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rosewaterandivy · 16 hours ago

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Thank you my love!

Cathedrals

Summary: In the cathedrals of New York and Rome / There is a feeling that you should just go home

Pairing: past s.h. x f!oc

W.C.: 1.8k

Warnings: angst, rich people being, you guessed it, rich, sad boy steve, actor!steve, rockstar!reader

hit me like a hook of the right m.list

“Hey,” He says, stepping next to you in the Sackler wing as you eye the Temple of Dendur.

It’s a rare moment to yourself in an otherwise packed event. You sigh and take a sip from your champagne, thinking that maybe if you stay silent long enough you can simply will this moment away.

He looks good, but it’s not hard for a man to do at the Met Gala— show up in a tailored suit with an appropriate accessory and call it a day. His hair is longer, starting to curl at the nape of his neck in a way that makes you want to run your fingers through it.

“Hi,” You allow, keeping your gaze forward on the blocks of stone.

And there’s a million things you could say to him right now, but the most pressing and the one you will absolutely not bring yourself to ask is this: why did you let me go?

You’d rather not have to deal with tears after all the hard work Lisa an her team did on your face. Instead, you keep your eyes forward and take a steadying breath.

“You look good.”

You hum, as if in thought; not accepting the compliment but not out right denying it either. Because yeah, you know you look good— great, even after the past few months without him. And it’s not as drastic as changing your hair and dropping weight, but you’re healthy; you’re good.

The dull accompaniment of people meandering around the wing has fallen to a hush. Sure strides sound out against the pristine floors as a familiar hand falls to the small of your back. Part of you wants to lean into it, into him, all broad chest and the familiar scent of bergamot and spice.

Steve stiffens and takes another sip from his drink, ice clinking in the crystal glass.

The hand winds its way around your hip to settle against your stomach, warm and inviting. The scrape of his stubble against your hairline as he dips down to whisper in your ear sends a shiver through you.

“Ready to go?”

His lips, pink and full, graze the shell of your ear as you nod and turn in his grasp. He drops a kiss to your forehead and holds your glass as you crumple the fabric of your train in your grasp.

“Oh,” You say, taking a step toward the mezzanine. “This is my friend, Steve Harrington.”

He stops at your side, offering you an arm for balance that you gladly take, and goes to shake his hand.

“Nice to meet you man,” He says, pumping Steve’s hand in a firm shake. “I’m Sebastian.”

“I, uh,” Steve eloquently replies, eyes flitting between you and your escort. “Yeah, nice to meet you too.”

Greetings aside, Sebastian smiles at you and tosses over his shoulder, “See you in there!” His free hand wrapped around your waist as the pair of you navigate yourselves to the table for dinner.

A refreshed drink awaits you, thankfully, as you settle the skirt and train around your chair. Polite greetings and acknowledgements are made at the table as the first course arrives, but you can’t bring yourself to eat.

His hand is warm through the layers of tulle, organza, and silk against your thigh, a subtle squeeze every so often that says I’m here, I’ve got you.

Blue eyes, like storm at sea, meet yours as he takes a sip from his drink. And it must be clear from the expression on your face that something isn’t quite right. His fingers twine with yours and rest against his thigh, his thumb rubbing in circles on your hand.

There’s several courses to go, plus the schmoozing present at every industry event. You have a phone hand-off to do with the Loewe girls, and then there’s the after parties. Thank god you’re not performing this year— small miracles.

Picking up your fork, you make an effort to push some food across your plate as Alessandro speaks in rapid fire Italian to your right. You responses are polite and infrequent, you hear him mutter something like, “Cara mia,” before someone approaches your table.

“Sorry to interrupt,” He says, as your blood runs cold. “But could I just borrow her for a minute?”

Alessandro looks at you, dramatic eyebrow raise and everything, while Sebastian sits, seemingly unaffected.

“Well,” Your date replies, “I suppose that’s up to her.”

As if this night could get any worse.

Polishing off your drink, you quickly stand— the sooner you get this dealt with, the better. You give Alessandro an eye roll as you turn to go, pausing to kiss Seb on the lips.

“Be back in five,” You say, thumb grazing against his jawline. “Get me another drink?”

