signed_sabrina | (no subject)

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halloween

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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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Rosie's still not sure whether the costume she'd bought in a fit of pique weeks ago made her look ridiculous or devastating--though Sabrina's decidedly strong opinion on the matter had managed to tip the scales quite a bit--but she's not about to forgo wearing it tonight. And so, she's here as some kind of vampire queen; that gorgeous boned corset laced tight along her torso, the accompanying skirt a fountain of black satin, the ribbon choker looped against her neck and its single blood-bright jewel twinkling in the light. It's like nothing she's ever worn before, not even compared to that gorgeous dress she'd been put into years ago and a world away now for the Festivity, and despite her lingering awkwardness, Rosie's more than a little thrilled by that.

With the party kicked into high gear, Rosie's mingling: dancing with Nick, Charlie, or Sabrina in all manner of combinations; laughing and talking with friends along the edges of the dance floor; refueling at the refreshments table with a glass of punch or a plate of food. It's all a mad, lovely whirl, exactly the kind of evening she'd have wanted for someone as special as Sabrina, and one that she's so, so happy to have the chance to share with her.

Not even the quiet hiss of all those rumors, now set free from the halls of Petros for the night and the sole reason easily a third of the people in attendance are even here at all, can fully dampen her spirits. Enough so, that when Rosie spots someone out of the corner of her eye gawking openmouthed at her, all she does is turn to them with a cold little smile on her face. "You do know you look like a fish, right?" she says before turning away once more, that cold smile melting to something a bit broader and far more amused as she walks off.

There's a good bit of time between finally getting Catarina to lay down for bed and returning to his own party proper that Magnus uses to drops by Sabrina's. He's heard enough rumors of a sex cult floating around among the teenagers that he's certain there won't be a sex cult, and therefore has no qualms about sidling into the warehouse.

He's really only here for Sabrina, which is why the less than grand entrance, and why he keeps the tentacles on his Ursula costume to himself.

Which is also why at the first notice of him by a scoffing teen, he puts on his best too earnest smile and saunters over.

"Hello fellow youths. That's a nifty costume." Come at him, kid, he dares you.

Rowan doesn't actually know Sabrina, but he knows Rosie which means he is determined to make an appearance at this party, if only for her. Besides, it wouldn't hurt to know other people in his age range, right? He should be in his first year of college, but instead he's working, occasionally, and feels old. Older than he should.

But that's Goddard's fault, or even Faraday's, not his. Not even Darrow's. That's the fault of the man who turned him into a weapon, who took the last remnants of his childhood and made him into his image.

He tries to shake off that feeling as he slips into the warehouse, looking for people he knows. He's never been the type to actively try to make new friends, but he's easy to approach, dressed up in his hamburglar outfit and not trying to make any waves.

Charlie watches the interaction, a broad smile spreading across his face and, when Rosie walks away from them, he opens his arms to her. Charlie is dressed as...well, he's pretty much dressed as Murphy Bivens - skinny jeans and leather and a lot of eyeliner.

"That was awesome," he says, kissing her cheek. "I know I'm not, you know, helping right now, but I'm totally, totally proud of you."

Nick's come dressed as the Spellbinding Scratch in all his glory: white tie, top hat, tails. Both of his girlfriends look devastatingly good and he's enjoying just watching them, even if every time he touches them, it seems to start off a wave of whispering. So what? Nick's never cared if people want to talk about him.

Mostly, he's invested in Sabrina having a good time, both at the party and with what he's going planned afterwards.

"It was, wasn't it?" she laughs, leaning into him as he kisses her. "We're in English class together, so maybe I shouldn't have been quite so rude, but..." Rosie waves one dismissive hand. "No, he deserved it."

Rosie glances back at where her gawking classmate had been--where he still was, now talking with some other partygoer--and rolls her eyes. "Oh, none of us are helping at all," she says, grinning up at Charlie. Held close like this, knowing that both of them are aware of the truth in a way almost nobody outside their close little foursome could ever be, it's even easier for her to be simply amused by all those scandalized reactions rather than humiliated. "I can only imagine what school's going to be like tomorrow. If we even go. Sabrina's been saying we all ought to skip and get breakfast somewhere instead."

With everything she knows Nick has planned for later this evening--and presumes Charlie does too, though as always she chooses to set that at more of a remove in deference to their friendship--not going to school in the morning seems a very wise choice.

"It really isn't fair, how good you look like that," Rosie teases as she walks up carrying two cups of punch. She doesn't doubt it's spiked with something--it almost always was, whether at prom or parties like this--but one glass would hardly hurt either of them. "Though I suppose I shouldn't complain, since I get to enjoy it."

She grins, leaning up a bit to take a kiss. "And I do."

Charlie does know what Nick's got planned, and he knows what he's got planned for her himself, too, so he thinks that does sound like a very sensible sentiment. He smirks at that, nodding.

"You're right. I don't think any of us need to sit through homeroom."

Nick grins, sweeping his hat from his head and sketching a lazy bow to her before setting it back onto his head and taking the offered cup. "I'm glad you approve, Wilson."

