Stars Hide Their Fires, Let Not Light See My Deep and Dark Desires
A/N: this is written as a half-joke for my friend
The knock comes late at night.
She knows who it is. Knows why he's there. The same reason he comes every night.
But this time, Macbeth doesn't wait. He simply pushes open the door, the fire in the hearth casting a golden glow over him. Blood. Blood everywhere, on his hands, on his face, staining his white shirt, his fingernails and his soul. He's ragged, dark eyes wild and hair askew, brow viciously furrowed. His hands are doused in blood, but they do not shake.
She's only wearing her nightgown, and her eyes widen slightly. It is not the first time he has come to her like this, furious and mad and doused in another man's blood.
He stumbles into her rooms, stumbles into her, his hands finding her jaw, smearing blood across her cheek, and without warning he kisses her. Its not soft, and its not easy, and there's a metallic scent in the air as the blood touches her skin, as his hands travel down to her hips to grip at her, to give her a gentle squeeze, so different to his anger.
