]

average ethel cain listening experience..

[thekitsune]

MikaSasha Week Day 5 - Jealous Special Edition

Here’s my other submission today. This one is based off of @llamaalpacca ‘s submission for today. I hope everyone enjoys it!

Honestly, Sasha should have seen this coming. She loved her girlfriend, but she also knew that she didn't have a good childhood. Well, that's not completely right. She was traumatized as a child thanks to her parents' murder, but Levi gave her a nice home. Sasha has met her Uncle, and while he is a good man, he isn't one to give kids plushies like most other adults or show them much physical affection. When she became friends with Mikasa and hugged her for the first time, she was shocked at how touch starved the girl was.

So when they went on their first date a few weeks, she made it her mission to win her girlfriend the largest plushie they had as a gift to remember their date as well as give her a taste of what she missed out on as a child. The excitement and pure joy that radiated from Mikasa the rest of the night let her know that she did a good job.

Now, we come back to the beginning, why did she start rambling on about all this? Well, "Mikasa, you sure you don't want to cuddle tonight?" Sasha asked her girlfriend who was lying next to her...hugging the four foot stuffed panda that she won her like her life depended on it. Mikasa didn't reply as she continued hugging the plushie which caused Sasha to sigh. Glancing over at her phone, Sasha decided to let her friends know how she feeling.

Taking a quick pic, she went onto twitter and proceeded to post:

Ah, yes. Me. My girlfriend. And her four foot stuffed panda.

After uploading the post, Sasha rolled back over and stared at the ceiling. She missed cuddling with Mikasa at night. It always helped her sleep easier at night. Looking over, she saw her girlfriend sleeping peacefully while nuzzling her plushie. Sasha smiled lightly before slowing getting out of bed and walking into the living room of their apartment. She couldn't sleep so she was going to go ahead and grab a snack from the fridge. Maybe that will help her sleep.

Grabbing a snack cake, she walked over to the couch and sat down. Taking a bite out of the snack cake, she turned around and relaxed on the couch as she turned the television on. Keeping the volume low, she happily enjoyed the snack cake while watching some old anime that Mikasa doesn't enjoy watching with her. After finishing her food, she just decided to stay there until the episode finished. As the episode dragged on, Sasha realized something that she was trying to avoid.

"I really am jealous of a stuffed animal aren't I?" Sasha thought to herself with an annoyed look on her face before slowing fading away to sleep.

------

Mikasa yawned as she slowly opened her eyes. Spotting the panda that Sasha won her, she smiled before releasing it and rolling over to hug her girlfriend. She paused though when she realized the other half of the bed was vacant. Blinking in confusion, she sat up and got out of bed. Did Sasha already wake up?

Walking into the living room, she realized the TV was on so she grabbed the remote and turned it off...before realizing that Sasha was spread out on the couch, asleep. Blinking in confusion, she gently shook Sasha awake. "Sasha, Sasha, wake up. You're on the couch," Mikasa told her girlfriend as she continued gently shaking her.

Sasha groaned before slowly opening her eyes. "I'm up, I'm up," she forced out while rubbing her eyes. As the blur in her vision faded away, she saw Mikasa looking down at her in concern. "What's wrong? Did something happen? Are we out of food?!" Sasha shot up on the couch in shock which earned a small laugh from Mikasa.

Shaking her head, Mikasa now sat in the free space next to Sasha and wrapped her arm around her to pull her close. "No, we still have food. I just came in here, and I saw you sleeping on the couch. Are you okay? Why weren't you in bed? I remember us lying next to each other when I went to bed last night," Mikasa asked Sasha who froze up for a second before scratching the back of her head nervously.

"Oh, uh, I was hungry so I came in here for a snack. And I sat down on the couch to watch some anime while I ate. I must have fallen to sleep afterwards, ehehe," she laughed while glancing away which Mikasa easily spotted. Before she could question her further, she heard her phone 'ding' from a notification. Walking over to it, she saw it was a Twitter notification.

"Did you tag me in a post on Twitter last night?" Mikasa asked Sasha in confusion. Sasha narrowed her eyes as she tried to recall what she posted before they widened, and she shot off the couch to try and stop her girlfriend...only to trip over a pillow she knocked off of it in her sleep. By the time that she got back up, Mikasa had already opened the app and saw the post.

