❦❧♱❦❧

5

    "Come in, and put your sh*t on the floor," she started. 

    Donning a crimson fur coat, like in the primitive days of clan-based Scotland, Decarabia sauntered into a greasy backroom and propped her n*pple clamps and pumps on the cushions nearby. Pouring two glasses of water, crystalline and crystal clear to the touch, Decarabia motioned for him to sit down. Macbeth obliged. 

    "Blunt," he said, nodding at her, accepting the cool glass of water. 

    "It has been 900 years, Macbeth," Decarabia snapped. "I can be however blunt as I want to. You left me to rot in this world. I was yours, and you surrendered everything for your Portuguese slave b*tch. For your dark flower. 900 years. You gave me promise, and you left me waiting for 900 years. I can however blunt as I want to."

    Macbeth traced the ridges of his scorched hand and stewed in silence. He clenched his fists, staring at her stoically.

    "900 years," Macbeth said simply, dismissing Decarabiaʼs comments about his wife, tasting the way it sounded; that the great Scottish king was as old as time.

    Decarabia, needless to say, wasnʼt having it. 

    "What the h*ll are you doing here?" she snapped. "Now, of all times?" 

    Macbeth pursed his lips. 

    "I need closure," he said simply. 

    "Screw you and your need for closure. It was 900 years ago." 

    "And yet time still cuts fresh wounds in your eyes, Decarabia," Macbeth retorted. 

    He paused, pursing his lips again. 

    "I saw a young girl run down the streets," he said. "She was no older than seventeen." 

    "Seventeen-year-old children are formally a part of society, Macbeth," Decarabia huffed. 

    "This girl was my kin," Macbeth replied. "I smelled it on her; I felt it, deep within my bones. The child I had with Marjorie died in infancy, and yet, I have a bloodline. I donʼt understand how this is even possible." 

    Pause. 

    "I need closure, Decarabia, please," he repeated. 

    Decarabia sighed in defeat. 

     "What do you want to know, Macbeth?" she asked simply. 

    He clenched his fists again.

    "What happened after I died?" he replied. 

    She exhaled sharply, drawing in breath and then closing her eyes. The pain was ripe, blooming inside of her with a murderous vitriol, and for once, Macbeth could feel something. Something like pain. Not quite there, but still, a flesh wound. A fresh wound.

    "You were decapitated in Scotland," Decarabia said simply. "Your wife committed suicide. Macduffʼs armies invaded your kingdom and consumed it in a blaze oʼ glory and gore. He succeeded until Fleance, whose father you murdered, was prepared to rule. Duncanʼs children – Duncan being the other son-of-a-b*tch you killed – they took Cawdor and Glamis. 

    "Fleance, the king, he broke bread with the rebels. They traveled back to Dunsinane Hill and burned the three witches at the stake, including your wifeʼs remains. Anyone suspected of witch-craft, really. The English put their foot down about it and covered it up just as quickly. Well, ʼcause of that and the fact your name is cursed."

    She paused. 

    "You wiped out three families. So they returned the favor. They wiped out any trace of you, cut down any b*stard with your blood in their bones. Your bloodline has been erased, Macbeth. I donʼt know how the girl is your kin, Macbeth. It was a massacre and I was ridinʼ shotgun." 

    Macbeth smiled grimly. 

    "The wh*reson managed to decimate my legacy," Macbeth said bitterly, Macduffʼs name a curse on his lips. 

    "First in hell with sadistic torture, and now on Earth with Shakespeare and his vile, blasphemous words." 

    Decarabia frowned. 

    "You know Shakespeare?" Decarabia asked. 

    He ignored her. 

    "You were not surprised when I mentioned the girl," Macbeth countered, dodging the question as if he ignored it. Decarabia arched an eyebrow, but didn't say anything, shrugging. 

    "There has been talk of two lovers. The wolf and the hunter, they call them," Decarabia explained. "Some are saying that theyʼre direct descendants of the mighty Macbeths. Some say theyʼve been touched by Satan and itʼs his doing. They f*ck like rabbits, so itʼs plausible. I dunno. But either way, the supernatural have moved on from your earth-shattering, apocalypse-inducing reign," she replied, cool and crisp.

