rosewaterandivy · 1 year ago
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the injury of finally knowing you
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summary: you’ve followed a cardinal rule all your life— don’t fall in love. something meant to protect you and put and end to the curse plaguing the women of your family. but then Steve Harrington waltzed into your shop and ruined all of your carefully laid plans.
pairing: s.h. x witch!reader
warnings: slow burn, stubborn and obstinate reader, steve “thinks he’s suave” harrington, magic & the like, eventual smut (you thought I was poetic before?? oh ho ho, hold onto your hats!)
a/n: calling all the autumn babes! enjoy some cozy witchy fare spurned by my constant rewatching of 90s witchy movie realness!
playlist | inspo tag | pinterest board
🎶 I'd walk so far just to take the injury of finally knowing you 🎶
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chapter index:
i. keep the embers blowing
ii. let me dream of you
iii. drank dry the river lethe
iv. hunger hurts, but starving works
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bonus features:
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one shots:
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drabbles/hcs/etc:
moodboard
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currently accepting headcanon/drabble requests and discussions for this series, feel free to send something in!
P.S. I do not do tag lists, if you want to keep up with this fic, please bookmark this post or follow me directly, thank you.
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rosewaterandivy · 1 year ago
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ii. let me dream of you
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summary: interrupted dreams, meddling friends, and a storm.
pairing: s.h. x witch!reader
w.c.: 3.6k
warnings: my blog is 18+ MDNI; vague allusions to magic and the like, carpenter & flannel-wearing Steve.
a/n: here she is, as promised! i would like to thank alice hoffman and her exquisite prose, for bringing us the ULTIMATE autumn vibes with practical magic.
Nota bene: Reblogging, commenting, and liking my work is always appreciated! Reposting, however, is not. Enjoy! 💜
Series Masterlist | Playlist | Currently spinning:
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On the tenth day of the tenth month, you’d decided that you’d had enough. Sick of waking up breathless and in an inferno of heat, a fever you couldn’t possibly sweat out. Haunted by kind hazel eyes and a soft smile, a faint cloud of wood and sap taunting you at every turn. 
You were good on your own.
Always had been.
And the arrival of a carpenter down the block had changed nothing.
Except that now you would wake at odd hours of the night, only to see a warm amber glow from his house down the way. Mimicking the purple hue from your own room, you were sure. Interrupted sleep, walking around in a daze, hallucinating that you’re seeing him in places he ought not be— in your kitchen, at your favorite cafe, in your dreams.
Tangled in the well-worn sheets of your bed. Resplendent and golden in the early morning light. Your fingers threading through his hair as rough, warm hands slid down your sides to grip onto your hips, giving a gentle squeeze. His arms wrapped around you tightly, pulling your body flush with his as you settled in his lap, an agonizing ache spreading steadily throughout your body. 
His hot mouth traveled up your neck until his lips met yours with a soft groan, the sound setting your skin ablaze as you sunk into him more, desperate to be close. Skin to skin. Your fingers flexing in his hair as you ground your hips into his, reveling in the low whine that managed to slip up his throat. 
It was intoxicating. He was intoxicating. His taste and warmth and the sounds that he made making your head go hazy in the best way as you thrummed with need. Desire swooping low in your stomach to leave the most tender of aches. Your body begged for him. You could never get enough. You felt crazy.
Your mouth met his neck in a soft suck, his breath catching in his throat as you licked and bit. Nosing along the column of his throat to settle just beneath his ear, infatuated with the dusting of freckles and moles there. 
It felt like his heart was about to beat out of his chest, pounding against the cage of his ribs looking for a way out. Skin erupting in goosebumps when your sweet breath caresses his skin.
“Thought about this before?” You asked softly, scratching your nails down his shoulders until you could squeeze his biceps.
“How did you–”
“Could feel it,” you admit with a smile to his pulse point, pressing a kiss there just so you could feel it thrum against your lips. “I don’t know. Just … could tell.”
He squeezed your hips harder still, pulling you closer against him, not even an inch of space between your bodies and yet still not close enough. His chest was heaving, hips arching up against his will, dying to relieve some of the ache.
“Me too.” He murmured the confession up to the ceiling, his voice just above a whisper. “Want you so badly.”