He nods, assured, and drops your hand only when forced, the distance growing between you.

Steve leads you back towards the Rockefeller wing, not stopping his stride until you’re in the Greco-Roman corner, stood in front of the marble statue of Aphrodite.

Your feet ache, your heels this evening weren’t exactly chosen with comfort in mind, and suck in breaths like nobody’s business— the bodice of your gown suddenly feeling tight.

“What do you want Steve?”

He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated, and stares at the statue before him. Like he can’t even look you in the eye.

And then, he laughs.

“Are you shitting me?”

His tone is cutting, incredulous, and cruel.

You cross your arms and don’t dignify his question with a response. As if he has any right to ask that of you.

“I mean, he’s not— You’re not—” He keeps cutting himself off, fearing the words may be true if he comes out and just says it.

“Together?”

Steve drops his hand from his hair and turns. Fuck. That was not a good idea.

You look amazing, you always do, and you’re definitely going to end up on a Best Dressed list of some kind for the evening. He’s heard enough rumblings to know you’re wearing something archival and looking damn good doing it.

You don’t take a step closer, nor do you look at him.

And, okay, he can admits that stings a little.

“That’s none of your business.”

Your voice is soft, but echoes in the cavernous wing nonetheless.

“Yeah,” He sighs, “I guess not.”

He just can’t wrap his head around it– you’re, well you, a Grammy-award winning artists who tours the globe and headlines things like Coachella. How can you be with someone like that? I mean, does this guy even know what Coachella is?

“What?” Your voice breaks the uncomfortable silence, “Your face is doing that thing Steve; what could you possibly want to say to me about my presumed relationship?”

“He’s just so…” Steve trails off, there really is no eloquent way to say this. “Old.”

Your scoff is loud and the expression on your face is— well, one he hasn’t exactly seen before. And he can’t say he likes being on the receiving end of it.

“Wow,” You say, stepping back and hitching your skirt in hand. “Sorry I’m not out there fucking every twenty-something that moves, Harrington.”

And yeah, he deserves that.

“But then again,” You toss over your shoulder as you turn to leave, “Babysitting was always more your forte.”

The red bottoms of your heels click as you walk away, back to the party and your date.

Steve feels like an idiot.

The plan was to play it cool and friendly, ask how you’d been and hopefully lead up to some sort of conversation. Instead, he got jealous. Saw the way someone who is not him wrapped his arm around you and how you sank back into him, comfortable, safe.

Saw the way he looked at you, bemused and adoring, the way he anticipated your movements and held your drink. And then, at dinner, how you smiled fondly at something he’d said or done, hands intertwined on his thigh.

And it was as if Steve’s chest was caving in. He couldn’t stop himself from walking over there under some false pretense, for just another moment of your time. How unaffected this man was, not even threatened by his current lover’s former lover, how he deferred to you and your decision.

Part of Steve wondered what that must be like, to be so secure in yourself and your relationship. Was that something that came with age, experience, or both? It did nothing to assuage the anger in his gut, even as you followed him out of the mezzanine and to the far corner of the main floor of the Met.

He wanted to say so many things, to ask if this man even knew where or what your favorite piece was in here. It was all he could think about during the red carpet and press line earlier this evening, how the two of you had somehow managed to go incognito one day last summer, before everything fell to shit.

How you’d spent hours at the Met, walking from one exhibit to the next. Talking about artists and color in hushed tones. You had never been much for religion, but you treated museums with more reverence than most penitents in a cathedral. How casually you’d asked his opinion on things he knew nothing about, reassured him that art wasn’t about critiquing schools or technique, but rather how it made you feel.

You’d drug him to the European paintings on that day, fingers slotted against his, tugging him along. Spoke softly about Buoninsegna’s Madonna and Child and it stuck him how small it was in comparison to the larger works, like Degas and Rembrandt. There were scorch marks from candles along the bottom of the frame, and you’d said it was because this was a piece in someone’s home– a personal altar.

People would pass it each and every day going about their lives, lighting candles in commemoration of the Virgin Mother and her Christ child. He remembers how you looked, awestruck underneath your ballcap, as if you were seeing it for the first time.

