#macbeth fanfic

[macbethsperiodblood]

trying to get a chapter of a fanfic done in a week has killed me (i still havent finished)

[mxgnctos]

“if you were ever given the chance, would you give up everything you owned, everything you held dear to your heart, just to get what you want?”

macbeth shifted on the grass and glanced at banquo. those dark, mysterious eyes bore into him, and that look held meaning. that look held all the affection, all the love in the world, and immediately banquo knew what his answer would be.

“yes.”

banquo’s breath hitched. he was hesitant. he wasn’t sure if he should say it or not. but it wasn’t like anyone other than macbeth could hear him, right?

years of wanting would just drive him to insanity. so he didn’t hold back. he had nothing to lose.

“what is it that you really want?” banquo whispered, his voice husky, his eyes returning the silent conversation that their eyes were having; and that conversation was something that only the both of them would understand; something that only the two of them could look back and smile upon when they grow old. together.

(growing old was something that terrified the both of them, for it just means inevitable change and an inevitable departure. but if they knew what was to come in their futures, perhaps they would’ve preferred it if they just grew old, together, just the two of them in their own secluded world.)

and macbeth exhaled; and every moment he wasn’t speaking was agonising to banquo, but he waited, like how he would wait for the masked figures to deliver the finishing blow, like how he would wait for macbeth to snap out of his trance when they meet those weird sisters all those years later.

“i want..” and banquo’s breath hitched in his throat, he wasn’t sure what macbeth would say, but he closed his eyes and wished, and wished, and wished.

“i-“ macbeth, usually decisive and confident in his every move, was now reduced to a speechless puddle, his flustered expression and his flushed face giving light to what he wanted to say next.

macbeth sighed, finally.

“i want… you.”

and banquo heard it clearly, even though macbeth’s voice was reduced to a whisper, even though the thudding of his heartbeat resounded in his ears louder than ever. and there macbeth reached across the grass and cupped his face, tenderly, affectionately, pulled him in close and kissed him.

but banquo should’ve noted that hint of uncertainty in his voice, but love made him blind and wanting made him ignorant to everything else that was happening around him. for as long as their youth remained in their bodies and their voices, their love was reminiscent to a violent thunderstorm in the middle of the summer. it ended, like all things do.

but banquo never actually knew what macbeth wanted, what macbeth would actually give everything up for.

up until the inevitable happened, when ambition corrupted the man he once knew, when he was reduced to nothing short of a monster.

and as spots of black constricted his vision and his shirt drench with his own blood, he wondered why he ever kidded himself that everything he had would remain the same forever.

[ancientcitylullaby]

Here have this angsty Macbeth/Banquo fanfic about a certain Scottish king regretting the murder of his bf

[elsinore-and-inverness]

And another one:

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Tags

No Archive Warnings Apply

Macbeth/Lady Macbeth (Macbeth)

Macbeth (Macbeth)

Lady Macbeth (Macbeth)

Grief/Mourning

Insomnia

Sharing a Bed

Summary

She had been trying to get him to sleep for hours now. He’d grown up on stories from further north about how witches control winds on the sea by untying knots and about the frost giants forced to grind salt at the bottom of the ocean and the way cruelty leads to terrible fates. If you did wrong, the stories said, in no uncertain terms, you should expect to answer for it. Donmar Warehouse 2023-2024 vibes.

Language: English Words: 575 Chapters: 1/1

[lillibet]

Macbeth, but all the characters make sensible decisions...

I recently started a little re-working William Shakespeare’s Macbeth, in which all the characters make rational, logical and sensible decisions. I’ve just published the first chapter on Wattpad but I thought I’d post it here too.

Warnings: None

Word count: 765

It began, as any self-respecting tragedy-with-supernatural-elements would: in the middle of a field, in the middle of the night. But this was no ordinary night (though the field was ordinary, belonging to a local farmer who was currently fast asleep despite the storm, and had no idea what was about to take place in his field). Lightning cracked the sky and thunder shook the ground, though the rain had not yet reached the farmer’s field. 

As a particularly bright flash of lightning lit up the sky three figures suddenly appeared, as though the storm had summoned them. They stood in a triangle, facing each other in the field, oblivious to the fact that the middle of a field is the last place any normal person would want to be in the middle of a thunderstorm. But these were not ordinary people. In fact it might be a stretch to even refer to them as people. They were mystical beings with weathered, lined faces and gnarled, calloused hands. They were makers of potions and casters of spells, but most importantly, they were liars. Though if you asked them, they would prefer the term ‘equivocators.’ They were economical with the truth, using it to twist fate and deal destiny.

Tonight, the figures were shrouded in long cloaks so dark that they looked black, until a flash of lightning revealed them to be a deep crimson. They were standing so still that they could have been statues, they seemed to be waiting for something. After a particularly loud rumble of thunder one of the figures spoke as though the sound was a cue. “When shall we three meet again? In thunder, lightning, or in rain?” The first figure asked with a soft, mysterious whisper that seemed to continue long after the sentence had finished. “When the hurlyburly’s done. When the battle’s lost and won,” the second figure replied in a lilting, singsong voice, rolling the r’s. “I thought we were meeting on that heath,” the third figure interrupted, sounding confused, “in two days’ time. At sunset?” The first figure sighed, a long exhalation that turned into a groan at that end. “You’ve ruined it again!” The second figure moaned with a petulant little stamp, all trace of the singsong tones gone. “Sorry, I just didn’t understand why we were talking about when we were going to see each other again,” the third figure explained. “I was trying to create an atmosphere,” the first figure said, sounding annoyed, “how are we supposed to maintain our air of mystery if you keep asking silly questions?” “Sorry, sorry,” the third figure said “I’ll try and say something mysterious this time. Can you repeat the last bit?” “When the hurlyburly’s done. When the battle’s lost and won,” the second figure repeated, sounding irritated. “That will be ere the set of the sun,” the third figure said dramatically. “Where the place?” the first figure asked, holding up a bony finger to silence any interruption from the third figure. “Upon the heath,” the second figure answered in an equally theatrical tone. “There to meet with… Macbeth,” the third figure said, leaving a dramatic pause before whispering the name.

Suddenly the impatient meowing of a cat caught their attention. “I come Greymalkin!” the first figure shouted in the direction of the meowing, which immediately stopped, “probably just wants feeding,” the first figure muttered. There was silence for a few seconds before the loud ribbitting of a toad echoed across the field. “Paddock calls,” the second figure said, gesturing towards the sound. “I still don’t understand why you decided ‘Paddock’ was a good name for a toad,” The third figure said, but was silenced by a glare from the second figure. “I think it’s time to go,” the first figure said. “Anon,” the third figure said, shrugging. 

All three figures joined hands and looked towards the sky. “Fair is foul, and foul is fair; hover through the fog and filthy air,” they shouted lifting their hands upwards. A bolt of lightning streaked out of the sky and hit the ground directly in the middle of the triangle they had formed. The first two figures disappeared as the lightning left the field in darkness and in the same moment, the rain arrived, a torrential downpour that poured from the sky in sheets and soaked everything it touched. The third figure looked around, bewildered for a second, before muttering something unintelligible, sighing, shrugging and setting off across the field, feet sinking into the muddy ground and making a squelching, slopping sound whenever the third figure took a step.