You reached down to feel the hard length of him through the rumpled sheets. The small catch in his breath encouraging you to rub your palm over him. You looked up as his head tilted back, neck on full display, his adam’s apple bobbing in his throat alluringly.
“Then take me.”
His heart skipped a beat, your words doing more to him than he thought possible. Words he’d imagined falling from your kiss-bitten lips more often than he’d care to admit. He wanted more, needed more. Needed you to say all the things he’d been feeling and too afraid to admit. 
And then Steve’s heart plummeted, his eyes blinking in the warm sunlight as his alarm blared on the nightstand. He looked around his empty bedroom in confusion, his brain lagging on what was happening, your hazy form slipping through the recesses of his mind and then it dawned on him.
A dream.
And a wet one at that.
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Up at the shop, things were picking up as summer turned to autumn and you couldn’t recall the last time you had a day off. Everyone in town, it seemed, had a sudden hankering to descend upon Bell, Book, & Candle in preparation for the season.
The phone rang as you finished with a customer. Excusing yourself, you left to answer it only to find Tracy with the receiver in her hand nodding along and taking notes on a scrap of receipt paper. “Of course, we’ll be here to let them in. Thanks so much!” She chirped a goodbye and placed the phone back in its cradle against the wall. 
“Who was that?” You asked, stepping behind the counter to check the day’s to-do list. Most of the items had been crossed out— Inventory, Call in replen order, Front window display?, Bank deposit, File invoices. But something had been added to the bottom of the list in Tracy’s handwriting: H & M - 8 PM.
“Oh, just the construction company confirming our appointment.”
“Appointment for…?”
She gestured to the built-ins, “The teak? Your new neighbor mentioned it the other day.”
“Yeah,” you huff, “As a suggestion. One I haven’t had the time to consider.”
“Well,” she drawled with a saccharine smile, “Luckily for you, I’ve had the time and I think he’s onto something.”
“Hmm,” you hum, as if considering her point. “Do you also happen to have the money this will set us back?”
Mouth turning up at the corners, she propped an elbow against the desk. “Thought you could just magic some out of thin air. You’re a Callahan, after all.”
Eyes rolling, you scoff and turn back to the task at hand. The oft-dreaded inventory; you grab a pen and a legal pad, trotting off to the stock-room. Getting off of the shop floor was a blessing, nevermind that it was late in the day and you’d be closing up soon— customer after customer needing special attention or clamoring that the item in question wasn’t there, when it was clearly right in front of their noses.
Tracy can handle the stragglers of the day, besides she loathed inventory even more than you did. Mollified by the gentle pitter patter of rain falling on the roof, you let your mind wander. Business was good, Tracy and the aunts were doing well— no complaints there. But something was niggling at the back of your skull, darting to and fro before you could get a good, hard look at it. Annoying, yes but not distractingly so. 
The blue bic pen scratches against the paper as you note specific items and quantities, starring those that are running a bit low, prioritizing any with ample back stock for the shop floor. Making your way around the room from shelf to shelf, you lost yourself to the familiar routine.
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Eddie and Steve were finishing up a job, an installation of a washer and dryer for a new mom. She’d offered them refreshments and checked on them every so often, occasionally with the newborn in tow. 
Steve was checking the input while Eddie wiped down the machines to clear any dust that may have settled. He eyes Steve, wondering what could’ve gotten into the man— up at odd hours of the night, walking from one room to the next only to forget why as soon as he’d arrived, and a faint, hazy look in his eye.
“You remember Trish?”
Steve grunts. “That Wiccan chick you dated?”
Eddie rolls his eyes, “She was pagan, but yeah.” 
He pockets the rag, steps back to allow Steve some room to assess the laundry unit.
“You remember that reading she gave you?”
A snort. “Once you fall in love,” he quotes with a laugh, “It’ll be forever.” 
He couldn’t help but disagree. While his conquests were plenty, and true, he didn’t love most of them, but there had been a few.
“Tell that to Nance.”
Now it’s Eddie’s turn to scoff. “Nah man,” He says, following Steve out into the kitchen. “You didn’t love her, not really.”
