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Chapter Text

The battlefield was chaos. Steel clashed against steel, the air thick with the stench of blood and sweat. The cries of the fallen rang through the mist-laden air, swallowed by the roars of warriors locked in combat. You were among them, though you bore no weapon—merely a soul caught in the storm of war, a thread at risk of being cut too soon.

You barely saw him before it was too late. Banquo, a towering figure of wrath and skill, swung his sword with a deadly arc, his expression hardened by battle. The moment stretched unbearably long as the blade neared you, and you braced for the inevitable.

But it did not come.

His sharp gaze locked onto you, reading the fear in your eyes, the absence of armour or weapon. You were no soldier. You were no enemy. The realization struck him swiftly, his hand jerking the blade away at the last moment, sparing your life by mere inches.

Banquo’s brow furrowed, a flicker of confusion passing over his face. What were you doing in the heart of such slaughter? He had no time for questions, only action. The battle surged around you, and the sight of another soldier approaching with murderous intent made his decision for him.

With a swift motion, his arms encircled you, lifting you from the ground as though you weighed nothing. The act was not rough or careless; instead, it carried a strange sort of gentleness, a warrior’s mercy. You found yourself cradled against his chest, held like something precious amidst the carnage.

“Hold on,” he murmured, voice gruff but not unkind.

Your breath hitched as he carried you through the field, weaving between clashing swords and fallen bodies. The scent of blood filled your lungs, the cries of the dying echoing in your ears, yet in his arms, you felt strangely untouchable. His grip was unyielding yet careful as if he feared shattering you, and the sheer contrast sent a shiver down your spine. You curled into him, heart pounding against his armour, the rhythmic thud of his footsteps the only thing anchoring you to the moment. It was surreal—like you were something sacred in his grasp, a delicate promise he refused to break. The thought sent an unexpected warmth flooding through you, even as fear’s icy tendrils refused to fully loosen their hold .

Banquo’s grip was firm, unwavering, as he brought you beyond the fray, past the outskirts where the fighting had not yet reached. Only then did he lower you, his hands lingering just long enough to ensure you were steady.

“Hold on,” he murmured, voice gruff but not unkind. “I will return.”

Before you could respond, he set you down gently and disappeared back into the fray. The sounds of battle raged on, and you waited, heart pounding in your chest. You swallowed hard, nodding. Words failed you, tangled in your throat, but the gratitude in your eyes must have spoken for you.

Minutes passed—perhaps more—before Banquo returned. But he was not alone.

Macbeth stood beside him, his sharp gaze appraising you, curiosity flickering in his eyes. The two warriors exchanged a glance before turning their attention fully to you.

Silence hung between you for a moment, tension thick in the air. Then, almost in unison, they took a step closer.

“You are quite the sight,” Macbeth remarked, voice smooth, laced with intrigue.

Banquo tilted his head, his expression unreadable. “Indeed.”

Their eyes lingered on you, unreadable and intent, as they closed the distance between you.

Then, Macbeth gently lifted you and carried you over his shoulder in silence as the two of them walked away into a small hut off the battlefield far enough so no one would hear or see or come but still close enough for you to hear the battle cries. He set you down onto a bed.

Macbeth’s grip was firm yet effortless as he carried you, the world around you blurring into the distant clamour of war. Banquo followed close behind, his heavy steps measured, deliberate. The small hut they led you to was old, its wooden walls bearing the weight of years, yet it stood strong against the chaos beyond.

The moment Macbeth set you down onto the bed, the room felt impossibly small, the air thick with something unspoken. The flickering light of a lone candle cast long shadows across their faces, highlighting the sharp edges of their war-worn features. Outside, the battle raged on, the distant cries a stark reminder of the world beyond these walls—yet here, with them, you felt trapped in something far more dangerous.

Macbeth’s hands went to the clasps of his armour, unfastening each piece with practised ease. His gaze never wavered from you as he stripped away the layers of war, revealing the strength beneath. Banquo remained silent, his eyes dark, unreadable, but the weight of his presence alone sent a shiver down your spine.

"Undress," Macbeth commanded, his voice low, expectant.

The order hung in the air between you, thick with anticipation. Banquo said nothing, yet his gaze was heavy, watching, waiting.

Your breath caught in your throat at Macbeth’s command. The weight of his gaze pressed against you, expectant and unwavering. Banquo remained still beside him, his silence somehow more commanding than words. The distant cries of battle still reached your ears, but they were drowned beneath the pounding of your own heartbeat.