“Art should be for the people,” You’d said then, “The public. Things like this,” You’d gestured around the room, “Aren’t meant to be bought at Sotheby’s and displayed in millionaires homes alongside a Chagall or Kandinsky.”

And he’d agreed with you, he still does now.

So when he finds himself in front of the very same painting, Steve’s not all that surprised. As he studies the child’s hand, how how to seems to brush aside his mother’s veil, he wonders:

Does he know your favorite piece? How you like to loudly discuss that the artifacts from Greece, Egypt, Africa, and Asia should be returned to their ancestral homes, that it’s nothing more than theft that fills the coffers of museums? Does he, wrongly, assume that you prefer the ballerinas of Degas or a girl with a pearl earring?

Does he know you as well as Steve does did?

He knows he won’t get answers, and that he’s torturing himself by even thinking of them, of you. Steve sighs and leaves the empty exhibit room, wondering what he’d do if this feeling was to ever abate.

Afterall, how can he be homesick for a home that he has no right to call his own?

#comment reblogs ��

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rosewaterandivy · 2 days ago

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Thank you my love! I do be lovin & missin some down bad Steve & meddling Eddie‼️

won me over in spite of me

summary: after having met at the 2020 rock n' roll hall of fame induction ceremony, eddie munson will not leave you be. keeps going on about this guy who'd be perfect for you, but you're not interested in another set-up.

a/n: long live rockstar!eddie and his meddling ways!

🎶 you are the bearer of unconditional things, you held you breath and the door for me, thanks for your patience 🎶

“I’m so sorry,” you say, badly covering yet another yawn. “I don’t know why I’m so tired today.”

A lie. Of course you knew, how could you not?

“Something keep you awake?” he asks, voice soft against the crashing tide.

You’re walking side by side in the fading light, the salty breeze tickling your nose. He’s holding your boots in one hand, insisting that they’re too nice for you to resign them to the sand, your socks tucked into his back pocket.

An amber glow cuts across his face, making him even more handsome, impossibly enough. You bite your lip, looking quickly away when his eyes meet yours— mossy green and flecked with gold.

“The jet lag, probably.” You huff and laugh, turning to watch the sunset.

He hums in thought, “We could’ve rescheduled.”

“What? like we haven’t done that several times over already?”

His bark of laughter is loud and brings a smile to your face. Steve Harrington, the talented and in-demand actor, laughing at your motor mouth. Who would have thought?

Well, Eddie Munson, for one.

“Eds,” you growl picking up your phone, “It’s 4 in the fucking morning.”

“… shit, sorry.”

You roll over onto your stomach, wedging the phone between your ear and shoulder.

“Well, what is it? What couldn’t you possibly wait to badger me about?”

He sighs down the line, you can almost hear him rolling his eyes. “Remember how you were drunkenly lamenting the lack of decent men in the dating scene?”

“I told you that in confidence, Edward.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he waves you off, “And apps are the worst, even if they claim to have a screening process like Raya— that’s not your scene.”

“Can I go back to sleep now?”

“Will you just lemme,” he lets out an exasperated huff. “I am trying to you a solid girly.”

A brief consideration.

“You know how I feel about set-ups.”

“Okay, but it’s me? I’m not gonna set you up with some creep who has like, a collection of Furbies or some shit.”

“Long Furbies or normal Furbies?”

“Was any Furby truly normal? More like demon spawn— but that’s beside the point.”

You sigh, smooshing your face into the pillow and mumble out something unintelligible.

“C’mon sugar, use your big girl words.”

God, you could kill him.

“I said,” you enunciate pointedly, “I’ll consider it.”

“Hell yeah!” he crows directly into your ear. “Only a year of bugging you and you finally see reason.”

“I’ll be the judge of that, Munson.”

He ends the call by promising to send you the details. so, after your set in Munich you read through a few emails— put out a few fires your publicist expressed concern about, and check your texts.

eds: steve harrington

you: i’m sorry who?

eds: … are you fucking with me?

you: no??

eds: omg 😆 he’s gonna love that

you: the guy you’re trying to set me up with gets off on people not knowing who he is? not really selling it to me here, munson.

eds: no, that’s not— i’ll send you a pic

you: if there is a whisper of dick, i am throwing my phone into the isar river

eds: [IMG]

“Really?” you greet once he picks up, “That’s the pic? How is that supposed to be helpful?”

“Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“Shut up, nerd. I know you don’t sleep. Just answer the question.”

“Ah, you caught me,” he laughs softly. “It’s his contact photo in my phone— whaddaya want from me? You said you didn’t want a dick pic.”

You take a deep breath, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Eds, why would you have seen this guy’s dick, much less have a photo of it?”

“Truthfully, it was an accident, both times.” You can hear him shuffling across the line. “But there is nothing wrong with dudes checking out each other’s rigs.”

“I—" your mouth is gaping open like a fish. “I need to drink myself to oblivion to forget this conversation.”

“I mean, it’s noice, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he says unhelpfully.

“GOODBYE Edward!”

Thankfully, he calls not long after the disastrous text exchange. You were doing fuck-all lounging around the house since finishing your festival circuit. Technically, this was supposed to be a writing day, but the muse had not been kind to you lately. Studio time was booked for a few weeks out, and you were struggling to come up with the motivation to finish the last few songs for the album.

The buzz of the phone provided a needed excuse to pack it in for the day. Shutting your journal and tossing a pen onto the coffee table, you answered the call.

"Hello?"

"Uh, yeah. Hi." He cleared his throat briefly, "M'glad you picked up, considering how much of an idiot I was. Sorry, by the way."

Steve's voice is low and raspy, but warm and inviting. You lean back on the leather sofa, sinking back into the cushions suddenly not so nervous.

"Well, I'm a nice person, second chances and all that."

He laughs at that. "Very gracious of you."

"Though," you say, "You never did confirm that this is, in fact, Steve Harrington that I am speaking with."

"No?"

"Nope," you pop the 'p' for emphasis. "So, I'm gonna have to ask for some sort of proof because Eddie was less than helpful."

He scoffs, "Typical Munson."

A moment later your phone pings with a notification: s.h. sent an image. Opening it up, you compare it to the images that pop up when you Google his name, and, sure enough, that's him.

"Better?" he asks, after giving you a moment.

"I suppose it'll do. Not like I'm about to suggest facetime," you sigh, running a hand through your unkempt hair. "Especially when I'm rocking writer's retreat chic."

"Mmm," he hums, "Sounds comfy. I'm jealous."

"Yeah?" you laugh, "They not let you roll up in sweats and bleach-stained shirts for your shoot today?"

His laughter greets you, "Y'know, oddly they don't?"

The conversation flows easily from there. He tells you what he can about his current project and you regale him with tales from life on the road, including special appearances by one Eddie Munson. Steve is easy to talk to— effusive and funny, which you hadn’t expected.

You hate to admit it, but Eddie may have been onto something.

“And then he—" Steve stops short, mid-story about a prank gone awry onset of his last project, muttering an apology and you can hear him open the door.

"Mr. Harrington, they're ready for you on set."

Trying to ignore the sour pull of your gut, you heave yourself off of the couch determined to do at least one productive thing today. He had to get back to set, you needed to get something done today, and the conversation was coming to a close.

The door closes with a soft click, quickly followed by Steve's sigh. "So, I gotta get back to work."

"Yeah," you clear your throat. "I guess I should too."

"I, uh, I'm really glad we got to talk." His voice was softer now, "C-could I call you later?"

"Oh, sure." You swallow the nerves creeping up your throat and ignore the kick of your heart in your chest. "I'd like that."

"Yeah?"

You screw your eyes shut, feeling yourself growing hot. "Don't get a big head about it, Harrington."

He laughs, breath blowing in huffs down the line. "Might be too late for that honey."

Numerous phone and FaceTime calls, messages, and several reschedulings later, you were going on a date with Steve. A first date at that, and you couldn't recall the last time you'd been on one of those. His assistant and best friend, Robin had called to confirm with you and promised to drop a pin of the place in Malibu where you'd meet him.

You were lucky enough to fly relatively under the radar most of the time, but since releasing and touring with your sophomore album, it was becoming more difficult to pull off. Not that you didn't like being nominated and winning awards or receiving feedback from your peers— you did, it was just a cosmic catch-22.

