#iago writes

[unhonest-iago]

Alpha! Caretaker sitting outside Omega! Whumpee’s nest. Scenting all the objects their omega had offered up to them. The omega in whumpee is screaming at them to let the alpha in their nest but whumpee is still overly protective of the space. It was the one area whumper would never cross so even now, it was an area of refuge. That and they were calming down from an earlier panic attack.

Caretaker can sense the conflict waging on in their mind, so they continue sitting just outside the perimeter of the nest. Holding one of whumpee’s hands in their lap, trailing a thumb over the skin. And eventually, whumpee feels the overwhelming desire to be held. Squeezing their intertwined hand to get the Alpha’s attention. ‘C’mere.’

‘You sure, hun?’ Caretaker double-checks, making sure that’s what they want. ‘Mhm,’ the omega in them is waiting with bated breath. A sort of anxious excitement. ‘Okay,’ they slowly crawl into the nest, situating themselves behind whumpee and wrapping their arms around them. Listening as they emit content chuffs as the alpha pushes out a wave relaxed pheromones.

‘Get some sleep, love.’

[moldyfairyguts]

toxic doomed old man yaoi

shakespeare if he was woke

Iago: God forsake that doltish, doltish man! That he believeth each word to drop from mine own lips as though ‘twere holy writ, blindeth himself in his conceit... God save us all if that moor hadst remain’d powerful as he once was. Was! ‘Tis ever so sweet to speak of him in the past. My hatred for the man doth outlast his brief, fool’s life. Ay, good riddance I say, good riddance. It gives me somewhat to dwell upon, rather than mine own blood seepeth o’er my clothes – and yet, whilst I am so bruised and beaten, the thought dost creep o’er my mind, that I am glad Othello saw me not in such estate... good riddance, I say! And good riddance to his whore of a wife, loyal or nay! I stand triumphant, as I ever was, whilst they both do rot in the ground, many a pace betwixt them. Never have I known a fate more satisfying. If he were to cast me aside, then let him have naught by his side. Yet the question I can but ask myself still, is why doth mine heart ache so? The moor is dead by none but his own doing. Blind was he to mine own worth, casting me off like so. Say not mine hand was unforced. So why doth I ache so?

Were he alive, would he rue it? The fool, to end his own life... could he not be a man? Othello, thou art a fool if thou hear’st me now! By what reason or wit didst thou wed that woman? Did she know thee better than I? Did she know thee more deeply? Doth her devotion put mine years of loyalty to shame? I-

Ay, see me now! Pacing and railing against the walls of this accurs’d cell like a craz’d wretch. Nay, Othello, thou art not here. Good riddance to thee. Thou art dead, I am alive; thus I am the victor.

Yet it doth feel less noble than I had dreamt. There is no crowd to applaud me within these walls. In mine heart there smoulders a fire, yet beneath it lies an emptiness naught can fill. My hunger should have been sated the moment that blade pierc’d his belly, yet instead tis growing more keen as each day doth pass. And without him. Yet pass they do.

Nay, good riddance, The days pass as e’er they did, yet the man who wronged me doth not see their passage – that alone is reason for celebration. Were I free this moment, mayhap I’d travel to the nearest tavern and there proclaim my triumph to all ‘til my voice grew hoarse.

Yet, even as I say it, I dread that the instant I entered, the name “Othello” would lie presuppos’d on my tongue. Oh, heavens, whom do I seek to deceive? There is none but myself here. His name, which stirr’d naught but anger in my heart, used to do the opposite. Speak on, I shall not, for if there aught left to grip save mine hand upon mine wind, it is my dignity. These walls, they crack and whisper – I should know, for I have stood long upon the other side of them. For Othello’s sake, no less.

The fate he met, ‘twas by his own hand wrought. Cassio, his choice? That lecherous, fawning knave? Were I in Othello’s stead, I’d have cast off this mortal coil the moment such a decision was made. And yet, as he hearken’d to mine own supposed crimes, ere he did end his life in such selfish haste, I find myself longing that his reddened face and rueful eye had been set alight for another cause. Mayhaps a more selfish one. That red, perchance warm’d by mine lips upon his.

