(closest thing i have to an iago icon, roll with it)
There were a few Othello graphics floating around tumblr and it reminded me of my notebook again, and the Iago/Othello drabbling I wrote during Shakespeare last semester. So I thought I'd type it up and post it here, just so I don't lose it!
One day I'd really like to turn this into a novel, but it needs a lot more research than I can mentally afford to do at the moment. :/
He is an absence in Iago's sight. In the blistering sand and white-heat, he is a place where light isn't, a man-shaped void screaming against the horde. His curved sword cuts sunlight across his body and through Iago's eyes, tearing blindness; Iago sees his hands first as he blinks his vision clear through blood-slicked lashes, hands tar black and inked blacker, bleeding to brown in the sunlight, taking shape, taking lives.
He roars, and Iago feels it echo in his bones.
~
Othello is what Iago should be. His outsides are Iago's insides, shows the black in Iago's soul. They are mirrors, they fit, they are the same, they are nothing alike. He must bleed ivory.
Iago wants. Iago wants many things--for the entire human race to cease their incessant bleating, for power, for wealth--but oh, there is wanting, and there is want.
Iago wants Othello. On his knees, on his back, on his front, hindquarters up. Iago wants his hands on Othello's dark skin, wants his hands inside his skin, wants to peel it back and slip inside, pull Othello apart and watch the pieces crawl back together. Want is claws in his belly, dragging him ever closer to the tipping point, and Iago relishes the pull.
~
Iago has seen pure evil, and he has no interest in it. Pure evil is mindless cruelty; any fool with a blade can embody it.
It is the cause.
~
"Faithful Iago," Othello says, clasping the back of his neck, pressing the bone of their skulls together. Iago feels the warmth of his skin, the saffron smell of it, the capture of Othello's brown eyes peering into his own. Iago smiles with his heart on his sleeve for crows to peck at.
~
"What measure do you take of young Cassio, then?" Othello asks, sinks his teeth into the flesh of an exotic fruit.
"Measure, my Lord?" Iago casts his eyes to the man in question. "The bath water was cold; it would be an injustice to judge him so." Othello's laugh beats a war drum in Iago's chest. "If you wish, I'll take his measure true. I expect a pleasurable enough tumble from fair Cassio, if a trifle dull."
"I meant a measure of his character, as well you know."
"How best to know a man's character than stripped of his defenses?"
Othello shows his teeth in a tiger's grin. "Then, by your logic, you do not know me."
Iago throws an arm around him to dispel, deflect, to make him yowl a panther's playful anger, swiping at Iago with his heavy black paws.
"Know him by conventional means," Othello growls once Iago shows his belly in this fight. "Or tup him til he weeps for love of you, I care not."
"Where does love enter this matter, my Lord?" Iago asks, dust in his throat and pinned at the wrists. "We are none of us women."
Soooooooooooooooooo yeah. There's that. ...I have no idea either. This can only end well.
One day I'd really like to turn this into a novel, but it needs a lot more research than I can mentally afford to do at the moment. :/
He is an absence in Iago's sight. In the blistering sand and white-heat, he is a place where light isn't, a man-shaped void screaming against the horde. His curved sword cuts sunlight across his body and through Iago's eyes, tearing blindness; Iago sees his hands first as he blinks his vision clear through blood-slicked lashes, hands tar black and inked blacker, bleeding to brown in the sunlight, taking shape, taking lives.
He roars, and Iago feels it echo in his bones.
~
Othello is what Iago should be. His outsides are Iago's insides, shows the black in Iago's soul. They are mirrors, they fit, they are the same, they are nothing alike. He must bleed ivory.
Iago wants. Iago wants many things--for the entire human race to cease their incessant bleating, for power, for wealth--but oh, there is wanting, and there is want.
Iago wants Othello. On his knees, on his back, on his front, hindquarters up. Iago wants his hands on Othello's dark skin, wants his hands inside his skin, wants to peel it back and slip inside, pull Othello apart and watch the pieces crawl back together. Want is claws in his belly, dragging him ever closer to the tipping point, and Iago relishes the pull.
~
Iago has seen pure evil, and he has no interest in it. Pure evil is mindless cruelty; any fool with a blade can embody it.
It is the cause.
~
"Faithful Iago," Othello says, clasping the back of his neck, pressing the bone of their skulls together. Iago feels the warmth of his skin, the saffron smell of it, the capture of Othello's brown eyes peering into his own. Iago smiles with his heart on his sleeve for crows to peck at.
~
"What measure do you take of young Cassio, then?" Othello asks, sinks his teeth into the flesh of an exotic fruit.
"Measure, my Lord?" Iago casts his eyes to the man in question. "The bath water was cold; it would be an injustice to judge him so." Othello's laugh beats a war drum in Iago's chest. "If you wish, I'll take his measure true. I expect a pleasurable enough tumble from fair Cassio, if a trifle dull."
"I meant a measure of his character, as well you know."
"How best to know a man's character than stripped of his defenses?"
Othello shows his teeth in a tiger's grin. "Then, by your logic, you do not know me."
Iago throws an arm around him to dispel, deflect, to make him yowl a panther's playful anger, swiping at Iago with his heavy black paws.
"Know him by conventional means," Othello growls once Iago shows his belly in this fight. "Or tup him til he weeps for love of you, I care not."
"Where does love enter this matter, my Lord?" Iago asks, dust in his throat and pinned at the wrists. "We are none of us women."
Soooooooooooooooooo yeah. There's that. ...I have no idea either. This can only end well.