Steve completely understood when you'd mentioned not wanting anything especially public for the date. Just said he'd take care of it and for you not to worry about a thing.

But here you were, doing just that staring at your closet trying to find something to wear. In a panic, you'd called Eddie who was currently rifling through your dresser and tossing things behind him. The only thing you'd been able to agree on were the denim shorts, laid out on the bed awaiting the rest of your outfit.

"Aha!" He tossed a red top onto the bed, turning back to face you. "Those," he gestured to the shirt and shorts, "With your boots— the Docs or Blood—"

“Blundstone.”

"Right," he nods, "S'what I said."

You appraise the articles of clothing warily. "Okay."

"Now the lingerie situation is where it gets interesting."

You scoff, "Absolutely not." And begin herding him toward the door, "Consider your services done for the evening."

Shutting the door to change, you hear Eddie talking indistinctly in the hallway. Tieing the hem of the shirt into a knot, you let Eddie back in to assess.

With a nod of approval, he ends the call. "What's up, hot stuff? Harrington's not gonna know what hit him!"

You smile and walk to the mirror in the bathroom to see what can be done about your hair and makeup.

"Speaking of which," Eddie trails after you. "That was him on the phone. Fashion emergency, would you believe?"

"Uh huh," you roll your eyes. "Okay, Miranda Priestly."

"Anyway, I gotta run." He gives you a quick peck on the cheek and a smile. "You're gonna knock 'em dead!"

And he's off.

"Hey," Eddie shouts from the first-floor entryway. "Keep your hair down and do a red lip with that, sugar!"

Steve meets you at the beach. He’s dressed down in jeans and t-shirt and a red bomber jacket— you try to hide the smirk creeping its way across your face; Eddie purposefully curating your respective sartorial choices to match. What a little scamp. You park the car, a vintage cream Mercedes convertible and give yourself a final look in the mirror— hair voluminous and wind whipped (shout-out to leave in stylers), red lip matching your top to a tee.

Well, here goes nothing.

“Hi,” he greets you, a bouquet of your favorite flowers in hand. Steve opens the door for you, allowing you to step out and put your sunglasses on.

The door shuts with a soft click.

“Hi,” you reply with a small smile, willing the nerves bubbling in your chest to stay at bay. You nod to the bundle of flowers, “Those for me?”

“Oh, right.” As if he’s just remembered them. “Yeah, your assistant said these were your favorite so.” He extends the hand holding the bouquet toward you, almost hesitantly.

“They are,” you say, fingers brushing against his as you accept the flowers, paper and cellophane crinkling in your grasp. Bringing them to your nose, you breathe in the fresh fragrance of the flowers. “You did good Harrington, thank you.”

He ducks his head and smiles, one hand coming up to run through his hair. “Uh, you're welcome. I’m glad you like them.” He jerks his head toward the beach, “We’re set-up a bit further down. You don’t mind a walk, do you?” You can feel his eyes on you, even as you look away to the shoreline.

A shake of your head, skin warming from the sun overhead and excitement at the possibility of this new thing between you and Steve. What might it be like? To put yourself through it all again, with someone new?

“No,” you answer, jarring yourself from any further lines of inquiry. “I don’t mind at all. Lead the way!”

He slows his pace to walk beside you, sunglasses hiding his gaze. You hold the flowers in your left hand, leaving your right— the one closest to Steve, free. He walks on the right, keeping the damp sand of the shore from you. It reminds you of something your grandmother said way back when you had started entertaining thoughts about dating for the first time: A gentleman always walks on the outside of their date, it’s a sign of chivalry and respect.

Your hands brush a couple of times, pinkies grazing one another. Steve is quiet, more so than you’d been accustomed to— he’s a regular chatterbox on the phone and a texting fiend, more often than not. Maybe he’s nervous? He certainly wouldn’t be the only one. Hands bumping against each other once more, you take it upon yourself make the first move.

“If you wanted to hold my hand so badly,” you laugh, twining your fingers together, “You could’ve just asked Steve.”

