4
"Macbeth," she whispered his name as he fell from grace, and into her. The nightʼs embrace was pale this time around. Cold, ancient, primitive. Her cloak embodied the night, and blood embodied her bone, and Macbeth overshadowed her. A beast with two backs. He was her servant and she relished in him being her mistress. She had the blood of a völva, a demonic prophet used as a ploy by witches in her and he gasped at it.
Gasped as it drenched their bodies, marring every with its rotting supernatural teeth and molten flesh. It crawled like a spider, moving around Macbeth and Marjorie like a plague, and her knuckles curled around the top of its mouth, running her blood along Macbethʼs chapped lips, lubricating his tongue in the salty liquid and then allowing it to drip from his lips as he would a ruby, or a rose.
"Mine," he whispered, a carnal, feral, primal urge building up inside him without stopping. She consumed the tongue with a divine, filthy lick, and brushed her lips against his; the pulpy tanginess like a syrupy taste on her mouth. She tore, yanked, gasped – lushly breaking the tongue with the carnality of her teeth as blood dripped onto her lips yet again. Coating them in crimson. Oozing out of her mouth, flooding it with warmth, relief, and a painstakingly torturous hunger that consumed them.
She was w*t, gloriously w*t, and he kissed her on the lips as his fingers kissed the soil. The kiss was urgent. The two felt a burning, pivotal sensation deep within – but the witchcraft worked its magic. Fierce intensity of the magic, of the sight, squeezing them like a metallic band. Like a flame to a moth, they moved, tongues relentlessly searching for the spark – the light, the hypnotic glow of knowledge. Milking each other of their hatred. And then, soon enough, there were faces. Burning with rage.
The tombstones danced behind them, winged skulls and angelic runes warding of the dead. Their bodies were urgent against one another, and sirens danced in the dark waters. The blood wolf howled. Piercing like daggers, low, beckoning, slicing through their skin.
He took her: animalistic, raw, carnal. He brushed her pubic bone and took her, again and again, grinding their hips against one anotherʼs in a musical dance. He rammed up into her, coated in her glistening slick and his sweat. The blood painted their bodies, painted the kingdom red, her legs wide as the grave. He stroked her legs and suckled again, her back thrashing against the tombstone.
"My dark, heathenʼd knight. Yes, oh, yes. Give me your seed," she whispered. "Give me everything."
And the demons danced. Languidly, slowly, bodies slick within oil and Macbeth was still inside her. Her voice still low and weak, her lips swallowed by his beard, her body swallowed by his sweat, her arms wrapped around him. But, everything felt disorienting. Convoluted. The demons danced. Marjorie spread her legs wider, only not wanton.
Brands of crimson kissed her flesh, golden silk spread across the floor, tracing demonic symbols onto her body; her dress snowy white as marble, but smeared in sanguine blood, red as the angry day. Pregnant, she was, and her body felt wet and tight as he liked it...but the pain he felt was rancid, raw. She chanted in Latin, unbuttoning that dress, sprawled against the dead, damp earth.
The earth whispered to her, and she back to it, as Macbeth gripped the grave and plunged into her without stopping. Tight, wet, hot, heavy. Blood rained down – a painterʼs strokes spraying the floors in arches that could shame the finest roses in Medician Florence. Rippling like waves of moonlight, flowing around her like a satiny, crimson bow. Ravens, crows, dead things – they all circled her with a venomous wrath.
Sacrifice without regret, without love, without consequence is mere slaughter. And you know your purpose.
Whispers, so many whispers.
And then a cry ripped out of her throat. His fingers worked against him, ramming into Marjorieʼs throat. Ointment lubricating the saliva, a choked cough spilling from her throat as his harsh, rough, coarse hands glistened. Rubbing along her chest, her swollen stomach, returning to that wet spot and relishing in every way he plundered her. Touched her. Filled her with an enticing, entrancing warmth he adored.
The earth began moving; undulating, writhing, seething and shifting around her – and as she screamed in the graveyard, in the soulless night, insects began swallowing her. Spilling out of the rich, decay of the graveyard – beetles and fat centipedes and slugs and hairy spiders. The baby wailed, Macbeth gasped and groaned, and he slit their throats; lambʼs blood spilling over their chins and onto their bodies; a perverted hallucination come to life.
Kill the boy.
And if you do, the world will become yours.
You shall be queen, in every aspect of the word.
The baby cried once more. Pain in her stomach blossomed, bloomed in both their bodies and the screams mixed with a babyʼs cry and the shriek of an animal. Low, deep, predatory, menacing. Sobbing, Marjorie clutched her body and watched Lady Macbeth collect the morsels of her baby in a bloody burlap sack – Tartarusʼ face on a blackened, charred corpse of a rotting child.
And then it was over.
hotthing
cloudswhite
whiteclouds
thinghot
screaminglittlebabes
paintedincolor
shewrapsherarmsaroundme
andwearsmacdonwaldsbane
thatsubmissivedog
butshewrapsherarmsaroundme
screaming,crying
sheismine
andiamhers
mybeloved