Looking at her nervously, Sasha tried to think of something to change the topic so they could forget about this, but..."While I am not happy that you posted a picture of me asleep in bed on Twitter for our friends to see...I'm more curious about the caption and your expression. Do you not like the plushie you won for me?"

Sasha looked down nervously. "It's not that I dislike it. I do like it, and I'm happy that you love it!" Sasha reassured Mikasa, "It's just...ever since I won it...we haven't cuddled in bed. I miss cuddling with you at night as we go to sleep."

Mikasa frowned lightly at this as she walked over to Sasha and placed her hand on her shoulder, "You could have told me."

Sasha let out a light laugh, "Tell you what, that I'm jealous of the plushie I won for you? It sounds kind of pathetic, right?"

Mikasa rubbed the back of the arm. Out loud, it does sound kind of pathetic, but she doesn't blame her girlfriend for feeling that way. It's been a few weeks now, and they haven't cuddled at night like they used too ever since. Now she was feeling guilty. Pulling Sasha into a hug, she rested her chin on her shoulder. "I'm sorry Sasha. It's just, I've never had a plushie, and I guess -" Mikasa was cut off as Sasha let out a small laugh and hugged Mikasa back.

"Yeah, I know how touch starved you are. Plus, I know that you never got to enjoy the feeling of cuddling with a large plushie as a little girl so I don't blame you. I just...miss you at night is what I'm trying to say, I guess?" Sasha stated with Mikasa smiling as she tightened her hug.

"Well, you got me. And tonight, I promise that I will let the panda sleep on his own so we can pick up where we left off," Mikasa told Sasha which earned her a tight squeeze followed by Sasha lifting her up into the air and spinning around with her while cheering happily. ------ A few days later though, Mikasa found herself staring at her girlfriend who was hugging a four foot potato plushie in her sleep. Rolling her eyes, she let out a sigh, "Great, so this is what being jealous of a plushie feels like."

[cozycryptidcorner]

Sarakh the Gallu

Commissioned by a lovely anonymous user who wanted to expand their monster match. I hope you all enjoy!

With the volume turned down on your speakers, you select a playlist, then make sure your hair is out of your face. Even though you are grateful for your internship, the amount of work the museum staff shovels on you is quickly growing, and the checklist you have to fill out and categorize is thickly stacked. The many boxes coming up from storage and shipped from neighboring galleries are placed about with no rhyme or reason, but it’s your job to make sure all the objects for an upcoming exhibition on Mesopotamian artifacts. Supposedly, everything is there, because the paid daytime personnel already gave it a lookover and signed off, but checking and double-checking seems to be your boss’ MO. Even though you are begrudging to approach a redundant task, he swore up and down that being able to do this will increase your chances of getting hired once you get that sweet, sweet degree.

A benefit from working past closing is that you can listen to music. Earphones? Strictly forbidden for workers, though you don’t know why. Still, you guess you aren’t really in a place to complain since you managed to snag such a coveted internship position... but come on. No customers are allowed back here, it’s not like you’re going to have to be ready to answer every question about a particular expressionist piece, but nope! Zero tolerance from upper management. Cool. So anyway, you turn on your playlist, softly mumbling along to the lyrics, bobbing your head to the beat.

Most of the boxes are filled with the decorations for the actual setup, and once you’re done making sure everything’s here, you’re also supposed to begin setting up the exhibition. Under no circumstances, though, are you allowed to go poking around the genuine artifacts. Still, you’re expected to place the plaques, the fakes, the pedestals, and the long, plastic boards covered in various information where they belong. You look over the diagram on a crumpled piece of paper, mouthing the lyrics of the accompanying music, and dig through the decorations until you find the one labeled ASHJ-123, then pin it in place.

Something thuds in the adjoining room.

Immediately, your anxiety spikes, but you try to calm yourself with some logic. One of the plaques probably fell down, or maybe a new security guard just bit the dust. You need to stop imagining the worst. Still, turning your music down just a bit, you step out to investigate. The area where you heard the noise is mostly finished, with the artifacts already out on display, the whole thing resembling a tomb. Props to the designers, too, because walking through during your late shifts always gives you this weird, eerie feeling, like you’re trespassing on sacred grounds.