God, save me! Let some gaoler enter this cell and thrash me senseless for thinking thus, and let mine head be dash’d upon the cold stone floor for that I would not repent.

--

translated version for stupid harlots

Iago:

God forsake that stupid, stupid man! Believing every word to come out my mouth like it is the scripture itself, blinding himself with his own ego... god save us all if he was to remain as powerful as he was. Was – it’s ever so satisfying to speak of him in past tense now. My hate  for the man lives longer than he ever did. Good riddance, I say, good riddance. It gives me something to occupy myself with, rather than the way my own blood drips onto my clothes – while I’m beaten, the thought can’t help but enter my mind that I’m glad Othello never saw me like this... good riddance! And good riddance to his whore of a wife, faithful or not! I remain triumphant as always while they both rot in the ground, metres apart forever. I’ve never heard of a more satisfying fate. If he was to choose to not have me by his side, then he will have no one. The question, however, that I can’t help but ask myself, is why do I still ache? That idiot is dead because of no one’s fault but his own. He failed to recognise my worthiness, pushed me to the side like some sort of wingman, you cannot say my hand was not forced. So why do I ache like so?

If he was alive still, would he regret it? The fool, ending his own life like that... be a man! Othello, you moron, if you by any chance of the heavens can hear me now, you are a fool! Why in any sense of sanity you still held onto would you marry that woman? Did she know you better than I? Did she understand you more deeply than I? Did she stay by your side for god knows how long that put my years of loyalty to shame? I-

Look at me now. Pacing and yelling to the walls of this damned grey cell like some sort of deluded psychotic. No, Othello, you are not here. Good riddance. You are dead and I am alive, and  therefore I am the victor.

It feels less admirable than I had imagined it to feel.

There is no applause in this cell for me. There is a fire burning in my heart but just below it, my stomach is empty as it’ll ever be. My appetite should’ve been quenched the second that knife entered his belly but for some reason it’s getting worse as the days pass. Without him, they pass.

No, good riddance. The days pass as they always did and this time a man who has wronged me is not here to see it – that, in my books, is a cause for celebration. Why, if I was freed right now maybe I’d even go for a trip to the nearest tavern, and brag about my winnings to everyone I can see until my throat is raw.

However, and I truly may hate myself for this, I fear the second I storm in there and open my mouth to speak, the name “Othello” would already be presumed to be on my tongue. Oh, who am I to fool. There is no one here but me. Where his name, when spoken to me, now provokes ire and anger, it did so used to do the opposite. Speak on, I will not, for if there is one thing that I wish to hold on to other than my hand to my bleeding wound it is my dignity. These cracking cell walls, they speak. I should know; I’ve been on the other side of them for the majority of my time here. For Othello’s sake, nonetheless.

The fate he had he brought it on himself. Cassio was his choice? That good for nothing womanizer? If I were Othello I’d have killed myself the second that god-awful decision was made.

And yet, as he was told of my crimes, before he did end his own life so selfishly, I can’t help but wish the red in his face and the regret in his eyes could’ve been for a different reason. The flush of his face, maybe accompanied with my lips on his.

God, spare me! Let someone back into my cell to beat my wounds raw for thinking such a thing, and let my skull be cracked open on the cold, concrete floor for not wanting to take it back.

[c-rowlesblogs]

the last time I made a post about a character type I really like it went well, so here's another one: I love a character who is a piece of shit loser.

Let me explain: a very specific kind of piece of shit loser. This is a character who is almost never (at least not at first) a major protagonist or a major villain. They might be a mercenary or thief or black-hat hacker or in some other sort of antisocial "bad guy" line of work. They are some sort of henchman, or at least have strong henchman energy: dangerous and/or talented in specific skills perhaps, but also, importantly, undeniably a loser. Their personality sucks. They're uncharismatic and unpleasant. The heroes interact with them only when they must-- and this character deliberately cranks up the cynicism around especially sunny or optimistic heroes. They know the world is a cold, hard place, and the only thing they trust is cold, hard cash (if they're even getting paid for this shit). Things like "hope" and "friendship" are for suckers.

