sam-or-whatever

[sam-or-whatever]

Vogue’s editor-in-chief, Anna Wintour.

[sam-or-whatever]

mervynpeakes:

“Bitch, do you take me for someone who’s not busy? I’m busy too. Shit,” he chuckled, cutting into his smoked salmon eggs benedict, biting into it. His tone and demeanor were definitely not befitting the upscale restaurant they were sat at, but of course, Jude felt himself above proper social demeanor now; he was making fat stacks and his status socially was on the up and up again. Life was good. “I just thought if I don’t grab the moment and catch you today, I’ll lose you until the next fashion week afterparties, whenever the hell that’s gonna be.”

“The proper response was a simple, ‘Yes, your gracious bitchiness, I’m so glad I could get to see you’, but since that was too complicated, I could always go eat a breakfast burrito in the backseat of a taxi.” She posed to stand up from the table, one hand on top, the other on the chair as if she was actually going to-- but she held the position like she held her tongue to her cheek, a grin inevitable. She would sit back down. “And you’d be correct. I’ve got to be handcuffed to a drunken Grace Coddington at some Siriano launch. That’ll be one for the books. --Can I smoke in here, or is that not allowed?-- anyway, it probably doesn’t beat mopping floors at a record label, but it’s something.”

[sam-or-whatever]

“You know, you’re lucky you could even get me out, let alone at a decent brunch hour. I know the schedule’s packed, usually, but even without a responsibility, I could’ve just not come and stayed at home. But it’s not all that personal.”

@eightysixed

[sam-or-whatever]

[sam-or-whatever]

“Rick. Ma. Carson. Claire. Then Judas. Do they know you’re a gambling homeless fighter, or do they still think you’re a rock star?” A cinematic wind blow, leaves and all, would’ve been apt; but an impossibly large fur draped over her kept her safe, regardless. Family functions were never he strong suit, though any banquet could become an enjoyable event if it needed to be. The usual escape routes were kept in her purse: Sobranie cocktail cigarettes– one already in hand that would need to be put out soon, a dime bag of coke, and a concentrated rat poison tablet should she need to fake a seizure. Of course, if there was a dire need of exiting, she could always stab herself with whatever surely-silver fork or knife sat in front of her, but that had only been needed twice; she swore to keep her wiles proportionate to the incident. “I hope that means you guys won’t be serving any. I don’t know what kind of freak clan, but I’ve been picturing the Hills Have Eyes. Now, are they going to pester me about the state of my uterus or do they think we’re married?”

“So,” Jude said, imparting a few last words to Sam before their chauffeured car passed the main gates and was fast approaching the driveway to the Nolan mansion. “You can call my dad Rick, he hates Ricky, but my mom is always Ma. Doesn’t matter if you just met, she just loves being called Ma.” He said this with some hint of boredom or distaste in his voice, partially wondering if she could handle his people. But as he eyed Sam up and down, all his fears were dispelled. She’d had a lifetime of dealing with her own crazy kin, who were as many and diverse as there were demons in hell — she could handle a few Nolans. “Carson’s chill and Claire is a bit high-strung, but you’ll get along — on the surface, of course.” Claire loved everyone on the surface, his sister-in-law was like that. Behind closed doors though, it was usually a different deal. “I think we should have some kind of safeword to bail. Horseradish?”

@sam-or-whatever 

[sam-or-whatever]

eightysixed:

“My anticipations for the evening are having a good time. Now, you just happened to drop into my lap, so — whichever way the wind blows or whatever whimsy takes us, I’m up for,” he said, sounding vaguely adventurous and ominous all in one go. He did another line, just because, and even from that generous pile he’d hoovered up his nose there was more left over, so he offered up the Benjamin and the slate up to her. 

“Usha— what?” He had no clue as usual, what fashion lingo she was using now, as usual. “Awe, you watched the set. Well, I hope there was something in it for you, even if Stooge-esque garage rock isn’t to your musical stylings. Did you see my stage dive? That shit was fun. Last time they almost dropped me, I don’t wanna end up like Steven Tyler needing hip replacements before my age, no thanks.” Deciding to take a seat right up next to her, Jude swung a leg around and hopped up on the table right beside her. “So, my dear, rarely-seen, ever enigmatic Sam Blackwood— what do you think the cards have in store for us this evening?” 

“What kind of bullshit Hedonistic answer is that? I need specifics, Judas!” Hands grabbed onto his bony shoulders, careful for her femme fatale-ons not to dig into flesh like she knew they could; Edward Scissorhands had nothing on what her nail tech could do.  “I grazed your leg. Then promptly mauled some girl under you by accident. You know, they might do an article back at the Big V on you if you keep things up.” She ran a finger back through the coke, specks flying off as she lifted a nail to her nostril.

