#*sam&juliet

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@coffincoven said: "i've had the new taylor's version on repeat since it came out and i think it's safe to say that i'm obsessed."  

“the—the what?” he has no idea what the fuck she’s talking about. the words taylor’s version mean nothing to sam wright. the look he gives her is one of genuine bewilderment; there’s no faking that. “taylor, like—swift?” 

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@coffincoven

"i can’t be seen in this.” 

the outfit she’s got him in is not exactly what he’d choose. for one thing there’s way too much colour. sam exists in a world of black and white, and silver jewellery. 

“think about what twitter would say.” 

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@coffincoven | from here.

the bar is closed and they’ve been going at it back and forth while they clean up. sam’s been off since he showed up for his shift, particularly snippy without offering an explanation why. the truth is that he’s going through one of his half-assed bimonthly attempts at getting clean. it hasn’t even been a full twenty-four hours yet, but he’s already irritable and juliet’s stubborn refusal to quit asking him what’s going on is only making his budding headache worse. 

even with just the two of them here at this hour, the tension in the bar feels stifling and eventually, it reaches a tipping point. 

juliet grabs his jaw and drags him down to her level until they’re eye-to-eye, demanding, “look at me.” 

and so, with no other choice, he does, jaw clenched tight. a sore loser. 

“has anyone ever told you that you’re, like, really fucking nosy?” 

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@coffincoven

“I’m really not sure about this idea.” Giving Juliet the reins as social media manager of the bar was a good idea. He doesn’t regret that one bit. What he does regret is agreeing to pose for photos for some posts, but he’s letting Juliet fix up his appearance anyway. “Hot chicks get people into bars. Like you. Not, like, me.”

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@coffincoven said, "you owe me a dinner. a very nice dinner."

he is, in fact, hungover, but he’s not in his bed. he’s in juliet’s with one arm thrown over his eyes, his head pounding and concentrating like he can will away the hangover. much of last night is a blur, but he has enough bits and pieces to put together the puzzle. the fact that he’s in her bed tells him enough. 

“please don’t talk about food yet,” he groans. sam rolls over, tangled up in her sheets with half his face pressed into the pillow. “i need, like, an hour at least.”

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@coffincoven​ said “you have lovely hands. do you moisturize?” 

“do i—what? moisturize?” 

a little amused, he stretches out his hand. his fingers are long, slender, and tattooed—a cross on one finger, a rose on the inside of another, and a fairly ornate looking crown on a third, mostly covered by a ring. 

they’re alright, he thinks. he’s never really thought about them as lovely. he’s never thought about moisturizing either. 

"no. i just got lucky, i guess.” 

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@coffincoven sent 🗑️ for a text that wasn’t sent. 

[deleted text: jules] wyd [deleted text: jules] you looked really good today [deleted text: jules] have you ever thought about [deleted text: jules] do you want to get din 

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@coffincoven sent 💃 | meme

he has no idea how he allowed her to convince him to go to a club after closing the bar, but he’s too many shots deep to care that this is probably a bad idea. at the very least, tomorrow morning is going to suck.  

almost losing her in the crowd, he reaches out to grab her hand and lets her drag him down to the dance floor. coloured lights swirl above them, the bass vibrating the floor under his feet. he’s just drunk enough to lose himself to the atmosphere. 

she turns to face him, pulling him close, and his hands fall into place at her waist. it’s too loud to say anything, so he doesn’t. he just moves with her and the music.