March 2nd
V,

It’s another late day tonight, I’m sorry. Actually, blame it entirely on Maxime, another sudden no-show today. You think he’s dead? I hope he’s dead. I wish that every month this happens. I hate that there have been so many days like these lately. You didn’t prepare too much for supper did you? I know you felt like doing something different. Miss y

Yours,
C

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Vincent Iago

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   Vincent Iago

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eyecandy by fox<3

Vince stared at the letter in his hand, half an amused smile on his face. If it wouldn’t put them in potential jeopardy to have in writing a tease that they could kill Maxine together and bury his body, Vince would have said it. He didn’t trust the leech though. That one seemed to have an almost impossible reach and too much power to frame people he didn’t like. So instead, Vincent flipped the letter over and scrawled something else on the back, determined not to think about the way his heart sank at the thought of another meal alone in this empty flat.

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3.2.1893

You don’t know how long I’ve waited to hear you not say those words.

Don’t mind me for supper. There’s always tomorrow.

Faithfully—.

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Cassian Valenduris

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i desire very little but the things i do consume me

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.

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I can't do this anymore.

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Cassian Valenduris

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i desire very little but the things i do consume me