“Ushanka. The Russian hats. You’d look positively prickish in one, but I think that could sell. It’s absurd enough to be a statement to your crowd.” She plucked out one of her usual favorite cigs, one in the hideous pastel vomit green; her least favorite color. She turned, eyes wide at the seemingly sudden moment of his move; it shouldn’t have surprised her that he’d have energy, given the circumstances, and yet the change of pace still caused a minor playful alarm. “If your need hookers and more blow, I’ve got a thousand Solvakian sluts from the last round of a hellish ski shoot that you could ravage. Or I could take you to Fresa for port and cheese. Or the Dead Rabbit if you wanted some dimmer light.” She leaned forward, over the platter of coke, to his face, slightest hint of a smirk tugging at her maroon-stained lips, before blowing her last drag in his face. “Or see what kind damage bill we can rack up at the Ritz.” 

[sam-or-whatever]

eightysixed:

“I can slip by them easily, that’s not a problem. Do you really wanna go to a crowded East Village bar though, at this hour? Unless you’re suggesting the Four Seasons or something like that, then I’m down,” Jude said. It wasn’t a half bad idea, all things considering. He took a sip. 

There was a hard surface in the form of a rock slate, all the rage these days to serve food on instead of plates, and with all the prosciutto now vanished off of it, Jude didn’t think twice as to using it. “So to what do I owe this great and unsuspected surprise?” Jude asked as he doled out a hasty, far too fat line. The Franklin was skilfully rolled between his fingers, and in less than a second’s time, he was already snorting up more than half of the caterpillar sized line of white powder. “Or should I believe you actually came and stayed for the show?” There was no VIP seating in the venue, as far as he could remember.

“It’s up to you. You’re the man of the hour, are you not?” She sat on the surface in front of him, legs crossed ever so daintily as she followed the coke from bag, to tray, right up to his nose. She wiped a tad that remained at the top of his lip, a minute amount of fall out, and quickly rubbed it into her own gums. “But I have no preferences. Depends on what your anticipations for the evening are, I guess.”

“Speaking of Moscow, did you know ushankas are making a comeback? You should try one-- some stylistic impact on your cult. Could stimulate the economy a bit.” She paused to cut a line for herself, not even bothering with the bill by leaning down to snort it right off of the slab. “Believe it or not, Mr. Nolan, I have you on Google alerts. You don’t show up anywhere without me knowing about it. If I was any smart, I’d end up finding some way to just track your phone, but I’m not that possessive, so I give you that much freedom.” As she spoke, she was already drawing another line. “But yes, I stayed. Earplugs in so I didn’t go deaf like so many of the girls shouting on their way out, they’ll hear ringing for the next few days but it’s not like they’re gonna go off and hear anything important, is it?” She smiled. “And I checked through my calendar history, and I didn’t see ‘Dinner with your favorite faux-cop meth peddler’ in the last month or so, and... Here we are.”

[sam-or-whatever]

Muse Preferences

MUSE: Samantha Blackwood

Open curtains | Closed blinds Stray dog | House cat People | Pets Outside | Inside Half-empty | Half-full TV | Radio Sing | Dance Shoes | Sandals Cash | Credit Hike | Drive Casual | Elegant Center | Corner Sword | Shield Airplane | Boat Fizzy | Flat Garnished | Plain Extra salt | Extra pepper Spicy | Mild Record player | Digital media Opaque | Transparent White lies | Complete truth Blunt | Subtle Noisy | Silent Books | Music Familiar | New Youth | Experience Spoon | Fork and knife Knife | Baseball bat Space | Ocean Bow and arrow | Blow dart Love at first sight | Slow burn Freckles | Dimples Long eyelashes | Long fingers Soft lips | Sensitive neck Stubble | Thick hair Slow dance | Intimate conversation Candlelight dinner | Stargazing

[sam-or-whatever]

[sam-or-whatever]

THE AESTHETIC SERIES » THE PRINCESS.

She had sat on her throne for so long as as actress, she didn’t know who she was when she stepped off the stage.

[sam-or-whatever]

[sam-or-whatever]

eightysixed:

The sight of his favorite blonde click-clacking her way into the backstage venue, and throwing a dismaying look at their tour rider table spread (nothing but vodka and flamin’ hot cheetos), was one that brought only the widest of grins to Jude’s countenance.

“The Blackwood heiress of fashion herself. What’ll you drink?” His own JD and coke he tipped back for a sip, and immediately knew they would have to order finer, more expensive drinks for the night.