Your fingers trembled slightly as they moved to the fastenings of your garments, the weight of their stares leaving you exposed long before fabric ever left your skin. Macbeth’s expression was unreadable, though something dark flickered in his eyes, an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine. Banquo, ever the quiet observer, watched with a guarded expression, yet his gaze held something just as dangerous—just as consuming.

Piece by piece, you shed the remnants of war, feeling the cool air of the hut ghost over your skin. The moment stretched, charged with something unspoken, until Macbeth stepped closer, his fingers trailing along your shoulder with a touch that was both possessive and curious.

"Good," he murmured, voice smooth yet edged with something primal. "You listen well."

Behind him, Banquo exhaled, slow and measured. His restraint was palpable, the tension in his posture betraying the thoughts left unsaid. He met Macbeth’s gaze for a brief moment , something passing between them—something unspoken but understood.

Then, Banquo finally spoke, his voice low and steady.

"What now, my lord?"

Macbeth smirked, his fingers trailing lower, his touch igniting something deep within you.

"Now," he said, his voice a promise, "we take what is ours."

The weight of Banquo’s body pressed against you, solid and commanding, pinning you beneath him with ease. His calloused hands skimmed over your skin, slow and deliberate, as if memorizing every inch of you. His gaze, heavy with restraint, flickered down to where Macbeth stood at the foot of the bed, watching with dark amusement.

"You hesitate," Macbeth mused, voice edged with something both mocking and intrigued. "I thought you were a man of action, Banquo."

Banquo’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing, merely shifting against you, pressing you further into the mattress. The contrast between them was intoxicating—Banquo, steady and controlled, a force of unwavering presence, while Macbeth leaned into something far filthier, sharper, his eyes gleaming with a sadistic kind of pleasure.

"Look at you," Macbeth continued, stepping closer, his voice dropping into something almost cruel. "Lying there, pliant beneath him. Do you like this? Being trapped between a real warrior and an all powerful Thane?"

His fingers ghosted along your jaw before gripping your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. His smirk widened, satisfaction curling at the edges of his lips.

"I think you do," he purred. "I think you crave this—being used, being put in your place. "

Banquo exhaled sharply, as if Macbeth’s words sent something dark rolling through him. His hands tightened on you, his patience wearing thin.

"Enough talk," Banquo murmured, his voice low, possessive . "If you’re going to keep running your mouth, Macbeth, perhaps you should put it to better use. "

Macbeth chuckled, eyes glinting with something wicked .

"Careful, Banquo," he mused, tilting his head. "You almost sound jealous."

Banquo didn’t answer—not with words. Instead, his grip on you tightened , and the heat between your bodies intensified . Macbeth simply watched, a cruel smirk tugging at his lips, enjoying every second .

This night was far from over.

Banquo's grip on your waist was firm— unshakable —his body pressed against yours as if claiming you outright. His presence was commanding, the weight of his authority undeniable . Even Macbeth, proud and sharp-tongued, stood still beneath Banquo’s scrutiny, his usual smirk twitching at the edges as he watched from the foot of the bed.

"Down," Banquo ordered, his voice steady, brooking no argument.

You swallowed hard but obeyed, fingers moving shakily to shed the last of your garments. Across from you, Macbeth hesitated only a second longer before he, too, began unfastening his clothes. Banquo's gaze flickered toward him, sharp with warning.

"Faster," he said, unimpressed.

Macbeth let out a breath of laughter—low and incredulous—but the heat in his gaze betrayed him. He liked this. Liked the way Banquo's tone allowed no room for rebellion , the way you both waited for his approval.

"You sound like a man used to giving orders," Macbeth mused, though there was no real bite to it . "Tell me, Banquo—do you imagine me on my knees often?"

Banquo’s hand left your waist to tangle in Macbeth’s hair, yanking him forward before he could blink. Macbeth let out a sharp breath, caught off guard, but didn’t pull away. If anything, his pupils dilated —his lips parting just slightly, betraying the thrill running through him.

"You talk too much," Banquo said simply .

His fingers tightened , and for a brief moment , you swore you saw Macbeth shudder .

You swallowed hard, heat pooling in your stomach as Banquo shifted back to you. The stark contrast between them was dizzying—Banquo, firm and controlled, the undeniable authority in the room, while Macbeth, ever proud and wicked , was slowly unraveling under his touch.