As you near a corner, you see one of the coffins slightly ajar, which is odd. Indignation sparks inside your chest, because if someone is going around willy-nilly and touching the artifacts, you’re going to be the one who suffers for it. You aren’t even allowed to fix it, you don’t have the know-how or skill, so that means you’re going to have to report it immediately and hope it can wait until morning. Turning the camera app on, you lift your phone up, snapping a picture from three different sides, and send it to your manager with an angry huff.

More noises. You’re back on alert, phone gripped tightly in hand, and you predial 911, thumb hovering the call button. Along the wall, where a reconstructed archway is, there’s a warm, bluish glow, the cuneiform engraved in the stone pulsing with some kind of strange energy. Which… Okay, maybe the curator uncharacteristically wanted some special effects to spice things up? To make some sort of ‘appeal to the younger generation,’ as he has said before? You gulp, wondering what’s triggering it, if you’re alone, or maybe the crew is still here?

Someone steps out from behind a statue, and you scream.

In your hasty stress, though, instead of managing to hit the Call button with your shaking fingers, you end up dropping your phone onto the thinly carpeted floor. You try to pick it back up, eyes on whoever that is, trembling, hoping that the very tall, muscular, bearded man wearing- uh, you don’t know what those robes are- isn’t here to harm you. But you want that fucking phone in your hands just in case.

“Do not be afraid,” he says, voice remarkably calming, low, and soft, “I mean no harm to you.”

“So-sorry,” you gasp, trying to calm yourself, “I um- I thought I was alone.”

He nods once, then looks around the exhibit, his eyebrows scrunched and furrowed in concentration. Like he’s lost. His hair is long, dark, falling past his shoulders in perfectly crafted waves, his beard about the same length, perfectly coiled in long ringlets. It’s… definitely a look, that’s for sure, though you don’t know what exactly he’s going for. Six thousand years too late, maybe? Washed out Bible movie actor? Having a beard is one thing, but giving it those Shirly Temple curls is something else. Perhaps it’s some sort of new underground hipster trend you aren’t aware of.

Letting in a deep, calming breath, you rub your arms. “Are you lost? The museum is closed, you’re not supposed to be here.”

The man frowns, his eyes… weirdly glowing, you think, when he looks at you. “I wouldn’t be here unless I needed to be.”

Sass. Great. Instead of the cops, you’re already dialing up the number for the museum’s internal security. “No, really, if you don’t have a badge, you need to leave.”

Something tingles in the air, causing all your hair to stand on end. “I assure you,” the man says, calmly, “I would not be called to this place unless there was a task for me to accomplish.”

“Cool,” you say, hitting the call button and setting your phone to speaker mode, the wall behind you exploding before the security guard even has a chance to pick up. You didn’t even know that’s what happened until a few moments after, because your vision takes a moment to return, chunks of the exhibit spread out around the floor. There’s blood in your mouth, tiny pricks of heat pinch against your arms and back.

Shakily, you try to get your bearings, maybe to rise to your knees, and you notice the man is standing over you, facing something just over your shoulder, arms outstretched, eyes glowing with an intensity that sends shivers through your spine. Something cackles, loud, chittering, you don’t know what could make that sound, it’s like a wounded animal. Wheezing from the plaster dust, you reach over to where your phone fell, bringing back a horrifically cracked mess. Fuck. Frantically, with tears pricking the edges of your eyes, you tap on the screen and press the sleep button, but nothing happens.

The man steps around your body, you hear the sound of… smacking? Like cement against cement, the telltale crunch of something breaking vibrating through the space. You roll, flipping your body over, trying to scurry out of the line of fire. As you look around for a hiding spot, you finally catch a glimpse of what busted through the walls, and you gulp, because surely your eyes are playing tricks. This can’t be happening.

It’s like a shadow, black and shimmering, a thick, viscous fog devoid of any kind of color beyond to, glowing orbs on its seemingly fluid-like body, but then it splits in half, revealing a throbbing, drooling maw filled to the brink with needle-like teeth. And the man- the man is fighting it, arms glowing with some kind of warm, primordial energy that almost seems to match the color of his eyes? It’s like magma, orange, red, and yellow, oozing and melting together, and he’s wrapping the stuff around whatever that creature is like a lasso. It’s struggling, knocking over priceless fucking artifacts as it writhes, wriggles, and shrieks, your ears popping oddly against the desperate shrillness.