Steve ruefully bites his bottom lip. Yeah, maybe. “She’s better off now anyways.”
A clap of a warm hand to his shoulder as Eddie gives him a shake, “That’s the spirit!” And leaves to let the client know they’re done.
Steve grabs the tools and eyes the kitchen table, something from IKEA and already showing wear and tear. Knows he could do better— salvaged wood, something study and timeless. He leaves their card on the table and steps out the door.
The woman waves from the living room, still in conversation with Eddie, who is currently holding the baby for the time being. He nods to Steve, a signal that he’ll be done soon, before turning back to the conversation. 
He tosses the tool belt into the bed of the truck begins to roll down the sleeves of his flannel. Steve’s so wound up, he can’t think of anything but you, the Callahan girl with the shop on main street. The soft purple light from the house down the block. He’s started carrying a knife around with him, in order to whittle some odds and ends from scrap lumber. Something, anything to do to keep his mind off of you.
Met you all of one time and he wants you so bad, that he’s fucking you in his head when he should be doing things like paying attention to pedestrians as he’s driving or helping his widowed neighbor with her garden and hedges. Steve had always run warm, but now he’s so overheated that the cuffs of his shirts are singed. He’s hard constantly, ready for something that looks as if it’s never going to happen.
“Ready to go?”
Steve settles into the driver’s seat and sighs. As the engine turns over, the sky takes on a darker hue, more gray than blue with rolling clouds. 
“She was nice,” Eddie says, flipping through invoices from the passenger seat. “Said she might be calling us for a kitchen reno.”
Steve scoffs, “That kitchen doesn’t need a reno, just a table that isn’t a piece of shit.”
“Yeah,” Eddie’s lips curl up in a smile, “Told her about your carpentry skills, dude.”
He hmms in response. 
They pull up to the house on Willow Lane, Robin already bounding out of the garage to meet them. She’s got a few pieces of paper in her hand, and begins rattling off names and addresses for estimates.
“And, oh–” She follows them into the workshop, Steve shouldering his tool belt while Eddie frantically scribbled on a legal pad. “Tracy at Bell, Book, & Candle called to say the service entrance will be open for you.”
Steve furrows his brow, “Tracy?”
“Yeah,” Robin confirms, “Eddie did an estimate for her a few days ago. Re-oiling the teak built-ins? She won’t be there but the owner will.”
He stills. “Oh, right.”
Eddie smirks, and elbows Robin conspiratorially. “Y’know, I just remembered I promised I’d help Robs tonight.”
“Yeah!” She chimes in, “With the uh, thing.”
He stifles a laugh, “Uh huh, the thing.” Eddie turns to Steve, “You can handle this solo, right, big boy?”
Steve, for his part, is in a daze and while he registers what they’ve said, it never seems to reach him. Bell, Book, & Candle, isn’t that Callahan’s place? He’s got a lump in his throat just thinking about you. Already imagining the things you could do if the two of you were alone together. Steve could forget the reason he’s there in the first place if he’s not careful. He could make a very stupid mistake.
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“Fucking Christ!” 
“Shit, I am so sorry,” Steve says, letting the service door shut behind him. He sets a small toolbox down and reaches to help you up. 
Startled by his sudden arrival, you’d dropped a blown-glass cloche on the floor and fell in a heap against the industrial shelves of the storeroom. Tentatively, your palm meets his as you allow him to pull you up. His grip was strong and comforting, and you couldn’t help but admire the way his arm flexed ever so slightly as he pulled you up.
“You okay?” He asks, checking you for any nicks or cuts from the glass. 
Steve hasn’t had an easy life, and it shows on his face. There are lines and hollows underneath his eyes that he’s too young to have, and there’s a good bit of loneliness there too, plain for anyone to see. He’s not the kind of man who hides things, but he’s trying desperately to hide his interest in you.
And failing. 
In fact, you can’t quite believe the way he’s staring at you. Would somebody really have the nerve to stand in the storeroom of your business and look at you like this?
Apparently, Steve Harrington would.