Until... somehow, some incident or confrontation or compounding sequence of events puts a crack in their armor. It's a crack where the light can get in-- and also, alarmingly (to others and to them), shine out. It turns out this piece of shit loser had a little spark of goodness buried deep inside all along, and no matter how much they dig in their heels and insist they don't care, their conscience is steadily pulling them over to the "good" side, and it's winning. And the heroes know it, too: this character might still be a piece of shit loser, but now they're their piece of shit loser, and there's no going back.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

okay, ob jamil cookie

Smoked Cheese Cookie is even a consultant to a royal, has a sussy staff, AND mind control powers like Jafar… and is plotting to take down a golden ruler that he considers childish and not worthy of the position 😭 He has turned Iago into his headdress…

THIS IS JUST JAMIL'S COOKIESONA

[crystallizsch]

*Note that this mini event takes place in the future, years after the character's have graduated and left Night Raven College. Lydia and Silver have two kids by the time they get married, Ryuumi (their adopted son, age 6) and Momo (their biological son, age 4) They live in Briar Valley (specifically in the house Lilia raised Silver in), with Lilia visiting/staying over often (he basically lives with them lol ♡)*

You open your mailbox one morning to find a letter, wrapped in twine and wild flowers. Your name was written neatly on the front, with small drawings in crayon surrounding it (done by a child). Inside the letter was an invitation, inviting you to a joyous occasion.

Lydia and Silver are getting married, and you're invited! ♡

The wedding and reception will be held outdoors, in the woods near their home (essentially their backyard lol ♡). The wedding will have chairs on each side of the aisle for guests to sit, decorated in soft pinks, blues, and gold (alongside the natural plant life). The reception will have tables and chairs, along with a dance floor and buffet (that will be catered).

Since this mini event takes place in the future, think of this as a fun opportunity to imagine what your OC and OC x Canon's future will be like! Maybe they're married, or have kids of their own? Or maybe they're separated, and have a reunion at the wedding?? 👀👀👀

Is your OC attending as a guest, or are they part of the wedding? Like a bridesmaid, or groomsman, or even being Lydia's hairstylist for the day! It's up to you ♡

There's no dress code/requirements either! It's moreso what you think your OC / OC x Canon would wear if they got invited to a wedding (or were apart of a wedding party!) ♡

Once people start responding to their invitations (whether it be with art, writing, etc) I'll write some scenarios to go along with it, and tag you when it's posted ♡

Thank you! ♡♡♡

AWH THIS IS SO CUTE 😭💖

of course yuusha accepts!! (also thanks for giving me an excuse for showing jamil and yuusha’s totally happy canon timeline post-NRC ehehehe)

Yuusha started working as staff at NRC after graduation (her job is still TBD but I still want her to be connected to Ramshackle dorm somehow but uh anyways-). She was also invited as a bridesmaid and a hairstylist.

Yuusha, upon receiving the invitation, immediately calls up Ace and Deuce and finds out that they have been invited as well. It seems that a lot of classmates back in NRC were also invited. It'll be a like a reunion.

Somehow the topic of Jamil got brought up. Yuusha had not talked to him after graduation. It was as if he just disappeared.

They promised they would keep in touch. But the messages from Jamil became less and less frequent until he never responded again.

And Yuusha had not thought about him. Until now.

♥️: Dude, why'd you have to bring him up?

♠️: Sorry! I was just wondering... But if I see him there I'm gonna-

♥️: Stop talking. Hey, Yuu. Call us when you need anything.

💜: ...Thanks, Ace. See ya both later.

Yuusha hung up the phone and sighed.

🐈‍⬛: So what did those bozos say.

💜: Nothing. It’s not a big deal, they just brought up Jamil.