"And you," Banquo murmured, gaze flickering back down to you, pinning you in place . "You're already so obedient, aren't you?"

His thumb brushed over your lower lip , testing, teasing. "You listen so well. Unlike our Thane here."

Macbeth scoffed but said nothing. His jaw was clenched, his breathing uneven, his body still caught in Banquo’s grip .

.Banquo smirked. Satisfied.

"Good," he murmured, voice thick with promise. "Now… let’s see if you can keep following orders."

Banquo’s fingers trailed over your chest, slow and deliberate, as he leaned in closer. His voice was a low rasp, his breath warm against your ear. "I’m curious," he murmured, "how far you’ll bend before breaking."

Macbeth’s eyes narrowed, but there was something more dangerous in his gaze now, something primal. "Banquo," he warned, his voice low and dangerous, "don’t push too far."

Banquo’s smirk never faltered as he glanced at Macbeth. "I’m not the one who needs warning, my lord."

He turned back to you, his hands now gripping your wrists, pinning them above your head. "Do you feel that?" His voice was soft, coaxing. "The way you react to us? The way you tremble, so eager for what we’ll do next."

You couldn’t speak, the knot in your throat tightening, but your body betrayed you. The way you reacted, the way you couldn’t pull away—it was all the answer they needed.

Macbeth stepped closer, his breath heavy, and his lips curled into something both mocking and amused. "So eager," he whispered, "but tell me, is it Banquo’s touch that has you so responsive?"

Banquo’s laugh was low, dark. "I think it’s the way you both expect things from them. Don’t you agree, my lord?"

Macbeth tilted his head, a dangerous glint in his eyes. "I always get what I want." He moved closer, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "And right now, I want you."

Banquo’s fingers tightened around your wrists, the pressure almost too much. "Then let’s see if you can handle it, Macbeth ."

Chapter Text

The fire of battle still burned in their veins, but the drink had thickened their limbs and turned their laughter into something breathless and unrestrained. Their steps faltered over roots and stones, the forest spinning around them as the night air bit at their flushed skin. Macbeth threw his head back with a laugh, the cold a stark contrast to the heat that thrummed beneath his skin, the remnants of battle and drink mingling into a dizzying haze. His pulse pounded in his ears, his breath fogging in the chill as he glanced toward Banquo, whose own grin was loose, his gait unsteady yet somehow still poised, still watching.

"By my troth, Banquo, thou dost walk as if the earth were the sea and thou a ship tossed upon her waves."

Banquo scoffed, swaying slightly but regaining his footing. "And thou art no better. Had I a looking glass, thou wouldst see a face so rosy, so flushed with wine, it might make a maid blush—or a lover tremble." His gaze lingered on Macbeth, a smirk curling at the edge of his lips. "Aye, if thou wert seen now, breathless and undone by mere drink, what whispers might follow thee?"

They walked side by side, the tension of war and death behind them, the drunken haze making everything feel lighter, looser. Banquo nudged Macbeth's shoulder. "Tell me, good friend, hast thou ever known a woman in such a way that she calls out thy name in the night?"

Macbeth gave him a bemused look. "Wouldst thou have me spill my sins upon the open air?"

"Aye, for I shall judge thee not, only envy or pity thee," Banquo grinned, eyes gleaming in the moonlight. "What of that maid in Inverness? She did look upon thee with such longing eyes."

Macbeth smirked, but the way Banquo watched him—eyes dark, gaze lingering—made something twist low in his stomach, a heat that had nothing to do with wine. There was something unreadable in Banquo’s expression, a slow unravelling of restraint, a hunger just barely veiled beneath the smirk on his lips.

"She was fair, aye, and willing," Macbeth murmured, though his voice wavered as Banquo’s eyes bore into him, "but my mind is oft occupied elsewhere."

Banquo’s gaze dragged over him, deliberate and heavy, as though peeling back layers, exposing something raw beneath. The weight of it left Macbeth breathless, his pulse quickening beneath the scrutiny. He swallowed, but the heat in Banquo’s eyes did not wane—instead, it deepened, smouldering like embers waiting to ignite.

"Elsewhere?" Banquo slowed his steps, turning toward Macbeth with a knowing smirk. "Perchance on matters of battle… or on a man who shares thy wine and walks beside thee in the dark?"

The air shifted. The warmth of the drink did nothing to temper the sudden, heavy stillness that stretched between them. Banquo had stepped closer, his breath warm against Macbeth’s cheek.

