Nicholas Scratch

Nick reacted with a harsh palm against Harvey's face, pushing him back a step. "Easy, farm boy. While I don't mind the sexual persistence," Nick admitted, "I prefer my mortal make out sessions free of compulsion." Nick knew a love curse when he saw it. "What did you take?"

“Not always.” Nick completed the chalk circle on the floor before fully facing the inquisitive fairy. “But,” he added smoothly, “those parts aren’t as fun.” 

Nick flicked the knotted stem back into the wicker basket. “Shame to have all those cherries go to waste.” Temptation lingered as he glanced over at Agatha, to the sweet space between her thighs. “But I can't have what I want.” Nick pressed a hungry kiss to Agatha’s neck, under the watchful eye of Lucifer and the Lupercalian moon. “And neither can you.”

Nick slid his finger along the unruly curl beneath Harvey’s ear: an umber semi-circle that matched the rings in his eyes. Nick sighed gently. They’d been through this before. “I’ve got my heart made up on you, mortal. No one else.” 

"Maybe I am.” Nick held the door open for her. Partly out of some outdated warlock chivalry, but mostly to watch Sabrina walk ahead of him. “Can you blame me though? Who wouldn’t want you around all the time?”

Nick sighed gently. “Depends on your style. Do you resist temptation? Implore the guidance of a saint? Or,” Nick shrugged, “do you simply ask him how?” Charlie’s eyes, Nick decided then, reminded him of unholy basil, dried and crushed by mortar and pestle. He slid his book into his bag. “Astaroth is a compulsive answerer.” 

Nick fought the urge to kiss her forehead, her eyelids, the very tip of her nose. “Hey, Spellman. How are you?” he asked genuinely. “I kind of feel like you’ve been ignoring me after,” Nick lowered his voice, “the extraction.” He paused momentarily as a group of students walked past. It was impossible to differentiate gossiping versus practicing hexes. It all sounded the same. “Which I completely understand,” Nick continued in near-whisper. “After you saved me from hell, I wasn’t myself. Even now...” The warlock tasted his words before he spoke them: sanguine and saline, like a bad batch of truth serum. “I— I know he’s gone, but I still feel him most days. The Dark Lord’s breath against my neck. The pain. The emptiness...” Nick trailed off. “If you need someone to talk to, or sing to.” A small smile graced his lips. “I’m here.” He placed a comforting touch to Sabrina’s arm. “We can even play hooky if you'd rather do that instead. I’m game for whatever you want.”

“No.” The word barely escaped Nicholas’ crushed throat. The Dark Lord always had the upper hand, the strong arm around his neck, the eternal claim on his soul. The bars of his spell-bound cage were bending. Copper coated the inside of Nick’s mouth like sweet syrup. "I won’t. I won’t... lose her,” he gasped. Fingernails raked across the Dark Lord’s immortal skin in vain. Everything Nick did was useless. Nicholas Scratch: the flesh Acheron. The sacrifice. The worthless excuse of a warlock. Sabrina had probably forgotten all about him. Darkness blanketed across his eyes. “I... can’t.”