🐈‍⬛: Yuu, I haven’t heard you say his name in years.

💜: You make it sound like he’s someone who musn’t be named.

🐈‍⬛: Because he is.

Yuusha throws her cup at Grim in frustration, knowing that the direbeast will just catch it with his magic.

💜: Do you think he’d even be there? Would he even… bother. He hasn’t reached out to me in years, why would he show now? Knowing I'll be there... Would he know I'll be there?

🐈‍⬛: Well if he shows up, I'll roast his butt like I did Kalim's all those years ago.

💜: We'll make that Plan B.

Yuusha collapsed back on her seat and stared at the invitation. She absentmindedly fiddles with the feather on her hair tie. No, his hair tie that she left him all those years ago.

After a long moment of contemplating and just letting the feelings sink in, she managed to promptly make the feeling fade away. Yuusha found herself giggling.

🐈‍⬛: What's suddenly so funny? Are you finally losing it?

💜: .....Hey, do you think we can bring [REDACTED] as a plus one?

🐈‍⬛: That was a quick switch-up. That birdbrain? Yuu, what do you even see in them.

💜: They’re charming, okay.

🐈‍⬛: Here we go again.

💜: Shut it. Just let me have this.

🐈‍⬛: If it makes my henchhuman happy then sure.

[accultant]

are you going to cold-shoulder me all night?

━━★. *･｡ﾟ✧⁺ THE AGONY OF UNMADE DECISIONS

Katya’s voice is on the other side of the door after Iago has changed the locks and the wards on it since Puck’s last… lapse. He nearly cracked their skull the other day in a frenzy and Iago has been holed up in their office since. The work keeps them busy. The solitude keeps them safe. 

They especially don’t want to talk to Katya of all people. Not after that. They don’t know if she was present during any of the mad dash around the Temple ( they were, admittedly, a bit too distracted to take note ) but it doesn’t make much of a difference. 

Iago escaped. As they somehow, inexplicably, painstakingly, repeatedly do again and again and again and again and again- 

They doubt Katya will last much longer here. Puck is fickle. Iago escaped this time, sure, but they’ve had a lifetime of practice. Katya pushes buttons for fun and doesn’t seem to take any of this seriously. She’ll be dead by the end of the week, they’ve convinced themselves after the twins’ latest altercation. 

They don’t want to talk to her, don’t want to see her, don’t want her anywhere near them. She’ll be nothing soon. So why bother with her now? Why entertain her a second longer? Interacting with her at all was a mistake, they knew it would be a mistake, they feel so stupid for ever even saying her name when they knew damn well they’d have to write it down in their ledgers with all the other victims. 

But Katya is insistent. Buttons, she’s always pushing buttons. Their voice snaps from the other side of the door, “Yes, I am. Go away.” 

They almost forget their excuse, the same one they’ve told her a million times now with very little success rate, “I have work to do. Go away, mutt.”

[passionpluto]

funny that ppl think neo putting the plot on pause is weird

i mean, i get that it's unprecedented for neo, but negotiating with agents irl is just "the first 30 pages have been submitted for general edits," followed by "the first 30 pages have been submitted for character edits," followed by "the first 50 pages have been submitted for worldbuilding edits" and so on

to be clear: that last one is not new content that advances the plot, but rather the first 30 pages with an extra 20 pages of worldbuilding interspersed due to an immense lack of it in the initial draft

patching writing is just as time-consuming as patching a game and that worldbuilding patch took me about 2 months i.e. about what tvw will likely take

imo, seeing this type of time being taken to listen to feedback about the plot is a good sign if anything

[noihavenosanitythanksforasking]

does anyone else have the flavor of autism that makes you capitalize random words in a sentence???

[princepsumbra]

continued from here, @tacitanis

It's the mocking bow that reminds Leo of where there are, the eyes and ears most certainly cataloguing every word and movement. With visible effort, the prince schools his features back to something approaching impassive. Hiding his utter disdain is a feat he can't quite manage.