“Let me, uh,” His eyes dart to the shattered glass behind you, “I’ll clean that up, just–”
“It’s fine. I can–”
“No, it’s my fault.” He says with a shake of his head, dodging your concerned eyes. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”
When you softly chuckle, Steve looks into your eyes and sees himself upside down. He finds himself in a pool of twilight, drowning, going down for the second time, and there’s nothing he can do about it. He remembers hearing some old wives' tale about how witches caught you this way—they knew how much most men loved themselves and how deeply they’ll let themselves be drawn in, just for a glimpse of their reflection.
Narcissus and the pool. 
Steve has no intention of spurning you like poor Echo, no nothing like that. He intends to go on drowning for a very long time.
“Takes a lot more than that to scare me,” You reply with a soft smile. “Broom is in the supply closet.” A nod to the corner of the room. “I’ll meet you out front?”
Your hair has slipped out of its rubber band. You’re wearing leggings and an oversized sweater, the sleeves keep sliding down your arms even though you’d rolled them up, you’re out of sorts but surprisingly patient. You’re beautiful all right, at least by Steve Harrington’s estimation, you’re exactly what he’d dreamed you’d be, except right there in front of him.
Close enough to touch. 
“Sure thing.” He says, watching you leave the room. 
Steve shakes his head, but that doesn’t clear up the matter. All it does is make him see double. Momentarily there are two of you before him, and each one makes him wish he weren’t here in an official capacity. He forces himself to get the broom and sweep up the glass shards. Thinks about the soft brush of your skin against his, wonders if you’d let him kiss you slow and deep, undress you leisurely in a warm amber glow. 
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Later, in the cool calm of Bell, Book, & Candle, it takes everything you have to keep your nerve and look at Steve. He looks right back at you, irises like crisp evergreen. So quickly that you have to lower your gaze to the floor. 
A recollection of warning from the aunts, that one must be extremely careful looking into eyes like his. Women have lost themselves for a lot less than a glance. You shudder to think of the girls and women who would brave the bluestone path at twilight, desperation roiling off them like so much heat. 
Some came for vengeance, others out of desire. But they all came seeking love.
You would sit at the top of the stairs while the aunts did their work. The hearts of doves pierced seven times, taffeta charm bags stuffed into purses and pockets, a sense of magic crackling through the air. And you swore to yourself that you’d never end up like them, that losing your wits and falling in love was just not for you.
One-night stands a town or so over, frenzied touches in the backseat of cars, tongues and teeth battling for dominance, spit and slick aplenty. A spinster, you were not. The system worked well, allowed you to get out your frustrations, sexual or otherwise, and avoid the curse of the Callahan women.
That each man they loved died.
So no, you wouldn’t fall in love. Couldn’t subject someone to a fate like that, closed off your emotions, and kept your distance. Despite the ringing of the telephone, the calls and messages went unanswered from former paramours. They knew the deal, a one-time thing. It didn’t matter how many bouquets arrived at your doorstep, or cars idling in the street as the light turned green, people distracted enough to cause a fender-bender or two.
“Had a dream about you, I think.” He says, helping you to clear the shelves of product.
The blood drains from your face. Clearing your throat, you keep your voice light. “Oh, yeah?” 
Steve hums, “Mmhmm.” Furrows his brow and tries not to stare while you bend over to pick up a box from the floor. “It was …” He trails off, not used to remembering his dreams. 
It was a new development, having dreams instead of nightmares. One he’d happily take if it meant having you, the peal of your laughter against skin warmed sheets, the soft caress of your fingers trailing down his neck and chest mapping the scars of years past, the taste of you on his lips.
He shakes the thought loose and goes back to the task at hand.
“Good?” You supply to his unfinished thought.
“Yeah.” He smiles at you, so pretty it could launch a thousand ships. Pink tongue darting out to wet his lips, “Real good.”
Breath catching in your chest, you give him a polite smile in return and ignore the swoop low in your stomach.
While Steve is sure you’re deciding whether or not to judge him a liar, he can feel his heart flopping around like a fish in his chest. He’s heard of this happening to other men. They’re going about their business one minute, and suddenly there’s no hope for them. They fall in love so hard they never again get up off their knees.
Not that he would mind getting on his knees for you, if you were to ask.