    "How the mighty have fallen, as they say."  

    Macbeth cursed Decarabia in Gaelic, and held his head in his hands. 

    "You promised me transparency when I came back," Macbeth seethed. "A clean slate. I trusted you, and you watched me burn to the ground."  

    Decarabia slammed her fists against a spare platform, the sound pounding against the walls. 

    "You and Hecate promised me the glory the Lordʼs precious humans stole from me but you ran off to your Portuguese wh*re instead and got yourself killed because you couldnʼt bear her passing," Decarabia spat. 

    "Now Iʼm a b*tch in a tight g-string entertaining old men for a profit because of it, so no, I didnʼt save you. I didnʼt fix you, I didnʼt waste my time propping you up and petting you. I hid in the shadows so I didnʼt get myself killed. I wasted decades on you; I could have been something if it werenʼt for you. You led me on, and you expect me to worship you and your failure. P*ss off, you piece of sh*t." 

    Macbeth leveled a dark gaze, smiling crudely. 

    "Oh darling," Macbeth retorted, cold-and-callous. "Youʼve been wh*ring yourself to the highest bidder long before I wormed my way into your heart and defiled your body. From Macduff to Satan, you have been using your body as a profit. And even now, you do the same. Do not stop on my accord, Decarabia. Please. Continue. Explain to me how your failure was based on promises you coaxed out of me when I was at my lowest, and when the only demons I thought I knew were in my war-torn head. You used me just as much I used you. Only difference is the fact I do not sell my soul to the Devil to do it." 

    She slapped him... 

    "F*ck you," she spat. 

    ...and he slapped her back. 

    Ruthlessly, the skin of his palm dragging against her skin. Gritting his teeth, anger flared through Macbeth – sharp, shrieking anger that bounced off the walls the way the whimpers Decarabia emitted. Whipping his hand across her face, the cracking sound her succulently pale skin made, it riled him up; made him tense, furious. His palm was bright, glowing red – framing her obsidian curls and stark white face in that angry red – and as he watched her through hooded crimson eyes, he panted. Drawing in air from his clenched lungs and panted like a dog dying of thirst. 

    "Get on your knees, you Chr*st-ridden wh*re," he growled. 

    "I hate you," Decarabia growled back before kissing him dirtily, deeply. 

    She kneeled.

    It was debasing, degrading, filthy in her eyes – and thatʼs what he loved. His fingers clasped in her luscious night-black hair and his nails scraping away at her scalp as he clutched each strand and yanked. Hearing her cries in pain as they kissed, Macbeth watched her rampantly tug his pants off and reach for him. 

    It had been too long. 

    "Kinky little b*tch," Macbeth growled, clenching his fingers around the roots of her hair as her face grew blushing red. Swirling her tongue against the head and gasping furiously, tears streaked Decarabiaʼs face as he pulled back her head sharply, swiftly, seething as she kissed him in e more. 

    "You missed this," he sneered, snapping her head back and yanking at the roots. She gasped, jaw clenched. 

    "You missed this almost as much as I did, you dirty little b*tch." 

    "900 years," she gasped, humming against him.

    "900 years." 

     A woman winter-starved for whatever scraps he gave her. Macbeth looked at her with awe. 

    Power. 

    Power felt like that. 

    Decarabia screamed for him, sang for her supper, feeling her hips roll against his fingers, clenching in anticipation. 

    "I need you, Macbeth." 

    Blood. 

    He needed blood. 

     Crushing his lips against hers, brutally, cruelly, Macbeth bit – fangs plunging into layers of skin and milking slews of gore from the seams. Bursting, gushing against his mouth – Macbeth swallowed Decarabiaʼs sweetened ichor, swallowing her choked cry – listening to her whimper against him as if she were a filthy, sobbing, mess and clamping his teeth around her bottom lip even more harshly, hungrily, her fingers working in tandem with her kisses.

    "Lay down on your front," Macbeth said in a deadly growl. "On your front now." 

    Gritting her teeth, Macbeth watched her scramble towards the floor and pushed her onto the ground. Clamping his teeth against the supple flesh and watching the skin pale when he cut off circulation, Macbeth took everything he could. 