"Feigning idiocy never suited you well," he sniffs, unable to stop his hands from curling into fists. Whatever theories he says, Iago will dismiss with that irritatingly silver tongue of his. Regardless, Leo can play the game again--he's won once before.

"You want to retain some semblance of power. That much is clear; no sense in denying the obvious. You clearly enjoy riling me and my family." His looks down his nose at fathe--Garon's--former retainer. A ghost now haunting Nohr's royal family.

There's something Leo hasn't considered, a method behind this utter madness. "You seek redemption, perhaps. By showing contrition--and poisoning the new king's mind--you will try to convince the people you're a changed man. Not to mention how gracious the royal family will appear by comparison! Welcoming you back into our halls, allowing you all the privilege of your previous position."

The sneer enters his voice without his consent. "Snakes shed their skin but never change their true color."

[skyheld]

@accultant cont. from x

It is tempting to leave, admittedly. Vivienne would be furious and their mage allies probably offended, but truly, nothing they will be doing here cannot be done through a polite letter. Or an impolite one, if necessary. They are here so they're seen being here, that is the only reason he can think of. So it's tempting not just because of how unsettling it is for the both of them to be here; it's also that Ameridan dislikes the message this is sending. The Inquisitor (and the former Inquisitor) visiting the last standing circle, willing to ally with it --- people will read so much into that.

But backing out of what they've started is no option. The Inquisitor can't be seen being frightened by the presence of templars. They are holding together remarkably well under the circumstances --- he has noticed them staying close to him, the glances over their shoulder, but they are here, walking calmly through what must feel so much more like a nightmare for them than it does for him. He turns to give them an encouraging look, and that's when they drop their final comment.

Well. That's a terribly inappropriate thing to say. It brings the tiniest smile to his lips.

"I am sure we need not worry about that. Our allies would not allow any accidents to befall us." There's a hint of a warning there; it may be unwise to speak of accidents, even if it seems Vivienne is the only one close enough to listen. No one would truly dare to touch them, at least no one who isn't a fanatic for some ideal or other (they've had enough of those to be mindful of the possibility) but that doesn't mean they aren't being watched. That's probably the point, isn't it? To be seen, to be observed. It always is. Always has been.

Ameridan is fortunate in that he was born into status, and held lesser positions of command long before he shouldered that of the entire Inquisition. He got to navigate the Game before the outcome really mattered to anyone but himself, and he got to rise through the ranks (skipping some, because the emperor's friend doesn't have to go through all the hoops a lowly recruit does, but not all of them) instead of being put at the head of an army almost at once. He knew what it meant to be something more than yourself, a symbol instead of a person. He knew what it was like when every word spoken and every action taken was scrutinized, analyzed --- and used, by whoever could find a way to twist it to their benefit. It is familiar, like old armour worn through many battles.

It still chafes.

"But they really have no reason to keep us long", he says, as though to reassure both himself and Iago. "Should they try to, I don't know, invite us on a tour to the the dungeons we will simply have urgent business elsewhere. We are the Inquisition, we always have urgent business. Everywhere."

[unhonest-iago]

Caretaker dealing with a more angry, combative whumpee. One that has destructive outbursts full of screaming and hyperventilating. All they can see is red. Angry at what whumper did to them. To the point Caretaker has to learn how to physically restrain them from further hurting themselves. Especially when whumpee turn their rage towards caretaker. They let a few swings hit but ultimately have to stop them. Holding their arms away from their body. Repeatedly apologizing as they do so.

Later cradling whumpee in their lap when they've finally exhausted themselves. Head tucked in caretaker's shoulder, hands clutching at their shirt. Begging caretaker to not leave them. 'I'll never leave you, just don't want you hurting yourself or me,' holding them just as tightly. 'You have every right to be angry at them. Whumper should've never laid a hand on you. You didn't deserve any of it.' Their voice was barely higher than a whisper.