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Some people believe that every question has a logical answer, there’s an order to everything, which is neat and based on purely empirical evidence. But really, what could it be but luck that the rain doesn’t begin in earnest until Steve starts to sand down the teak shelves of Bell, Book, & Candle.
Lightning, like love, is never ruled by logic.
So when the first bit of it cracks across the sky, you’re watching. While Steve is busy with the sander, you approach a candle and blow on the wick until it catches with flame. A dim amber glow in the creeping dark. Eventually, all the candles are lit and when the storm crashes onto Main Street and cuts the power, Steve barely notices at first.
Because he is so fucked.
He was even before you started lighting the candles, but the soft golden light somehow makes it worse. His vision has never been the best, but even he can make you out in the dark. But now, the candlelight flickers and licks across your skin. Curves illuminated in the soft light, beautiful and radiant.
You smile bright and bite your tongue between your teeth, the whites of them flashing in the light. The scent of a struck match ushers out the scent of you in his nostrils; he misses it. 
Another crack of lightning, close enough to feel the charge, feels himself flush with a white hot heat. With a close call like that, it makes perfect sense that he shakes and drops the belt sander.
The silence stretches between you.
“Sorry,” he breathes out, nice and slow. Steve allows his gaze to linger, drawing against the planes and curves of your face. It’s enough to make his breath catch in his throat when the flicker of candlelight warms your skin.
And this is where he falters. 
Steve doesn’t like being unprepared or out of control. He thrives with a plan, a clear objective and goal. 
You were never part of the plan. Or, any plan really.
The day Steve Harrington met you was the day the world ceased to turn.
He’d never been so struck by someone before.
So unmoored.
He’s keenly aware that there are only a few feet separating the two of you. Not that he minds; he’s close enough now that the scent of you–salt and musk–slightly overpowers the woodsy candles you’ve lit. He far prefers the former.
Knows he would only have to take a step or two to the right to pull you into his orbit. 
There’s a chill in the air as the first thunderclap sounds. The rain falls heavily after that, the worst of the storm whirling through. It floods the room with brisk air and the crisp tang of rain.
He pulls you toward him, warm fingers tilting your chin up to look at him. Somehow, he’s got you tucked and pressed against him, back settled against the shelves before you can register what’s happening. You’re baffled when it hits you, the realization flashing across your face under a crash of lightning.
The green of his eyes is impossible, even in the dim candlelight. But even more than that, what makes your heart stutter in your chest, are the flakes of gold, like a halo dusted around his pupils. You don’t know how you missed it before; Steve looks at you, flushed and dazed, and it all falls into place. 
Oh shit.
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rosewaterandivy · 1 year ago
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i. keep the embers blowing
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summary: family lore and a new resident to your small seaside town.
pairing: s.h. x witch!reader
w.c.: 2.4k
warnings: my blog is 18+ MDNI; vague allusions to magic and the like, carpenter & flannel-wearing Steve, and a meet-cute
a/n: she finishes one series only to begin another! Oy vey. Hope you like, and if you do - let me know!
Nota bene: Reblogging, commenting, and liking my work is always appreciated! Reposting, however, is not. Enjoy! 💜
Series Masterlist | Playlist | Currently spinning:
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For nearly three hundred years, the Callahan women were blamed for everything that went wrong in town. A summer drought and a ruined harvest, a mare and colt lost while she was in foal, a long winter, an outbreak of chicken pox— it didn’t matter if such phenomena could be explained by science or logic, it all ended up with the Callahans as personae non gratae.
Inside the white, two-storey house at the end of the Willow Lane lived an orphaned girl grown into a woman under her aunt’s guiding hands; Kelly and Moira never had children of their own, and when you turned up on their doorstep that fateful day, they welcomed you with open arms and never even batted an eye. In time, they would tell you of the curse that took your father from you and left your mother to die of a broken heart.
Childhood, for you, was filled with a series of small slights and mortifications. No one would touch a pencil or crayon if it was held by you. No one sat with you in the lunchroom. Teachers and parents regarded you with a silent derision and did nothing to temper the taunts of the other children. Boys looked at you like something to be conquered and girls feared you, not that it stymied any of their mean girl behavior.
