signed_sabrina | (no subject)

Sabrina Spellman is turning seventeen tonight.

Honestly, in the time since her sixteenth birthday, she's seriously doubted that she would make it to this day-- and certainly doubted that she would be free from the Path of Night and the Path of Night, able to do as she pleases. She's not sure she can say she expected anything that's happened to her over the year, really, not a single thing.

But standing outside the warehouse Kavinsky has thoughtfully offered for her use, in a somewhat accurate Halloween costume, she's absolutely happier than she ever foresaw. Where she'd been worried about losing her boyfriend and best friends, she's got three people she loves so much she can hardly stand it, in entirely different ways. Where she'd had a ghost or worse for a father, she has a dad who knows who she is, her capabilities, and loves her only for being herself. She misses her aunts and Ambrose, but knowing that she's still back with them is of great comfort. She can't say she's doing much better on the high school front, but she's not sure she cares.

Enough people seem fascinated by the sex cult rumors that when she and Salem had littered both high school campuses, Sabrina had got plenty of takers. The party itself will start soon, and Sabrina looks up, comforted by the lack of full moon. Taking her broom, she carefully sweeps each step clean, feeling the ritual settle her. The warehouse inside looks a lot like a clearing in the woods, complete with bonfire, and if the punch is spiked, well-- it is a high school party.

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It's so ridiculously like something she'd imagined before, all those silly daydreams of being presented at court or being the guest of honor at some glamorous party, that Rosie has to giggle a little as he doffs his hat and bows to her. "I very much do, Mr. Scratch," she says, tapping the rim of her cup against his. "Of that, and so many other things you wear."

She pauses, a bright and teasing spark in her eyes as she works up the nerve to be a little more daring. "And when you're not wearing much at all." She takes a sip of her drink then, trying to make the action seem a little nonchalant and coy, but whoever spiked the punch did it with a bit of a heavy hand; the burn of the alcohol hits the back of her throat, and she coughs.

"Rosie Wilson!" says Nick, and he's grinning broadly when he says it. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were a little bit drunk." He reaches out to brush a curl of dark hair back from her eyes.

"With whatever's been put in this punch, I might be once I finish this glass," she laughs, her smile turning a bit soft as he reaches out to brush that curl back into place. "I didn't even see who spiked it, did you?"

It could be anyone, or no one at all; at parties like these, it was very nearly expected anyway.

"Besides," she continues, wanting to hang on to that little bit of daring she'd found within herself, "I don't need to be drunk at all to tell you how much I like the way you look. All the ways you look."

"It might have been me," says Nick, flashing the silver hip flask that's tucked into his pocket. "You're safe to drink it, don't worry. It's nothing to alarming." He presses a kiss against her jaw. "Well, I like all the ways you look, too, babe. Especially this. This is superb."

"Nicholas Scratch!" she exclaims, turning that delighted and mock-scandalized tone right back on him as he offers up that glimpse at the flask in his pocket. "You're a terrible influence, you know." With a grin, she takes another sip of punch, a bit more prepared now for the harsh bite of whatever's been mixed into it.

Rosie lets out a pleased little laugh as she's kissed, then pulls away just enough to let him get a better look at her costume in its entirety. "I shouldn't make a habit of buying things in an absolute snit, but at least this time it worked out wonderfully."

"If this is what you come up with when you're in a snit," he says, the word making the corner of his mouth lift in a slight smirk, "Then I should try to piss you off more often."

"Oh, hush," Rosie says, a blush rising to her cheeks as she considers buying more things like this to wear for him. Or for Sabrina. Or taking a trip with Sabrina to that ridiculous store in the mall that she likes so much to buy something matching for Nick's enjoyment. The myriad of possibilities makes her head spin, just for a moment.

"Not that you shouldn't try, and see what it gets you."

"I'm making a mental note," he says, leaning in, his arm wrapped around her waist, hand drifting down to squeeze her ass over the voluminous fabric of her skirt.

"Of course you are," she says, her laugh turning into a surprised squeak as he grabs at her--though she doesn't pull away. She never would. "Coming up with all kinds of clever ideas." Pressed as close as they are, it's easy for Rosie to run the fingers of her free hand along the front of his white dress shirt, her fingertips bumping gently against each pearly button.

"Speaking of clever ideas..." She bites her lip, blushing faintly. "There's nothing left to do for Sabrina's surprise, right? Except be ready, whenever it's time."

Nick nods, brushing his lips against her cheekbone. "I figure we'll give it another half an hour or so and then go and get ready. No second thoughts, right?"

"None at all," she says, her agreement coming easy and quick to her lips. "Whatever she wants, however she'd like her surprise to unfold."

She knows they'll stop if it's needed; if any of them need that. Their trust in one another is so strong, like nothing she's ever felt before. It's almost her favorite part of the connections she's found with them.

Nick grins at that, bending to take a proper kiss, his fingers tousling into her dark hair for a moment. "I'm sure it'll be fun for you too, Rosie. There's so many things that you're figuring out that you like."

She kisses him back, those fingers in her hair and the tenor of their conversation pushing her to deepen it just a bit before she pulls away. "You're right, there are," she says, smiling as she takes another sip of her drink. "Things I've learned to like, or..." Her blush deepens, just a shade, as she thinks about that afternoon only a few weeks ago; how she'd been blindfolded and bound, put on her knees for him.

"Or been taught to."