[greeneyed-thestral]

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

twst fest stream news

Most of it was the VAs goofing around and talking about themselves, their characters, and/or current content in TWST. However!! We also got some exciting news—

Starting off, a preview of the next birthday series! It’s based on the Disney 100 suit designs. This line of cards is (tentatively) Platinum Jacket/Suit.

You know what that means??? 😭 Maybe we’ll finally know what Disney villains ambiguous characters like Jack are inspired by… (Addendum: the frames behind the characters may not actually show character inspo; it could just show the member of the Great Seven that corresponds to their respective dorm or demonstrate some other pattern entirely.)

Grim’s getting a Disney 100 limited SSR featuring Grim and Mickey :9 This SSR Grim will be coming sometime this October.

The next Halloween event will feature characters based on The Fox (aka Honest John) and Gideon from Pinocchio, so now I’m speculating maybe an Ortho SSR (since he’s the “puppet that became a real boy” in book 6). Oof, no Rollo I guess??

Also, free 10 pull!! You can use it on the limited time event banner (Lilia/Riddle or Floyd/Ace) if you wish~

No anime news unfortunately!! But there is a suspicious giveaway campaign. 300 lucky winners will receive a digital gift card to Disney+…

To participate, follow twst_jp on X Twitter and retweet this post. If you are one of the 300 selected, you’ll receive a DM from twst_jp.

[aroseyetbloomedwrites]

Ch.2 To be Surreptitious... Or Not. [An Iago/Francel de Haillenarte Fanfiction]

Working Chapter title: A Gift, and There May be Many

Rating: T (for suggestive tones)

Category: M/M

Fandom: Final Fantasy XIV

Relationship: Iago (Original Male Character)/Francel de Haillenarte

Summary: A singular meeting, turned intimate and entirely endearing, evolves into a human like ritual for him. His taste is unforgettable, his aether to sup upon an addiction. A game turned serious. There is an evolution of something inside of him yet unnamed… Dare he speak it?

Chapter Summary: Iago looks up and over from the book, the sound of a quill, once sturdy, crumbling beneath pressure consistently exerted on it, and Francel, a blush alight his nose and full lips parted in a surprised, ‘oh’.

“Again, my dear?”

CHAPTER 1 , Chapter 2 (you are here)

AO3 Link: HERE

Sneak peek!:

There is always a sense of relaxation when he gets to spend such unhurried time with Francel - even when he is, well, working. Iago does not mind that their time together is technically apart, for the silence is companionable, and he can sometimes feel the lift of a gaze level on him for a moment or two before blue eyes return to paper, and scratching resumes to fill the room.

The void of his heart feels warmed where normally it is but a dull hole, the sluggish pump of blood through his veins, forced and magicked as it is, feels almost rushed. (Hot?) There is joy to be had here, reclined comfortably on one of Francel’s sofas situated in front of his desk. The window behind Francel is dark, but the fireplace to their side is bright and warm. Iago pretends to read one of Francel’s books; a history, or evolution of music within Ishgard. He is lain out on the sofa, feet propped against the armrest of one side, head against the other, and book sitting up on his chest, one hand behind his head, the other resting against his sternum, finger stuck out to balance the book.

They are somewhere in the middle of dressed for bed, Iago’s buttoned up dress shirt is undone at the neck, and part way down his collar and sternum, the gray dusk of his chest partway revealed. A woolen black scarf hanging around his shoulders and the ends of it lay against his chest. The black silk of his shirt might be a little wrinkled from where he had twisted and turned as he reclined on the sofa. The shadows and dips of his collar bones prove distraction from time to time as Francel’s gaze does draw there for a treat or two. Francel is dressed similarly, as if he had been out from his room previously, ever decorated in lighter colors, a soft cream pull over, thicker wool to keep the cold at bay. 

Perhaps odd to him will be how Iago goes so easily barefoot, where he must wear slippers-even if Iago’s feet are pointed toward the fire. (How fun to see even his toe nails are lacquered black.)