“Fuck ‘em all,” Kelly would say, throwing more cayenne into the vegetarian chili on the stove. “You’re better off without them, sweets.”
A mantra that sustained you from that day forward.
Sailing through high school to graduate at the top of your class, you fully intended to attend a prestigious university on a full-ride scholarship. The aunts encouraged you to fly the nest and chase your dreams— but then Moira fell sick. You deferred your enrollment for a year, which turned into two and eventually the scholarship was awarded to someone else. Moira’s care fell to you and Kelly, tag-teaming on chauffeur duty and going to doctor’s appointments.
You worked odd jobs around town, entirely dependent on the few townsfolk that would hire you— an abjectly miserable situation. Save for the twist of fate that brought Tracy your way. One day, Moira and Kelly sat you down in front of a large, dusty tome. Sputtering a cough, you batted at the dust motes floating in front of you.
“This,” Kelly said, sliding the book toward you, “Is the family grimoire.”
“It’s well past time you were told, dear heart,” Moira added, with a kind smile.
Tentatively, you brushed a finger against the worn cover of the grimoire tracing the looping ‘C’ of your last name, the gold embossing as bright as if it was newly pressed. They regaled you with the tales of your ancestors, Mary who built this house and worked the curse out of heartbreak and desperation, Sybil who worked the people of the town into an uneasy truce— supplying women with love spells and fertility potions, all the way up to your mother, who fell in love despite knowing the dangers and brought you into the world.
It wasn’t as if they had kept magic from you, far from it, in fact. Kelly and Moira kept up Sybil’s business, as the generations of Callahans before them had. Some years, business was better than others— but the aunts were crafty and seemingly always had something saved for a rainy day. Aside from one small spell in your childhood, you’d simply never expressed an interest in learning the craft. Not wanting to push you, they’d never pressed the issue and assumed you would come to them when, and if, you pleased.
“You were spellbound when you came to us,” Moira says sadly, “Your mother’s handiwork.”
“A bitch and a half to undo,” Kelly adds, taking a long sip from her wine. “You’re free as a bird now though.”
“You showed great promise when you were younger,” Moira smiles, “And I hope we’re not too remiss in beginning your education now.”
She pushes a creased piece of paper your way. You unfold it carefully, the overwhelming scent of cotton blossom and denim invading your nostrils. Reading over your tween-age loopy script in gel pen, a smile blooms on your face.
He will hear my call miles away. He’ll whistle my favorite tune. He always checks his blind spot. He can flip pancakes in the air. He’ll be marvellously kind. He’ll let me map constellations on his skin. His eyes will be as warm as honey and glinting like emeralds.
“What is this?”
Kelly smiles knowingly, “Your half-assed attempt at Amas Veritas.” She plucks the paper from your lax grasp, “If I remember correctly, you were under the impression that if you dreamed up a guy who couldn’t possibly exist, then you wouldn’t be hurt.”
“That the curse would end with me.” Your voice is hushed, recalling how naively you hoped all those years ago. “So, why now?”
It was Moira who answered you with a mischievous grin, “Well, my dear, why not?”
That was a decade ago. In that time, Moira had recovered from her illness, and together with Kelly, they had molded you into quite the talented witch. And after putting yourself through college, you’d opened a shop downtown— Bell, Book, & Candle. Your clientele ranged from tourists to townies and even your childhood tormentors. In time, the Callahan curse had faded from a vindictive tool used by school-yard bullies or "good families" with something to prove, to merely a piece of local lore— In a bind? See the Callahan girl at her shop or take the bluestone path to the back of the old white house on Willow Lane and knock twice on the whitewashed backdoor.
“I don’t know what to tell you,” Tracy called from the tea shelves where she perched on a rolling ladder on the wall. “But we’re completely out of the Assam tea for Mrs. Collins’ Irish Breakfast blend and she’s already called twice about it.” She unceremoniously shoves the empty container back on the shelf and propels herself down to the register.
Worrying your bottom lip between your teeth, you sigh and search for a pencil in your haphazard topknot. “I’ve called our supplier and he swears it was sent in the current replen.” Finding a pencil, you make a note in the fliofax as your hair cascades down past your shoulders. With another sigh, you finished jotting down necessities. “I trust Frank when he says it was shipped, but we normally don’t have these delays before the first snow of the year.” You glance up to see Tracy shrug. “I’ll make a trip down there sometime this week,” you conclude as the front door chimes.