“Benjamin, of course. Wouldn’t have any other.” 

It was a genuine surprise that some skank in destroyed denim wasn’t currently between his legs at the seat, some groupie wannabe that watched Almost Famous too many times and thought Jude was the spiritual successor of John Lennon (except with a lot less showering), but that wasn’t cause for complaint; third parties were distractions.

“As long as it burns, I’ll take it. I’d suggest we move to a bar but I think your little army outside would cause some trouble.” She moved towards him, pointed toe to heel, hands already digging into her purse for her favorite party favors and tossing the bag and bill on the surface before Jude.

“Have at it. Franklin’s seen more snow than Moscow.”

[sam-or-whatever]

Sam would’ve lied if she said she hadn’t attempted to buy out the theater for the evening. She missed pre-sale tickets by nearly three whole hours of a drunken blitz spent with Manolo-wearing cunts and some Billy Zane-looking man whose hands spent more time on her thigh than on his glass, but she managed to nab at least one online-- one to ensure she’d be there to witness something she’d only imagined would happen in their dreams and Jude’s diaries had he ever kept any. The idea of him and his posse (backup members for all anyone seemed to care) staring down at the audience only to see the petite blonde perched with a hand on her hip in the vast emptiness brought more than a chuckle to her, but the plan failed.

The concert was a blast, and after surviving an onslaught of flying elbows and palms as the general admission descended into a free-for-all and a hand grazed Jude’s thigh though she knew he’d never recognize her among the masses, she found herself fighting her way back stage, bills upon bills of cash raining from her wallet to burly men with abysmal IQs and simple jobs they still couldn’t manage, she found herself behind him, purse loaded for whatever festivities she knew he’d want to celebrate with.

“Hookers get paid, but I think a simple ‘fuck you’ is as close as you’re getting. Care to snort with a fifty, or a Ben?”

An hour and fifteen minutes of writhing on a stage, sweat-drenched and coked out of his mind like some kind of Iggy Pop incarnate had turned him into a state. But boy, if they didn’t pull off a show. The roof creaked, the rafters of the old theater begged for mercy and the bouncers pushed back the three hundred people jumping, screaming, and moshing their way to the front, all clamouring to watch Jude run his vocal cords ragged. He jumped into the crowd and was carried on their hands; there was an encore. One of their finer shows to date. All worth it.

Now, the more generous of his band (read: less famous) had gone outside, signing autographs, taking photos, mingling with the fans. Jude, of course, was too ‘exhausted’ to come out, deep in the backstage bowels of the venue. But if anything, exhausted was the last thing he was. The night was still young. He was ready to fuck shit up. Hearing the door open, he didn’t turn, continuing to pour his drink. “If your name isn’t Hooker or Blow, you can show yourself out.” A line delivered with a devil of a smirk, but hell, maybe he meant it.

[sam-or-whatever]

△ Would you have tried to kill yourself if Malcolm returned your affections? If he had left Hannah for you?

9.

A very obvious part of me wants to say “no”, as if everything would’ve been alright had a morally corrupt Disney ending randomly played out. I can’t even start on how many times I dreamed of that– I didn’t know her. I don’t know her. And that made it so much easier to see her as merely an obstacle. I could wax poetic about how many tears I cried because of him and how many times I willed and wished him to choose to be with me, but it’s something I’ve said enough. I hear it enough in my head when things get too quiet.

I often think about that, yeah, that maybe a lot of things in my life would be different. He could be the key to happiness or whatever, maybe things would be perfect if I could bitch with him till the end of time.

It would’ve made things better. It would’ve brought a light to my life that I don’t think I’ve ever had, but I’m not sure it would’ve changed that. I don’t know if he would’ve made me feel any more valid, if he would’ve made me feel as if I hadn’t alienated Jude or Manny or banished the feeling that I may never add up to anything. Blunts and fucks and all kinds of talk of hatred spoken while I wrap myself around him, clinging for life, may not have made things any warmer.

But, most importantly of this– I’m not sure if he’d still be someone I lo– I care for– if he wasn’t with Hannah. I don’t know their relationship, and I doubt I ever will, because I’ve never seen a dichotomy like that ever work out in the real world. Sitcoms and romcoms are all based on those kind of contrasting personalities, but they seldom work out in reality. I see people in each other in their relationships more than anything. But I don’t know if Malcolm would still be Malcolm if he didn’t have Hannah. I don’t know him without her at this point. I don’t know what she does for him. I don’t know what he does for her. I just can’t sit here and pretend they don’t affect each other, though, and perhaps she’s pushed him to be what I know. As much as I wanted– want– him to myself, I think him having what he needs so he can continue to be everything I worship about him is more important than that.