You don’t even have it in you to scream in fear, despite the fact you are deeply afraid, because you are currently focused on one thing: survival. There are no places for you to hide that you would trust not to get immediately smashed, so you’re focused solely on dodging the scuffle, your eyes focused on the fire alarm on the other side of the room, where the hallway that leads out of this dead end exhibit also is. With a careful gaze, you watch the fight, slowly picking your way around the chunks of wall plaster and brick, trying to call the least amount of attention to yourself as you do so.

Something swipes at the back of your head, leaving a thick, slimy trail in your hair. Already you’re planning on how long and hot the shower you’re going to take once you manage to get home, thousands of little, prickly snakes working their way through your nerves as you dodge another one of that thing’s tendrils. Gross, gross, gross, gross, you almost choke, stepping over a fallen pedestal, then make a run for the fire alarm, reaching out and pulling on the little lever harder than you need to.

Alarms start blaring, red flashing light pulsing at the ceiling. No water, though, this is a museum, after all, with priceless artifacts hung up against the walls, can you even imagine? But the sound seems to throw the creature off its rhythm, it folds in on itself and starts screaming, you have to cover your ears because you’re afraid you might go deaf. The man who might not be a man takes advantage of this little hiccup, smiting the creature with a bright, hot flash of energy bursting from his hands, and the damn thing melts, the screams fading into a muted sob, and you suddenly can’t help but feel pity for the little thing. It… it’s like it’s in pain.

You watch, sickly fascinated, as it folds in on itself, crumpling like a piece of thin paper, smaller, smaller, until it no longer seems to exist. There’s a soft, anticlimactic pop, and the shadow is gone, like it never existed. The only evidence that it had would be the, well, the leftover, decimated exhibit, pieces of priceless objects from thousands of years ago shattered and broken. You swallow, thickly, staring at the mess, and realize numbly that you’re probably going to be fired.

The man approaches where you stand, gasping and shaking with a jumble of emotions you don’t have time to place, and he reaches out his hand. Carefully, he looks over the area where that thing slimed you, a thick layer of black mucus clinging onto your skin for dear life. The messy thoughts in your head slowly manage to form a full sentence, and, gasping, you manage to choke out, “what was that thing?”

Sirens roar in the distance, but the man seems only mildly bothered by them, “a corrupted spirit. If you aren’t careful, you’re going to end up just like that.”

Fear spikes through your system. “What?”

With a kind of calm that only works to annoy you, he says, “any living creature that the corrupted spirit marks are likely to become corrupt themselves. Come, my brothers and I should be able to cleanse you.”

“I’m sorry- go where? You’re over this already, there’s a layer of nervous sweat on your skin, and you’re afraid. “I don’t think I’m going anywhere with you.”

He lets out a huff of frustration, shaking his head. “Given the fact you aided in my victory- I am indebted to you. I must help your mortal health.”

The sirens grow closer. Rapidly, you shake your head, refusing the offer, downright suspicious of what it might mean. It’s just goop, you can probably get the damn stuff off with a bit of shampoo and hot water. Still, though, he’s insistent.

“It won’t happen overnight, but it will eventually overtake your heart and corrupt your spirit.” He holds his hand out. “You must accept my help if you would prefer remaining sane.”

You hear people calling your name, realizing dully that it must be the security guards. Numbly, you turn around, seeing their silhouettes in the stairway, running down with frantic desperation. You need to go to them, to tell them what happened- but you realize that no one is going to believe you. Letting in a soft, calming breath, you turn back to the man, brain trying to restart after being knocked around a few times. Even if what he says is true, can you really trust him to do as he claims? You can’t just run from a crime scene, that would make you suspect number one.

What reason would he have to lie, though? He just saved you from that thing, you don’t know how you would have managed to escape without those… fantastic… biceps. Rubbing your arms, you try to quickly weigh the pros and cons of following him, but someone grabs you, pulling you back from the mess, you can feel them looking over the bruises on your arm. Something solid pinches in your hand suddenly, and you look down, finding an unfamiliar coin in your palm. Slyly, you pocket the thing as you’re swarmed by a few rather concerned paramedics.