Several customers poured in as Tracy greeted them, “Welcome in! What can we help you with today?” You went back to the paperwork as the customers dispersed across the store. You could hear Tracy in her conversation with someone about the latest town gossip. (“Are you sure it was the Blakely house? Holy hell!”) You shook your head and smiled, that will spread across town like wildfire in no time, you muse. Busying yourself with tidying the cash wrap, you notice a customer ready to check out.
“I don’t know how you do it!” The newly married Mrs. Smith gushed, “I always walk in here thinking I won’t need anything and I come out with a treasure every time.” You smile politely and ring up her purchases. Pushing the memory of her shouting at you, as you cowered behind Kelly, She started it!
“Well, you’re walking away with some of my favorites,” you say. “I found these scarves when I was in Milan, aren’t they lovely?” Carefully wrapping the scarves, candles, and salve, you continue with the small talk. “With the salve,” you say seriously, “Use it on your lower abdominal area, no more than twice a day.”
Mrs. Smith nodded, mentally making a note. “I can always call you if I have questions, right?”
You nod, “Of course, that’s what I’m here for! Your total comes to 45 dollars today.”
Mrs. Smith paid for her purchases and thanked you and Tracy as she left the store. Tracy eyes you warily, “Was that the salve I think it was?”
Rolling your eyes and stepping out from behind the counter, you laugh, “I think you know the answer to that.”
Tracy scoffs, “God! The last thing this town needs is more kids, damn it Callahan.”
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A wind blew softly through the trees, resplendent in their golden yellow hues. A black lab padded among the pine needles while a steady crack sounded down the street. Further up the lane, a young man was bent over to split firewood. His maul slung over his shoulder as he stood to wipe his brow. The weather hadn’t yet turned its frosty shoulder as it was still early in the season, but, nevertheless, preparations must be made.
Turning back to his task, he set a block of wood down on a stump and took a step back. As he was about to begin again, he noticed a car turning toward the Callahan house. Brows furrowed, he placed his maul down and let out a clear whistle, “Lucy!” Ears perked, the dog bounded up from the glen to his side. With a smile, he gave her a nice head scritch and watched as a Subaru ambled up the drive to the white house at the end of the lane.
Later, after a motor-mouth blonde and lean brunet had arrived, the town’s newest resident stepped out for a stroll. Throwing on a flannel to combat the early evening’s chill, he poked his head into the kitchen.
“Lucy’s been fed and walked Rob,” he says to the woman at the stovetop. “Don’t let her fool you.”
She turns with a bemused smile, “I know Steve, s’not like I was born yesterday.”
“Same goes for Eds,” he concludes with a nod before slipping out the door.
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Just as you and Tracy were making closing preparations, the bell on the door chimed and a pink-cheeked brunet man walked in. Tracy, eyeing the stranger up and down, let out a low wolf whistle as you jabbed her in the side.
“Hi, welcome in!” You greeted, giving Tracy the eye while she petulantly rubbed at her side. “Is there anything, in particular, I can help you with today?”
The stranger made eye contact with you, his eyes a lovely shade of hazel, and smiled. “Actually, I think I’m looking for you.” He took a step toward her, “Callahan, right?” Tracy snorted and turned to busy herself with something.
You hesitated, never having seen this man in your life, “Um, yes?” You held out your hand to shake, “And you are?” His hand met yours, igniting a tingle at the base of your spine— a firm shake of the hand, his skin surprisingly warm.
“Steve, Steve Harrington. I just bought the property down the way from yours.” His hands were rough, he probably worked with them a lot. He smelled of freshly split wood, towing in a cloud of a pleasant, sappy aroma— warm and inviting.
You dropped hands and tucked a piece of hair behind your ear, “Oh, I think I heard something about that. Well, congratulations! It’s a lovely property.”
He nodded in agreement and surveyed the store and its proprietor. You were casual in blue jeans and brown leather boots, paired with a light sweater. Hair slightly wavy and a lovely shade. Soft and feminine features, but your energy radiated strength.