I don’t know if that answers the question properly; I guess that’s a “yes”. Part of me still wishes I’d succeeded. But I’m alive. And I’m surviving. Thriving, maybe. Who knows if I’d have survived the attempt if I did have him? Maybe it would’ve made things worse, and I wouldn’t be here to answer this.

[sam-or-whatever]

New promo photo with Chanel Oberlin from Scream Queens.

[sam-or-whatever]

Send me a △ and ask a really invasive question aimed at my character

[sam-or-whatever]

eightysixed:

He didn’t have the time nor inclination to explicate the meaning behind their band’s name, so Jude merely let it go. “Well I’m honored we got some play in the fabled Blackwood Manor…where are you staying right now?” He knew almost nothing of her whereabouts, her comings and goings, any of it. He was too tired most nights to check even the most essential of his social media, Instagram, and Snapchat to go with it of course. And though they’d spent some time apart, it surely hadn’t felt like they’d drifted apart, and that was all that mattered.

“Vogue? For real? So you’re living that Devil Wears Prada life now? Or do you have a better job than bringing Anna her daily coffee and praying you got the right cream-to-coffee ratio?” He sounded impressed, surprised, and he was. She’d been steadily working her way through the ranks, and sure, maybe who her family was and who she was had something to do with her quicker-than-most-interns rise, but he was still proud. They didn’t take just anyone on at Vogue, and her prowess and knowledge of fashion was nothing to shake a mere stick at. 

“I’m….good, alright I guess,” he said, with a sigh that seemed to underline that he was tired more than any other adjective. “Working at Scratched, scratching out a record, still trying to find a label. You know, maybe making it big a second time just isn’t in the cards for me,” he pondered gazing intently down his glass of scotch, before taking a generous drink, a scowl forming at the bitterness of the alcohol but not out of distaste. “Like maybe I had my one big shot already, and two just isn’t realistic in this or any other world. I’m not saying that like it’s a bad thing, though. Lots of great musicians went underappreciated for most of their life. Daniel Johnston, Sixto Rodriguez, you name it. —Not that I’m even calling myself a great musician, but even half the press that Mac DeMarco gets would be nice…” He took another, smaller sip. “Maybe I should go solo?”

“I mean, that was a bit of a set up on my part to imply I’m grounded anywhere, but when I speak of ‘home’, I think of a townhouse I got on the upper east side about six months ago. There’s another apartment in the area-- in case I’d rather be a bit higher up, but I don’t go there very often. Hosted a couple parties there, smashed a floor-to-ceiling window, got it fixed the same day, whatever. Then there’s the same apartment in Westbrook-- I haven’t been to it in a while, the Blackwood manor, featuring white marble turned gray with dust because I don’t care, an apartment in Paris, and I’m thinking of dropping a couple mil on a house there, too-- Real estate turned out to be a fun little side-project, not that I care to invest for selling purposes, I just like the choice.” She paused to take a sip, realizing how long she’d rambled. It was a miracle that he let her speak at such lengths; maybe he was just being polite and not interrupting her, maybe he genuinely cared. Hopefully the latter.

“Surprisingly, it’s not horrible. No coffee runs, no useless tasks. I’m nobody’s bitch. I sit, I watch, I take notes, I stay at least thirty feet away from Miss Wintour lest she put me through the shredder. I get to yell at lower interns, too, if I want, which is all I needed. I technically am an intern to Grace Coddington, and she seems to adore me. Which, if I play my cards right, means I could be looking at an actual position by next summer.” She paused again, smiling to herself. To put her situation in words-- to explain that a dream was finally manifesting itself-- it felt fucking good. The images Grace and her flaming hair smiling down at her in one massive closet or another among de la Renta and Chanel archives, or glancing over at Sam madly scribbling away in a corner during a conference were all real, and yet, blurred by the fantasy that made it feel so impossibly dream-like. It was too perfect.

“Are you enjoying yourself, Judas?” Blunt, maybe. But important. Jude as a starving artist was the position he’d always been frozen in her mind as. She only wished she had the notoriety to skyrocket him to fame by her own hands if she could. Perhaps the money could go to use for some production skills... “Better than being miserable in some 9-to-5 dressed in Men’s Warehouse sales stock or wearing black caps and red shirts selling McNuggets by the second? You could go out on your own. I’m sure you’d generate a fanbase of thirsty girls hovering around the age of consent, but that might involve some degree of selling out, which I’m not sure how comfortable you’d be doing. Dr. Luke might make you his next slave. You’re hot enough for the part, though.”