Francel does wonder, despite Iago saying he originates from La Noscea, and deals mostly in Thavnair, how he can be so accustomed to the cold of Ishgard-he has never once heard him complain. But then, he has never mentioned where else his travels could have taken him either, and so, Francel contents himself with the idea that sometime, someway, he has grown accustomed in their time spent together, the rest was hardly any of his business, assuming it was occupationally natured.

Oh! But he is curious! Where else has he been, the stories he must surely be able to tell, and those varied places which would delight the eyes and senses. If only he would ask! For surely they have grown close enough that he may innocently inquire for just a little bit of knowledge-of lands he may never see…

Crunch

Iago looks up and over from the book, the sound of a quill, once sturdy, crumbling beneath pressure consistently exerted on it, and Francel, a blush alight his nose and full lips parted in a surprised, ‘oh’.

“Again, my dear?”

While Iago looks amused, Francel cannot help but be abashed beneath the patient smile leveled on him. 

“You have quite the grip, I should know first hand, and yet, I do not remember it being so deathly.”

Francel, a little incredulous (a little scandalized), turns wider eyes onto Iago-quirking lacquered lips are turning from smile into smirk, and Francel nearly withers in embarrassment, though somehow remains somewhat tickled, how could he say that out-loud!

Yet it was true. This was not the first time he had crushed a quill in his near relentless grip. As he raises his hand he will slowly unfurl his fingers from around the bent quill, the shaft of it surely crushed, white lines running down its length showing where it had given in beneath his grip. It is bent over as well, a demonstration in how his fingers had pushed against it. 

Iago has pushed himself up, sidling smoothly from his sofa and around the desk, he lays a hand over Francel’s shoulder comfortingly while peering down at the damage, he gives a short, pursed lip whistle. 

“Your poor hand.”

For Francel’s fingers have a slight tremble, and likely his wrist had been under pressure too.

He will set down his broken quill, roll his wrist a few times, and then look up to Iago.

“I suppose this means I am overdue for a respite.”

Iago’s grin grows, and their fingers will easily intertwine as he helps Francel up.

“Come then, rose, I shall massage your poor hand, among other things, if it pleases you.”

Francel can hardly gasp past the mouth which eagerly meets his own.

So then a few days shall pass, whilst incident free for now, the young lord does note as he writes, such letters, framers, and permits as he does, that his fingers should be tender, and his wrist certainly tired, with time-to be exacerbated. Yet, knowing that he cannot stop, will carry on as he does, and Iago, he will watch, and he will think.

He does not wait for the next quill to snap, as they do when in Francel’s fierce grip, but shall leave a bowed box upon Francel’s desk one morning, light spilling in from curtains left open, and so to appear as having snuck in, leaves them thus and with the window ajar to cool the room. Francel will let himself in, only to be pleasantly surprised to see Iago leant over his desk, he will not know how expertly orchestrated it all would be, and merely gasp his surprise before breaking into a joyed smile.

“That you would take the time to visit me so frequently, surely I press you for time?”

“Nay, my lord, for I can hardly stay away.”

He will flush brilliantly, abashedly twist the cup of coffee he bears in his hands. He will also shiver as the draft reaches him from the window, freshly dressed in only house wear as he is. He will note Iago is similarly dressed, fretting over him with a hushed ‘tut’.

“Oh, Iago… Scaling these walls as you are, you shall catch a chill, come further in, won’t you?”

It would not be lost on either, the need to lock the door before eagerly slipping further into the room, leaving his steaming coffee on the corner of his desk as he comes around it and by Iago’s side to gently ease the window closed. The truth of it being, with no eyes on he or manor, he had only traveled with voidal magick when sensing Francel elsewhere in the manor, his purity telltale and diminished by distance. He cannot feel the bite of cold in any case, so he shall smile easily, and with Francel turning towards him, will take him ‘round the waist. 

“Why, warmth was awaiting me up here, never fear.”