"Exactly," she says, swaying a bit in his arms as the music shifts to something new, a thudding beat that drifts through the transformed space of the warehouse. "I don't particularly like homeroom as it is, anyway. Much better to abandon it for the sake of more interesting company."

She laughs, the sound bright and a little musical. "And waffles, maybe."

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.

For a high school party, Sabrina thinks it's all going pretty well.

Certainly it's better than some of the parties she can remember from another time, another place-- no awful revelations or Dark Baptisms. She's not worrying about the coming of midnight for any other reason than making sure to spend extra time with Nick and Rosie, since she's going home with Charlie.

There might continue to be whispers, but another glass of spiked punch goes down surprisingly easy, and another song picks up, sending Sabrina to grab the hand of the nearest person, tugging them into the swirl of bodies with her.

Sabrina doesn't give Rosie time to prepare for the armful of handsy witch that's tossed at her, and if her own gaze is imperious and pleased when turned on the interloper, she only compounds it with the kiss that's far closer to the corner of Rosie's mouth than her cheek. The way her arm slides around the neatly corseted waist will surely be a factor too. Very friendly, if that's what one wants to see-- and very intimate.

"You, my dear, wild rose," and it's possible Sabrina's a little tipsy, "do not look like a fish at all. You look amazing. A queen of the night."

She leans against Rosie's shoulder, utterly content as she watches the party spin around them.

Well, there might be a little bit of a sex cult, but Sabrina's not about to be announcing that to even her most liberal of mentor figures. She supposes Magnus has seen enough sex cults in his life to be able to sort out the facts.

"Wow," says Sabrina, adhering to the Zelda Spellman mandate that one's level of public intoxication should never surpass the ability to maintain a proper gait in heels. The tentacles, she thinks, are not going to help rumors at all. "Hello, you're clearly a student at the local learning establishment."

That's really all she manages before bursting into giggles and moving to hug the sea witch.

Sabrina's enjoying watching him too.

At first the costume gives her butterflies, as she remembers that rainy day and the story spun by someone she suspects was not at all who she'd claimed to be. It lasts about as long as it takes to remember how easily he'd let her claim him-- he's so much more than just a boyfriend now, but it was one of the first times she'd let herself stake that bit of claim.

She would tell that Sabrina it turns out better than she could ever hope.

"Hey," she says, drawing close enough to lean up and whisper the word against his ear. "Looking good, Mister Scratch."

"How many glasses of that punch have you had, Sabrina?" she asks, laughingly chiding as the other girl wraps herself around her murmuring all those silly compliments in her ear. "I don't even know what it's spiked with, but it's strong."

Her own head is spinning a little, thanks to the two glasses of punch she's already had, and it's easy for Rosie to lean into her friend as they both stand there. It's close and intimate and friendly--and much more than friendly--and if Rosie's hand wanders a little, skimming along the curve of Sabrina's back, it's only understandable.

Never as graceful in heels as she wants to be--even when she's not two glasses of spiked punch away from entirely sober--Rosie's abandoned her shoes beneath one of the benches circled around the bonfire and is padding around barefoot, the hem of her long black skirt only just brushing the ground. When she sees Rowan making his way through the door dressed in something so utterly ridiculous, she lets out a loud, delighted laugh and heads towards him.

"Why are you a hamburger bandit?" she asks once she's close enough to be heard. "What is a hamburger bandit, anyway?"

I had never been to a party like this before.

Eddie and I had plans to go to the party at Magnus’s, too, but also I had seen the fliers for Sabrina’s party and it seemed like a lot of other students were going and I had never really gone to any of the other parties I had been invited to since coming to Darrow.

I was in my costume, dressed as a knight, and I was looking around, a little bewildered, when Sabrina suddenly grabbed my hand.

“Whoa,” I said. “Hi! Happy birthday!”

Charlie is doing his best impression of Murphy Bivens: ripped, skinny jeans and torn black cotton, eyeliner, chains, boots. He lets her tug him wherever she wants him, pulls her in close against him on the dance-floor.

"You really do look beautiful, Brina."

"Waffles definitely," he says, his arms wrapped around her waist as they dance, keeping her close as they sway to the rhythm. "That place that does waffles and really, really good coffee."

"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.

"You too, Miss Spellman," he says, taking her hand and threading their fingers together, pulling her in against him. "Are you having a good time, babe? Enjoying your party?"

"Oh, perfect," she says with a silly little sigh, half joking and half true happiness at the thought of it. "I haven't been there in...since just the three of us went months ago now, before Nick even got here. Definitely time to go back." She smiles again, moving to tangle her arms loosely around his neck as they keep dancing.

If there's another brief flurry of whispers somewhere around them, someone hissing See, I told you all of them were-- to a friend standing nearby, the music is loud enough that Rosie doesn't hear it at all.

"So what are you supposed to be?" she asks Charlie after another few minutes, moving just far enough away from him to take in more of his costume, all leather and denim and dark kohl-lined eyes. "You look fantastic, whatever it is."

"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."

"Seventeen sure looks a lot different than the year before it," she answers, pulling their joined hands to her chest as she lets him reel her in, going all too easily. "I'm-- I'm so happy, it doesn't even seem real sometimes." Rising slightly on her toes, though not needing to go far with this pair of heels, she finds his mouth with hers.

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