You get questioned by the police as someone bandages you, but you’re… well, unbelievably wary about telling the truth, so you forget to mention the presence of the man and the creature. Did you notice any odd smells? No. Did you see anyone? You heard noises and went to investigate. Do you know anyone who would do you harm? Not like this. Are you aware of any groups threatening the museum? No. It goes on like that for a while, and you have to put your information down so they can contact you as a witness to what they believe to be a terrorist attack.

A bomb, they decide, though they can’t seem to find any evidence beyond what appeared to be an actual explosion. Still, no shrapnel from a weapon, no traces of chemicals, and the wall clearly look like it was unceremoniously shoved through, rather than an evenly dispersed burst of energy. You can tell that one of the detectives think that you’re the one to do it, but of course, there’s no bomb, no evidence. Plus, you pulled the fire alarm, that’s a point in your basket.

The paramedics want you to get a once-over from a doctor, but you want to go home and shower. After you swear on your mom’s life that you’ll book an appointment shortly, after you reassure to your supervisor that you’re fine, you’re just tired, they book you an uber home, so you don’t have to drive. Once you get back, you go into a cleaning frenzy, stripping out of your dusty, plaster covered and slightly torn clothes, and spending about an hour in the shower, slightly hotter than you can tolerate, shampooing, reshampooing, conditioning, shampooing again.

You’re still shaking, even after wrapping yourself up in your biggest, fluffiest pampering towel, looking over your dirty clothes, trying to figure out what to do with them. A part of you wants to throw them away, forget the night, put the memories under lock and key, because it’s been a few hours and you’re not even sure if what you experienced was at all true, or if you imagined the entire thing in some sort of trauma-induced lucid dream. A glimmer flickers, the coin slipping out of your pocket, and you find yourself on the verge of crumbling.

Carefully, you pick it up, running your fingers over the golden inscription, biting your lower lip. This has to mean something, why else would it just… appear in your hand? You flick it against your thumb, sending it across the table, and then it disappears. Well, maybe it transforms, or summons, or you don’t fucking know, but the man is in your kitchen. The same man from the museum. In your kitchen. And you, you’re wearing nothing but a towel, so that’s just the cherry on top.

He looks at you.

You look at him.

He breaks eye contact first.

“I’m going to get dressed,” you say as calmly as you turn around, heading back to the bathroom, clothes in hand. You gave yourself some time to think about… well, that, working to put your pajamas as slowly as possible. When you reemerge, you take a long, huffy, exhausted breath, placing your hands on the kitchen counter as you try to fight for words. Finally, all you can imagine saying is, “would you like some tea?”

“If you would be so inclined.” He doesn’t seem to know what you’re talking about but accepts out of politeness.

You don’t care about the actual tea, though, but you are definitely thankful for the mindless work. Two mugs. Two teabags. If he doesn’t know what tea is, he’s not going to have a preference, right? The water heats up, and you have to take a moment, staring at the clock on your microwave, to think. Turning around, you look back to him and ask what exactly is on your mind. “Why are you here?”

“You still need to be cleansed from the corrupted spirit.”

You suspected that might be the case. At least this way, you can think about it in the comfort of your own home, without the time tables of frantic paramedics rushing to get to your first.

“Can we do it here?” You ask, because you just got home, and you’d like to go to bed.

“If you’d like,” he says, nodding.

You hand him the mug of tea, not bothering to offer any honey or cream. “How long will it take?”

“A few months, by your calendar. Your soul must be wholly purified for there to be no remains, it takes… prayer, chants, rituals of cleansing.”

“Where will you be staying in the meantime?”

He seems caught off guard by the question and takes a moment to think it over.

With a sigh, you offer, “I guess you can stay with me. But,” you gesture in his general direction, “we’re going to have to modernize that look a bit, alright?” At his look of confusion, you elaborate with a sigh. “If you’re going to stay with me, anyone and everyone will notice you, you have a very strong presence, so I think it would be best if you try to… blend in a bit more.”

He offers a nod, “if that would make you happy, then I will allow you to… er, ‘modernize’ my appearance.”

Oh, you almost forgot. Drumming your fingers against the table, you ask, “what’s your name?”

“Sarakh, the Seventh son of Asag, my predecessor, Gallu of the Underworld, Slayer of those Corrupt, Salt of the-”

“Can I call you Sarakh?” You ask, almost overwhelmed by the amount of titles he has.

“If it pleases you,” he nods.