He looks at you, pink flush on his cheeks and a beatific smile. “Sorry,” he says with a squeeze of your hand, “Guess I’m a little rusty. And nervous,” he admits shyly. “You’re just so—“

“Intimidating? I get that a lot.”

Steve stops short, looking at you once more. “No— I mean, maybe to some but,” he pushes his sunglasses up into his hair. “You’re … beautiful.”

It’s an interesting phrase and you notice that it’s not the usual you look beautiful. But instead he’s said it as a declaration of fact— you are beautiful. Not in the way that relies on your looks or the clothes you’re wearing. And it’s nice— it’s sincere because that’s just how Steve Harrington is, as you’ve come to quickly learn.

“Sorry, was that—“

“Don’t apologize,” you say, when you’ve found your voice again. “I— thank you.” You duck your chin to hide your stupid grin. “You’re beautiful too, Steve.”

The walk resumes, both of you more at ease now. The conversation flows easily between you— work, friends, schedules— and you allow yourself to relax. First-date jitters subsided with the cadence of his voice and the warmth of his hand engulfing yours.

Maybe, just maybe this could become something real.

And, if so, Eddie Munson would never let you hear the end of it.

#comment reblogs 🥰#tom 💚

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rosewaterandivy · 3 days ago

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Okay all -- few quick thoughts about the Elon Muskifying of the government, especially the takeover of the Treasury and associated financial data for every single US citizen and organization, that we are learning about in detail today.

Don't panic. This sounds bad, because it is bad. It's really, really bad. It's outrageously fascist bad. But we've still gotta take a deep breath and get through it.

This is the kind of shock-and-awe exercise of untrammeled fascist power where they are absolutely counting on gleefully terrorizing, paralyzing, and stunning you into mounting no resistance, or just giving up and giving in. They are literally live-tweeting it in real time and boasting about all the access and influence they have right now. They want you to know about it and feel like you can't do anything, so you might as well let it happen.

We have to show them that's not true.

TIME TO MAKE SOME NOISE. Because it's Sunday night, I've gone ahead and contacted my state Attorney General and both senators by email (but come Monday morning, we should all be calling). Here is the email that I wrote to my AG:

Dear Mr. [AG],

As you will be aware, today (February 2, 2025) the Trump administration has granted wide-ranging access to sensitive US Treasury data, including the personal and private information of [state] citizens, to Elon Musk's so-called "Department of Government Efficiency." Musk is an unelected private citizen who has no legal right to access this data, and is engaging in extensive intimidation and coercion to fulfill his personal and harmful ideological agenda. The present and material harm that this causes to US citizens, [state] residents, and basic laws of government, privacy, and financial security is direct, unconscionable, and actionable. I strongly urge you, in your capacity as [state] Attorney General, to file direct suit against the Trump administration, Elon Musk, the "DOGE" office, and any identifiable individuals who have taken part in this action, in order to protect consumer data, citizen privacy, and basic faith and trust in government.

All the best,

[Qqueenofhades]

Short! To the point! Doesn't waste time, tells him what I want him to do, how Elmo's nonsense directly harms the residents of my state, and why he should take action to stop it! And frankly, given how on-the-ball blue-state AGs have been thus far, they're probably already working on it. You are very welcome to copy-and-paste this message and fill in your AG's last name and your state as appropriate. Super easy to do. Takes five minutes. Call tomorrow.

If you are in a red state, your voice is particularly important right now. The Trumpsters are counting on and are even emboldened by blue state pushback, but you really need to make it start coming from Republican strongholds. Congressional Republicans will only feel the slightest amount of unease about docilely enabling this BS when it starts threatening their own personal power. Hit them where it hurts.

Other lawsuits are coming. Marc Elias, Democratic lawyer extraordinaire, is well aware of this situation and has noted on Bluesky that more lawsuits are in the works. He often wins his cases. This does not mean that you shouldn't loudly make noise elsewhere, but please remember that this is one of those 24-hour periods where, as noted, they are counting on demoralizing you with a nonstop blizzard of bullshit. It does not say anything about how this will play out long-term or the opposition that can and will be mobilized to stop it.

Once again: courage. Take the small steps that you can do today. Then take a breath and get off social media for a little while. Try to take the long view. One step at a time, we will get through this.

Courage.

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