"Thou art drunk," Macbeth murmured, though he made no effort to move away.

"Aye," Banquo admitted, voice softer now, a low rumble, "and yet still I see thee clearer than ever."

Macbeth’s back hit the rough bark of a tree, Banquo’s body pressing close, all heat and firm muscle against him. The tension between them, once playful, now burned with something darker, something unspoken.
Macbeth swallowed hard. "This is folly."

Banquo smirked, his fingers ghosting along the edge of Macbeth’s collar. "Mayhap. And yet thou dost not pull away."

Macbeth’s breath hitched. His hands curled into fists at his sides, fighting the urge to grab hold, to push, to pull. "If thou dost jest—"

"I jest not."

Banquo surged forward, their lips crashing together, rough and demanding. Macbeth gasped against him, the taste of wine and fire filling his mouth. Banquo’s fingers tangled in his hair, yanking sharply, forcing Macbeth to arch beneath him with a hiss.

The world tilted, the night air biting against Macbeth’s skin as he landed hard upon the earth, Banquo above him, the weight of him heavy, grounding, consuming. Another sharp tug at his hair sent shivers down his spine, a delicious burn radiating from where Banquo held him firm.

"Damn thee," Macbeth breathed against Banquo’s lips, his voice unsteady, caught between defiance and surrender.

Banquo only chuckled, his grip tightening as he pulled Macbeth’s head back further, exposing the line of his throat. "Thou dost curse me, yet see how thy body bends to my touch. Aye, thou art a warrior, yet beneath me, thou art something else entirely."

"Oh the lord and christ," Macbeth moaned in pleasure.

Banquo grinned, his fingers threading into Macbeth’s hair. "Too late for that, my friend."

Banquo's grip tightened as he pressed Macbeth further into the earth, his voice laced with amusement and command. "See how thou dost yield beneath me, Macbeth. So fierce in battle, yet here—so pliant, so wanting. A king brought low, nay, made delicate beneath my hand."

Macbeth shuddered, the words seeping into him, setting fire to his blood. "Speak not such things."

"And yet thou dost tremble at them," Banquo murmured, tracing the curve of Macbeth’s jaw. "Thy body betrays thee, soft and eager. Almost feminine, in the way it melts beneath mine."

Macbeth turned his face away, heat rising in his cheeks, but Banquo grasped his chin, forcing him to meet his gaze. "Nay, hide not from me. Let me see thee undone."

A broken sound left Macbeth’s lips, a mixture of frustration and longing, swallowed by the night. Banquo only smiled, revelling in the sight of a warrior unravelling beneath his hands, the proud Thane brought low by desire and dominance alike.

With deliberate slowness, Banquo twisted his fingers into Macbeth’s hair once more, yanking his head back so their gazes met, Macbeth’s eyes dark and glazed. "Look upon me, and know thy place," Banquo murmured, his voice a heated whisper against Macbeth’s parted lips.

Macbeth shuddered, his breath uneven, his body arching into the pain, into the pleasure. Banquo traced a roughened thumb over the pulse hammering at his throat, his smirk deepening. "A man who commands armies, yet here, thou art naught but trembling and wanting beneath mine hand. How sweetly thou dost yield—how beautiful in thy surrender."

Macbeth’s fingers curled into the dirt, his pride warring with the fire coursing through his veins. His lips parted as if to speak, but Banquo silenced him with another sharp tug, the pain drawing a strangled gasp from him.

"Good," Banquo hummed, his lips ghosting along the shell of Macbeth’s ear before dragging down the column of his throat. "Let me hear thee break again."

With slow, deliberate movements, Banquo’s hands found the fastening of Macbeth’s tunic, his fingers unhurried, yet possessive, as they tugged at the fabric. The worn cloth slid from Macbeth’s shoulders, pooling around his elbows before slipping further, leaving him bare beneath Banquo’s scrutiny. The night air was cruel, a stark contrast to the heat blooming across Macbeth’s skin, but it was not the cold that sent a tremor through him—it was the way Banquo looked at him, dark-eyed, sharp as a dagger, as though committing every inch of him to memory.
Banquo’s fingers ghosted down his chest, tracing each ridge and hollow with agonizing slowness, his touch firm yet teasing, igniting sparks in their wake. He dragged his nails lightly over Macbeth’s ribs, making him jolt, a sharp gasp catching in his throat. Banquo’s lips curled, his gaze flicking up to drink in the sight of Macbeth—breathless, trembling, caught between resistance and surrender.