Francel, taken in close, will smooth his hands over the front of Iago’s silk shirt, limber and slight muscle a gentle touch beneath. Comfortable against him, he will lay his head against his shoulder, there was tenderness to be had for Francel to indulge in. Yet, that Iago will find his hunger steeping, his thirst growing, kept at bay only with their nearness, while remaining a tantalizing temptation. He should not feast and sup too frequently less he overdraw from Francel’s sweet reserves… Before he gets too caught up…

“Not to distract from mine true intentions…”

One arm remains around the curve of Francel’s waist, but the other is free to gesture to the black box situated front and center on the desk. There is reluctance to draw away, but that Francel is curious, so they will part, and Francel will pull out his chair and settle in with eyes on his little parcel. It has a bouncy black bow, and would otherwise sit over his palm and he could wrap his fingers around its length.

The coffee lay forgotten at its edge, as with eagerness he pulls the bow loose, lifts the black top free, and in a cushioned frame is quite the elegant pen. He has seen these before, but perhaps he was merely being old fashioned to resist the transition. The graveyard of quills may be compelling enough, and Iago’s mindful urging. The fountain pen itself is a glossy black with gold framing, the nib is silver and gold when he uncaps it. 

“This pen has a flexible nib, and is a newly invented vacuum filler. You just dip and extract. I wanted it to be effortless for you.”

Francel picks up the pen and balances it in his palm, it is weighty, made with fine alloys, and would clearly resist the way he claws with his grip.

“I suspect it will take some getting used to, as you have a heavy grip. The pen should glide without pressure.”

Producing a bottle of ink from his pocket, Iago uncaps it and demonstrates for Francel. He unscrews a knob, gold rimmed, at the end of the pen and pulls back the plunger to show him. Submerging the nib in the ink and pushes the plunger back down, by creating a low pressure environment thus, ink is pulled up into the chamber. With a little cleaning, he hands it over, and Francel holds it, nib down, with delicacy. 

“Here, try it.”

Iago pulls open a drawer from the desk and takes out a sheet of paper, setting it straight before him. Gingerly then, Iago will place his hand over Francel’s, and together they will lower their hands so that he may show him the ideal angle to write at.

“The two nib tines need to touch the page to write, so do not twist your wrist as you do, it may skip or lose purchase, otherwise.”

And then, together they glide. It is just a line, but the ink flows, smooth and dark and Francel gives a giddy laugh at their combined success.

“Oh, Iago…”

He is breathless, as new experiences are wont to make him.

“Soon, you shall learn how to flick your wrist just so.”

Iago tells him with confidence, and Francel, with guidance on pressure by his lover's expert hand, cannot help but trace Iago’s name.

“I shall practice with fervor!”

They stay together thus, hands joined, lining each others names into the paper.

[accultant]

secret third tav banter option: how would they greet puck specifically? also, in the tadpoled iago AU, what would their dialogue be upon recruiting my deranged beast?

??. Puck-exclusive greetings

✧ "Hey there, meathead." ✧ "Is everything alright?" ✧ [like calling a dog] "Here, boy! Here, Dandy!" [snickers] "Sorry. Hi."

??. Reversed AU, memory-loss Iago's dialogue upon recruiting memory-retained Puck (scary mode. no tadpole. fresh out the temple)

[Staring silently and unblinkingly at him from across camp without saying a word until the player prompts them to speak again and they finally look] "Hm? Oh. I was just..." [they stare off into the distance again for a few moments before snapping to attention once more] "I find myself drawn to Puck. Confused by him, mostly, and all I do is ask questions. Surely, it'll drive him mad - madder -, but I can't stop myself. I have more right now, as we speak, but I'm... Taking a break. When I spoke to him earlier, my hands started to shake and I don't know why. Does that happen to you? My chest hurts when he says my name, too. Is that normal? It's a nice change of pace from the perpetual headache, I suppose. He hasn't tried to chop your hand off yet, has he?"

[heartslobbf]

has anyone played desdemona as a trans woman. or like written about transfeminism in othello generally. i haven’t looked anything up yet lol like i literally just thought of this and im like ohhhhhhh. that play makes me bonkers fr