    "Yes," he groaned in appreciation, humming in approval as his fingers dug into the backs of her thighs; scratching and scarring them as he dug his nails underneath the flesh. Diving, searching, deeper, harder, angrier, bloodier. Mewling, she gripped the floor – nails biting into the skin as his eyes grew colder, darker, dominated by black.

        Drip, drip. 

         Drip, drip. 

           He bit her skin. 

    Rampantly, his icy lips grazing her shoulder as he clamped his teeth against her flesh, clinching tightly. Heat flooded his veins as his fingers and skin moved in tandem, smothering him with a raging fervor, and as Decarabia screamed – loudly and intensely as he sucked, lapped, eyes mutating into a vicious, violent, hungry red. Blood pooled around them, racing like white-hot pleasure, and as he drilled into her – teeth finding her pallid, creamy thighs and tearing at the flesh like a pack of angry wolves, he found his high.

    "Please," Decarabia begged, tears streaming down her throat and sliding into Macbethʼs mouth.

    Harder. 

    Faster.

    More explosive. 

    "Stay with me," he ground out. "Stay." 

    Clamping his hands around her jaw, gripping tightly and growling with wild abandon, Macbeth began shaking as he lodged his fingers into her mouth and listened to her ragged pants as he pulled them out with a wet pop. 

    It wasnʼt love.

    It wasnʼt want.

    It wasnʼt desire.

    He wanted to rip her apart, and he couldnʼt hold himself back. 

    He was hungry. He was so damn hungry.

    "Please," Decarabia sobbed, mewling, begging, accentuating each staccato in a whine, writhing wildly now, rubbing her fingers against his folds rampantly. Arousal still pounded through their veins, and as Decarabia cradled his head and clawed – kissing him fervently, furiously, her lips bruising his and her body rolling in sync with his. Plunging her teeth into his bottom lip, Decarabia fisted her hands in his hair and moaned without restraint, her claws sinking into his back as his stubble sank into the corners of her mouth. 

    Her mouth slanted against his, and as her tongue jutted out of her mouth – desperate to taste him – he moved. His lips, his body, rocking into her with the might of tidal waves and burying his head in his chest.

    "Say please again," he whispered in a deadly bravado: seething with rage, with impatience, hissing like a hurricane. Crying out imploringly, Decarabia ground her hips and listened to him shout. Mascara stained the soles of her eyes, rimming her carmine pupils with a violent red, and as adrenaline thundered through his veins – she saw him. The scars blistered onto his skin, the hollow cross branded into his cheekbone, the stark, skinless and fleshless bone glistening against his gritted teeth. The sadistic, sick heat in his glare.

     "Please–" 

    He choked her. 

    Clenching his hands into an abrupt fist, he clutched her – feeling her muscles swell up underneath his fingertips. Digging her nails into his shoulder-blades, Decarabia gasped: naked, uninhibited, raw – her pulse drumming underneath his hands as if she were a frightened jack-rabbit. Moaning in ragged gasps, Macbethʼs vice-like grip intensified and his lips smoldered hers. Furious, passionate, bladelike teeth scraping away flesh and blood dripping onto the edge of her lip. Beautiful, dark, decadent rills of crimson framing her stark skin. 

    "Please–" 

    His hipbones carved into hers. He knew nothing else. 

    Massaging his neck with the deep, evasive scratches of her nails, Decarabia wrapped her legs around his hips as he pile-dove into her in tune with a cheap rock-ʼn-roll record. Sweat bled into his beard and blinded his vision and with every needy mewl he pulled from her, his chest arched closer towards her breasts. Crushing them, creased against them, cushioned on-top of them. 

    "Too long," she groaned, aggressively dominant and simpering with need. Snaking her way into her hair, she tugged at the roots and pulled him down onto her. 

    Toolongtoolongtoolong–

    "F*ck," he growled, hungry and lustful. Digging his fingers into her back, he clutched the side of her face and wrenched her onto his lips. The burns were glorious as he bit into her skin and slapped it, her scent getting him off but not getting him high.

    He hated her. 

    He loved her. 

    He missed her.  

    "Marjorie," he beseeched.