“Yeah, well,” Steve cleared his throat, “I’m really excited to have a place by the water now.”
You smiled, “No place I’d rather be.” Steve, huh? You tried to place him, he seemed so familiar, and yet…
He definitely wasn’t a beach bum, he lacked the sloping posture. Maybe he was one of those rich summer vacationers? “Well, if you need anything please, don’t hesitate to ask!” Glancing around, you hoped to find Tracy, but she had made herself scarce. Damn.
Steve mused a minute before speaking, “Thanks, think I’ll just browse around for now.”
Robin had sent him out with strict instructions and a list— myrtle, myrrh, a tea of some kind, and then, of course, Eddie had chocked in his items as well: devil’s nettle, a very specific type of coffee bean, along with a few other odds and ends.
Luckily, he could find most of the items with practiced ease and sauntered back to the counter. Making idle chit-chat, you rang up the purchase and recommended a few local cafes and stores for his consideration.
“So, what brings you to our neck of the woods?”
“Oh, me?” He smiles as you bag up the purchases, “I’m just some guy with a carpentry business.” Passing the bag to him along with a receipt he thanks you and turns to leave, but not before sliding a card on the counter that reads: ‘H & M Design and Construction: REMODELS, DRYWALL, CARPENTRY, PAINTING, INSTALLATION, ELECTRICAL, REPAIR - WE FIX THINGS.’
Before the bell can chime to signal his leave, he glances to the built-in bookshelves gracing one wall of the store, ladder docked near the register where Tracy left it.
“Your teak could do with a good oiling,” he nods to the built-ins in questions, “Think about it.” And stepped out of the store with a wave, into the indigo night.
Tracy, seemingly coming from nowhere, wore the contented grin of a cat who caught the canary. “Babe,” she said sweetly, “Do you have any idea who that was?”
Distracted by reorganizing the front of the store, you shrugged, “Said his name was Steve, just bought the old Blakely property.”
Tracy hummed and busied herself with tallying up the till eyes falling to the cream-colored business card. She pocketed it, making a mental note to call for an estimate for the store later that week.
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In the early morning, a cool breeze swept through the open second-floor window of the Callahan house. Quilts half on the floor, you shiver slightly and roll on to your side throwing an arm over your eyes. All was silent. The moonlight illuminated the photo of your late mother. The woman appeared to smile graciously at the photographer, her husband and your father. A slight breeze too swept through the photograph; the older woman laughed warmly.
This breeze continued down the to the old Blakely house. A picture window was opened slightly for the wind to slip through. Steve, dozing on the couch with a blanket half covering his torso, sighed in his sleep. The sea air was doing him some good. The breeze tousled his hair before it gracefully dissipated.
Unbeknownst to the two residents in the realm of dreams, a change was carried on that breeze. Slow and gradual, but still a change. It was coming swiftly and with intent. Just as a mother once promised her daughter it would.
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rosewaterandivy · 1 year ago
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Coming soon…
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rosewaterandivy · 1 year ago
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Tomorrow
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rosewaterandivy · 1 year ago
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Coming tomorrow at 2 PM CST...
ii. let me dream of you
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(sneak peak below the cut)
“Had a dream about you, I think.” He says, helping you to clear the shelves of product.
The blood drains from your face. Clearing your throat, you keep your voice light. “Oh, yeah?” 
Steve hums, “Mmhmm.” Furrows his brow and tries not to stare while you bend over to pick up a box from the floor. “It was …” He trails off, not used to remembering his dreams. 
It was a new development, having dreams instead of nightmares. One he’d happily take if it meant having you, the peal of your laughter against skin-warmed sheets, the soft caress of your fingers trailing down his neck and chest mapping the scars of years past, the taste of you on his lips, honeyed and sweet.
He shakes the thought loose and goes back to the task at hand.
“Good?” You supply to his unfinished thought.
“Yeah.” He smiles at you, so pretty it could launch a thousand ships. Pink tongue darting out to wet his lips, “Real good.”
Breath catching in your chest, you give him a polite smile in return and ignore the swoop low in your stomach.
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rosewaterandivy · 1 year ago
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the injury of finally knowing you
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