"How easily thou dost unravel," Banquo mused, his voice rich with satisfaction. "A warrior, a Thane, yet here—naught but trembling beneath mine hands."

Macbeth’s breath hitched, his fingers curling against Banquo’s arms as though to steady himself. "Mock me not."

Banquo chuckled, a dark, knowing sound. "Nay, I mock thee not. Look upon thyself—so eager, so undone. Thou art beautiful in thy surrender."

Another sharp tug at his hair sent a gasp spilling from Macbeth’s lips, his back arching involuntarily. Banquo’s smirk deepened as he leaned down, his breath warm against Macbeth’s cheek, his fingers trailing lower. "Shall I lay thee bare, my fierce one? Shall I take thee apart piece by piece?

As the night air bit at their heated skin, Macbeth's breath came in ragged gasps, still unsteady from the wine and the lingering effects of battle. The forest around them seemed to dissolve into shadows, leaving only Banquo and the blazing tension between them. Banquo's fingers never left him, pulling and pushing, exploring the limits of what could be said and done in the darkness. The unspoken hunger between them crackled like static.

Macbeth’s eyes followed Banquo's every movement, his mind caught between defiance and something far deeper, something darker. The raw need in Banquo’s eyes—undeniable, unrepentant—pulled at him like a current, drawing him in.
Banquo’s smirk never wavered, even as he watched Macbeth’s hands, rough and sure, begin to undo the fastenings of his own tunic. The motion was slow, deliberate, as though Macbeth was teasing, each tug of the fabric more intimate than the last. His fingers brushed across Banquo’s chest, the material slipping free, exposing the taut muscles beneath.
Banquo’s breath hitched, and Macbeth’s pulse quickened. He ran his hands over Banquo’s broad shoulders, down his arms, the strength and power evident in the way Banquo stood before him—unfazed, yet undeniably yielding to the moment.

"Thou dost not hesitate," Banquo murmured, his voice low, teasing, as Macbeth's hands slid over his waist. There was an undeniable challenge in his gaze, daring Macbeth to continue. "Do thou wish to see me undone as I have seen thee?"

Macbeth's eyes darkened, his fingers working with increasing urgency now. "I wonder, Banquo," he murmured, the words tasting strange on his tongue, "what thou might look like beneath all this armor, beneath thy pride. Do you fear that I will see something less than the mighty warrior?" His voice was laced with a sharp edge, one that danced between mockery and something else entirely.

Banquo’s grin deepened, but his eyes flickered with something unreadable. He did not resist, did not pull away as Macbeth’s hands moved lower, brushing over his chest and stomach, caressing the taut skin, sending shivers through him.

"No, my lord," Banquo said with a quiet, almost smug confidence. "Thou hast not the strength to break me. Thou art undone, but I—"

Macbeth silenced him with a sharp look, his fingers moving to the fastening of Banquo’s trousers. His hands shook slightly as he pulled at the cloth, revealing the lean muscles of Banquo’s legs, his body as much a weapon as it was a temple of endurance.
The tension between them thickened, and Macbeth swallowed hard, fighting against the desire that surged through him. With each new layer of Banquo’s clothing removed, there was a deeper feeling—an almost uncomfortable vulnerability that tugged at Macbeth’s chest. Yet it was not weakness he saw in Banquo; it was something far more dangerous. It was the stripping away of not just garments, but of the barriers they had both built over the years.

"You think me broken?" Macbeth’s voice was raw, more of a rasp than anything else. He stepped closer, feeling the heat of Banquo’s body against his own as he reached to remove the last of the cloth from Banquo’s chest. The warrior beneath him stood tall, his presence unyielding even in this moment of exposure.

Banquo, once again, met his gaze with a challenging smirk. "Nay, mighty Thane. Thou art the one who trembles, who cannot resist."

The heat between them flared again, a blaze that was impossible to ignore. Macbeth’s breath came in uneven bursts, his hands finally stilling as Banquo’s chest was fully revealed to him. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the sight of it—lean, muscled, the faint sheen of sweat still lingering from the battle, from their frantic dance of power.

Banquo’s voice was a low murmur now, a challenge that pierced through the air. "And what of thee, Macbeth? Can thou bear to see me so? To know me in this way?"

Macbeth’s chest tightened. "I will know thee," he whispered, his voice trembling with the weight of something he could no longer deny. With that, his hands went lower still, and Banquo’s body responded to his touch, every movement a slow surrender to the inevitable.