“Cool.” You nod to yourself, letting out a breath. “Welcome to my home, then, Sarakh.”

[sippin-on-red-wine]

What’s My Name Again? | An Intro

As soon as I was buckled into my airplane seat, I kicked off my boots and dug out my earbuds. I had always been a bit of a nervous flier - the upgraded first class ticket Brent had treated me to definitely helped, but nothing did the trick quite like music.

Brent. I could practically feel my eyes turn into little cartoon hearts. I couldn’t believe the day had finally come. I had spent the last four months selling all of my belongings in preparation for the move. Brent owned a home out here, and he had picked out a car for me already. What else did I need besides my clothes and personal items? It was actually quite a freeing experience, having my personal possessions dwindle down to nothing but a couple suitcases’ worth, plus my kit. I had a box or two of sentimental type stuff, but it was safe and sound in my parent’s basement.

Flicking through my Spotify app, I switched on my ‘Ben Sherman’ playlist. It was only fitting. In my heart of hearts, I had to admit - I was so FUCKING excited for the upcoming weekend. After Brent & I settled on a date for the move, he surprised me with tickets. “Your first weekend as a Colorado resident… gotta do it big.” he had said. I had seen Ed live a number of times, but never with floor seats before. I felt a little guilty that I was more excited for the concert than for actually moving in with my long distance boyfriend after a couple years of only seeing each other a handful of weekends per year. But, that goddamn ginger has that effect on people.

I hit shuffle and kicked my feet up, increasing the volume to a level that I’m sure was borderline damaging to my eardrums. I lost myself in the music – you know how sometimes when you listen to a song that you’ve heard a billion times, you suddenly really hear it? It was one of those moments, for sure. Shuffle was treating me well; playing all the best songs one right after another. I mean, I love ALL of Ed’s songs - but it can be kind of a buzzkill to go from ‘Galway Girl’ to ‘Supermarket Flowers’. Not today, satan.

I was in the total groove and time was flying. I was in full-on jam mode: foot tapping, shoulder rocking, eyes closed, humming along to the melody when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I was suddenly VERY aware that I was, in fact, in a PUBLIC place.

Horrified, I pulled out my earbuds - music pouring out of them, I realized how loud I’d had my music up. I felt a flush of embarrassment spread across my cheeks as I swiveled my head toward whoever had tapped my shoulder politely.

I was prepared to apologize profusely when suddenly, the synapses in my brain fired back and forth to the ones in charge of my eyeballs and I realized I was staring into the face of ED SHEERAN.

EDWARD. CHRISTOPHER. SHEERAN.

No it can’t be him. Not real. What the hell, brain? But… wait…. His birthmark, the scar – and I KNOW those glasses.

“Hello. Mind if I have a sit here?” he gestured to the empty lounge seat next to me. I quickly snatched my phone off the cushion and watched in awe (and terror) as Ed Sheeran sat down next to me on the airplane.

I’m pretty sure all the blood drained from my face as I suddenly snapped back to reality, the sounds of Ed’s own voice crooning out of my earbuds. Oh fuck fuck fuck I cursed, silently, trying to close my Spotify app.

“I’m Ed.” he grinned at me.

Duh. Oh, crap. You should probably say something. Tell him your name.

Wait, what’s my name again?

“Becca.” I awkwardly flicked my wrist at a pathetic attempt at a wave. A wave. From 25 inches away. Idiot.

“I was admiring your jam session so I thought I’d come over and say hi.”

“Erm… That loud, eh?”

He giggled and nodded. Actually GIGGLED. It sounded like the heavens had opened up and that miraculous sound had filtered down and into my ears.

“Sorry bout that…” I muttered, sheepishly. “Guess it got away from me a bit, didn’t it.”

“Nah, it’s great. Made me smile to see someone enjoying my music, that’s all.”

“Wow, this is… just crazy. I have to say, I’m a huge fan.”

Every nerve ending in my body was singing. He was sat so casually next to me, just a normal guy wearing faded denim jeans and a deep red hoodie. Except he was Ed Fucking Sheeran.

“Are you flying in for the show on Friday?” His eyes flitted to my t-shirt because of course you’re wearing his merchandise.

“Yes!” I exclaimed, excitedly. “Shit, actually, no.”

His pretty blue eyes were sparkling with humor, the little lines at the corners of his eyes folding in as he smiled.

