Ed Sheeran [SMUT]

VMA After Party

We are part of this vicious cycle. One where I pretend to have a very distinct line between my personal and professional life, and Ed respects those boundaries. I’m a walking cliché, and I can feel it with every pair of eyes that burn into me when Ed slips his arm around my waist, or presses his lips to my ear.  He’s fucking the assistant. If only they knew how much more it is than that.  I’m supposed to have a strict code of conduct in my line of work. I drew the line, but he pushed back against them. I’m under contract, technically, and it states that I’m not allowed to have any personal relationships with any client. But the line is so blurred that I can’t even decide if what he have is a personal relationship. Ed Sheeran knows how to get under my skin.  He knows how to push my buttons, to turn me into putty in his hands. I tell him no, countless times, and he has a way of making me say yes, even when I can’t afford to.  I suppose I knew what I was getting into with a boy a few years younger than I, who can bring millions of girls to their knees with his voice and his guitar. And boy, do I find myself on my knees often.

            The silence in the hotel hurts my ears. It feels like someone has their hands clamped over my ears, and a muffled ringing noise is the only thing I can distinguish as noise. I’m used to loud. I’m used to the sound of guitar strings being plucked, the soft buzz of an amplifier between notes, the high pitched scream of a microphone too close to said amplifier, the ear piercing screams of an excited group of individuals, the thud of his hands against his guitar, the soft squeak of a loop pedal being turned on and off, the vibration of his vocal chords, the drum-like noises of a mouth forming pseudo beats, the click of photos being taken on an actual camera, the almost silent ragged breaths from pushing through a crowd, the thud of footsteps on pavement, markers being uncapped and recapped, felt tip running over any surface it can find, and satisfied sighs of a well played show. My ears are accustomed to these familiar noises, but sometimes, I want to be alone. 

            Award shows feel like dead weight to me.  They are too fast paced, too chaotic, too exposing. I’m in a terrible position when the public eye is watching. I can’t be that girl with Ed. I can’t be seen, or heard, or thought about as anything other than his assistant. I’m the girl who so expertly sneaks out of his hotel room at 4am dressed in his clothes from last night without being noticed. I’m a ghost, the only visible part being the meetings and promos I schedule.

            And tonight is no different.  Except for the fact that Ed’s been home for the last few weeks, and I have been here. We haven’t seen each other in weeks, and I can tell by the look on his face when he sees me in an emerald green dress made of nothing but sequins that barely hits mid-thigh, five-inch heels, and my hair the best it has ever looked. I wait for him on the red carpet, a clipboard in my hand, a Bluetooth in my ear. He gets out of the car, and makes his way over to me, with a smirk on his face that gives away all of the plans he has for me tonight.

            “Jesus Christ” he mutters through clenched teeth as his hand slides from my waist to my lower back. I shrug him off of me and shake my head.

            “Close your mouth, Sheeran” I tell him, my eyes narrowing at him.

            “Are we just going to ignore the fact that you look like your begging for it?” he whispers quietly, as he pretends to move his gaze down the clipboard in front of me, as if he’s preparing for the evening.

            “Yes, that’s exactly what we’re going to do” I tell him, “professional, Ed, remember?”

            “Yeah, yeah” he shrugs, looking up and into the crowd, “So how does this work”