Macbeth's hands slowly follow the shape of Banquo's bare body, so slowly and carefully as if this would be the last time they would see each other, as if death was soon upon them, "What? Shall one touch me like a King? So carefully as if the stars themselves are watching. Am I your shield against them?"

"You humour yourself far too much pretending that you are the Lord's father himself," Macbeth retaliated against the soldier above him.

"Perhaps I do, my Thane. Who knows what this night yet has to hold for us?" 

Banquo leaned down for one last time that night blissful as he hoped the angels would forgive him this one time. 

Chapter Text

The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting long shadows across the carved wood of the bedposts. Lady Macbeth stood before you in her nightgown—though it was more a formality than modesty, the fabric slipping from one shoulder, the firelight licking at the curve of her throat.

"You kneel as though you pray," she said coolly, tilting her head. "Are you seeking forgiveness… or permission?"

You swallowed thickly, your eyes trailing over her form, regal even in undress. "Permission, my lady."

She smirked, stepping closer, one hand gliding along the carved desk where ancient flasks, ink bottles, and ornamental relics stood. Her fingers settled on a smooth, obsidian-handled perfume vial—long, cold, and narrow—and her gaze snapped back to you.

"How fortunate," she murmured, lifting your chin with the edge of the glass. “That I have a mind for ambition… and a tool for discipline.”

You watched as she walked behind you, the clink of her rings echoing as she oiled the surface of the vial with methodical care. You felt the drag of silk fall away from your hips under her hands, her breath ghosting over your ear.

"Lay over the furs. Hands flat," she ordered. "You’ll thank me for the ache, pet."

You obeyed, your skin prickling as she guided your body into place—her hand firm between your shoulder blades, pinning you as though she were taming a beast. But it wasn’t cruelty in her grip—it was hunger. Intent.

The chill of the glass made you flinch, but her free hand stroked your lower back gently. “Do not dare pull away. You begged for my power, and now you’ll wear it.”

She didn’t ease you in all at once—Lady Macbeth was calculated.

The vial’s cool glass kissed against your entrance, slick with oil and sin. You gasped, thighs trembling under her iron palm pressing your back down into the furs. Her voice spilled down your spine like heated wine.

“Even now,” she purred, dragging the tip in circles, teasing, never breaching, “you hold tension like a guilty man at the gallows. Loosen for me. Yield. ”

Then she pushed—slowly, deliberately—allowing only the tip to sink in. Your breath caught as the pressure bloomed white-hot through your core. She waited. Held it there, just enough to burn, not enough to satisfy.

“You beg so prettily when you’re stretched thin,” she mused, lips brushing your shoulder as she licked the words into your skin. “And I haven't even given you all of it yet. Greedy little thing.”

Another inch slid in—cool glass and unrelenting command—making your hips jerk reflexively, only to be steadied by her thigh pushing yours apart.

“Oh no,” she chided with amusement. “You will take this like a throne is taken— with submission, not struggle.”

She rocked it deeper this time, glass gliding in inch by inch as she whispered filth into the shell of your ear. Her other hand snaked around to grip your throat—not enough to choke, just enough to make your pulse throb beneath her fingertips, to remind you whose name you belonged to.

“This body of yours,” she hissed, thrusting with more force now, the vial glistening each time it withdrew, “is mine to conquer. Mine to ruin. Mine to leave trembling like a prayer on Sunday.”

Each stroke sent your knees buckling, your cries muffled into the bedding as pleasure and degradation curled inside you like smoke. The cold of the glass was cruel, but her rhythm—slow, hard, then suddenly shallow and fast—made it maddening. You couldn’t think. You didn’t want to.

You only wanted her voice—those honeyed threats dripping with power and perversion.

“You’ll come from this,” she growled, grinding the vial into you, her hips riding the motion as though she were fucking you herself. “You’ll come without me touching a damn thing, because you know you’re just a hole for your Queen to use.”

Your body betrayed you, tightening, breath catching—and she felt it.

“Mm. There you are,” she whispered against your nape. “Let go. Let them hear you scream for me, pet. Let the stone walls know you were claimed. ”

And when you came—wrung out, shaking, your voice hoarse with whimpers—Lady Macbeth didn’t stop.

She didn’t let go.

She thrust again , slow and merciless, dragging it out with a feral smile. “Oh no,” she breathed, biting down against your shoulder, “You’re not done yet. A Queen takes everything. ”