Warning: Maybe soft M? Cursing, mental hardship, blood.
The monster in Vincent's head was all consuming. In the recent weeks as they came upon one full year since Capri, James had become insatiable in a way Vincent wasn't managing to contain anymore. This bloody curse was killing him, tearing at every fibre of the obliviator's being. He was sure that some day soon he would wake once more trapped in the recesses of the pirate's mind, never to see the light of day again. Else, his fibres and cells would actually combust from the friction of a desolate, battling mind and he would disintigrate entierly. No physical body, for either of them.
As such, on this countless lonely evening as Cassian toiled away late - trapped under the thumb of the elections that he, bloody fucking Vincent Iago should be running - the former Slytherin cracked. He took quill to parchment, thoughts dribbling out like poison: fractured and broken and nonsensical. Ink splattered the page, the desk, the floor, as the inkwell was smashed against the wall. Black intermixed with red as Vince clutched a piece of glass and finally let it clatter to the ground. There, on the table beside a small pool of liquid - blood, ink, both? - sat the final ripped shred of parchment he'd finally managed.
The monster in Vincent's head was all consuming. In the recent weeks as they came upon one full year since Capri, James had become insatiable in a way Vincent wasn't managing to contain anymore. This bloody curse was killing him, tearing at every fibre of the obliviator's being. He was sure that some day soon he would wake once more trapped in the recesses of the pirate's mind, never to see the light of day again. Else, his fibres and cells would actually combust from the friction of a desolate, battling mind and he would disintigrate entierly. No physical body, for either of them.
As such, on this countless lonely evening as Cassian toiled away late - trapped under the thumb of the elections that he, bloody fucking Vincent Iago should be running - the former Slytherin cracked. He took quill to parchment, thoughts dribbling out like poison: fractured and broken and nonsensical. Ink splattered the page, the desk, the floor, as the inkwell was smashed against the wall. Black intermixed with red as Vince clutched a piece of glass and finally let it clatter to the ground. There, on the table beside a small pool of liquid - blood, ink, both? - sat the final ripped shred of parchment he'd finally managed.
![[Image: vincesig.gif]](https://sig.grumpybumpers.com/host/vincesig.gif)