I searched for an explanation. “Sorry. Yes, I’ve got tickets to the show. But it isn’t the only reason I’m flying in.”

He adjusted, tucking a foot up beneath his butt and angling his body toward me. “Vacation?” he asked.

“Er, no actually - look, if you have to get back…” whyareyoutellinghimtogobeccayoudummy.

His hands sprung up, just as animated in real life as they were in the interviews I often watched on my laptop. “I’m good, actually - Stu is quite sick of me at the moment so I’m sure he’s enjoying a bit of peace. Unless you-”

I cut him off. “Oh, no, I, um, I’m free… obviously.” I snarked, twirling my earbuds around. “Actually, this plane ride is me officially moving to Colorado.”

“Oh, cool! Do you have family here? Sorry, I don’t mean to press. It’s just been a long, boring day of traveling.”

“You’re good, trust me…. No family, I’m actually moving here to be with my highschool sweetheart.”

Wow look at you holding an actual conversation. Keep breathing, Becca.

“No way. I love that.” His eyes lit up and it struck me that he, too, was rumored to be dating a girl from his childhood.

“Yeah! We were together in highschool and kind of went our separate ways afterwards. He moved out here for work. We connected again when he was home over Christmas a couple of years ago and we’ve been doing the long distance thing ever since.”

“Wow. And now you’re moving out here?”

“That’s the plan. Sold my car, quit my job. Got rid of nearly everything I own. Once we touch down I’ll be a Colorado resident.”

“Bit scary, innit?”

“Yes - it really is. But it’s worth it. The long distance thing….. Sucks. Erm, as I’m sure you’re well aware.”

We kept at it for nearly the next hour, trading stories about the various coping methods one uses to survive a LDR. Talking to him was actually really… easy? When I didn’t focus on the part where my favorite musician of all time was sitting next to me on the plane explaining how he facetimes his cats when he’s on the road?

This is a weird day.

The Pilot came on to announce that we would begin our descent, and Ed politely offered to snap a couple selfies before going back to his seat. He gave me an awkward chair-hug goodbye and told me to enjoy the show.

As soon as he was out of sight, my heartbeat resumed POUNDING in my chest. Did that just…? Holy shit.

I switched my cell off of “Airplane Mode” as soon as we hit the runway, and had a string of texts pour in from Brent.

*I’m here! Can’t wait for you to get off that plane baby! *HOW MANY MORE MINUTES *Can’t believe I get to wake up with you tomorrow… and the day after that… and the day after that….

As if I weren’t on Cloud 9 already from my Ed Sheeran Encounter, seeing those texts finally made it real for me. I get Brent. Every day. No more goodbyes. No more lonely nights.

Our area was dismissed from the plane first, and I practically sprinted out to the terminal, spotting my handsome boyfriend right away. He was tall, towering over me by at least a foot. He was looking around anxiously; he hadn’t spotted me yet. I took off into a jog toward him and I swear, the way his face lit up when he finally saw me? I was honestly just overcome. I ran and jumped up into his arms, his strong hold pulling me into his body. We just held each other so tight, him rocking me back and forth and squeezing me until hot tears spilled out from beneath my eyelids.

I lost myself in his scent, the solid feel of his body against mine. I don’t know how long he held me like that, but the buzz and chaos of the airport terminal slowly phased back in, for both of us, and he set me down on the ground in front of him.

“Becca!” A distinctly British voice rang out from somewhere behind me.

“Brent - ohmygod you wouldn’t believe –”

But Ed was there, extending a hand out to Brent. “Hey, mate, I’m Ed. You’re a lucky man, you know.”

I guess we really were a compatible match because Brent looked just as dumbfounded as I had felt on the plane.

“Trust me, I am very well aware.” He replied, kissing the top of my head - one arm wrapped snugly ‘round my back.

Ed turned to look at me. “Look, I don’t normally do this, but… I want to give you two meet & greet passes for the show on Friday.”

Okay. Back to dumbfounded.

“Ed, that’s so nice of you to offer but -”

“Please take them. It’s just – I know where you’ve been. And it’s nice to see someone getting their happy ending. I’ve got to dash but I’ll have Stuart put them underyour name at will call, okay?”

“T-thank you!”

“It’s my pleasure, really. See you later then!” and he was gone with a wave.

Well… surprise!