#*sam&taylor

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@recovened

sam has two glasses of red in hand. it wouldn’t surprise most people to discover him double-fisting two glasses of red wine at the afterparty of an awards ceremony, but they weren’t both for him. 

he spotted taylor from across the room in the middle of doing shots with his bandmates. the heathens took home an award for best original song and he was prepared to spend the rest of the night celebrating with them when his eyes landed on her and, as usual, couldn’t bear to look away.

“fancy meeting you here, doll.” he sidles up to her with a languid smile on his face, looking her up and down before finally meeting her eyes and offering out the glass of wine. he’s shameless, as always. “want a drink?”

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@recovened said: let me be your friend. i want to help you.  

he is so sick of hearing that. not from her specifically, but from everyone. in hushed asides on days off when he’s hungover and strung out, in text messages that he ignores, even in the looks he gets where the words are left unsaid. 

"there’s nothing to help, taylor.” he throws out his arms in exasperation, but deep down he knows everything he’s saying is a lie. “i don’t have a problem.” 

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@recovened said: “old family recipe.” 

sam doesn’t have any of those. he doesn’t have an old family anything—no photos, no mementos, no cute stories from when he was a kid. having things like traditions and recipes passed down through generations are a concept foreign to him. 

this—this moment right here—is also a concept foreign to him. it’s incredibly rare that the morning after turns into the afternoon after. he’s usually out the door pretty quickly. 

with his arms wrapped around her midsection, he watches her cook because asking for his help is akin to asking for disaster. his level of expertise in the kitchen doesn’t extend very far. most of his diet is made up with pizza, leftover pizza, and way too much candy. 

“smells good,” he says. “do you want me to, like, i dunno—set the table?” 

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@recovened​ sent 🥱 to lay her head on sam’s shoulder

they’ve landed back in new york, the tour over. sam spent most of the flight unable to sleep and he doubts he’ll able to until he’s back in in his own place and in his own bed. taylor, though, slept for most of their eight hour flight back to america. when they landed, he had to gently nudge her awake, feeling guilty for disturbing her rest. 

on the car ride back to his place, she falls asleep again on his shoulder. tour wasn’t easy for either of them. he feels worn, all his edges frayed, and he’s ready to disappear for six months. she probably feels the same. if not more given this was her first go around. 

all those long days of travel, longer nights of shows, the arguments and fights, the apologies and promises. it’s taken a toll on the both of them. 

so he doesn’t disturb her or nudge her back awake. she deserves the rest, after all the shit. they both do. 

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@recovened sent 👔 to adjust my muse’s collar / tie / lapels || from here.

he’s standing side stage at an award show, waiting to read nominations for the next category, and taking a peek out at the crowd before taylor’s hand on his shoulder spins him around. 

“hey, whoa—” she starts fussing with his shirt, smoothing out the wrinkles he ignored when he threw the shirt on, straightening out his crooked tie that he thought was a little charming the way it was. “you’re messing with my charmingly ruffled look.” 

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@recovened said: i’m sick of being hungry and cold. 

it’s been cold and rainy all day which makes for a miserable festival atmosphere, but they’ve just got one more song to go and that’ll be a wrap for the day. 

“five minutes, doll,” he says, smiling cheekily as he grabs his guitar from the tech. “then i promise we’ll go straight back to the hotel.” the lights lower and sam plants a quick kiss on her cheek before stepping back onto stage to meet the roar of the waiting crowd.