Fic: Still Alive
They fought the Picts into the night, with rain lashing the desolate heath and wind howling to rival the shrieks of the dying. They fought until the guttering torches cast more shadow than light, until friend and foe were indistinguishable, and the flickering flames turned living faces into hollow death masks.
In the dry and moderate warmth of his tent, Macbeth tossed his cloak at the foot of the straw pallet and turned to his best friend. Banquo pushed his own sodden cloak off his shoulders onto the ground, holding his hands out to the glowing coals in the brazier. His eyes were glittering in the firelight when he looked at Macbeth, full of bone deep exhaustion and need. There was a silent question in those eyes and Macbeth gave a mute response as he reached out for him.
Their bodies collided with jarring force, arms clutching at shoulders and hips, fingers twining in fabric and hair. Their kiss was a clash of tongue and teeth and scrapping stubble, as they grappled for dominance. They were cold and damp from rain, there was blood stiffening their clothes and smeared on their hands and faces, and a day’s clammy sweat souring in the crevices of their skin, but none of that mattered.
Macbeth grunted as he yanked Banquo’s doublet off, and then his linen shirt, running his hands over the warm, firm flesh of his best friend’s chest. Banquo was fumbling with his own jerkin, and Macbeth impatiently pulled it off, and his shirt after. Their erections were straining against their breeches, and he wasted no time kicking off muddy boots and yanking their hosen down to their ankles. Banquo had a long, lean body, sleek and compact, where Macbeth was stocky, broad shouldered and solid.
When they kissed again, bare skin met bare, sticky skin, grimed with sweat and dirt and blood. They rutted against each other, cocks bumping and rubbing, trapped between their slick bellies, sending surges of pleasure along sore and weary nerves. This was no tentative exploration, no gentle lovemaking, this was a fierce, defiant, desperate need to be together and alive after a day of death.
Macbeth placed a last sucking kiss on Banquo’s neck and then dropped to his knees, running a hand down his taut stomach, feeling the muscles quiver ever so slightly. There was no hesitation as he took Banquo’s thick, throbbing cock in his hand, pumping it once and then sliding it into his mouth. Above him, Banquo, his lovely, vocal Banquo, gasped and then began to moan, breathy and desperate, a wordless mewl that was one of the most deliciously obscene sounds Macbeth had ever heard.
His own erection was aching and throbbing for his attention, and he spared a hand to rub himself lightly, working the other hand up and down on the base of Banquo’s cock. He ran his tongue under the sensitive head, feeling his friend jerk and hearing his groan, and then sucked it as far back as he could, tonguing the underside as he swallowed quickly and repeatedly to keep from gagging. With each clench of his throat, Banquo’s moans spiked in a gasp.
He was beginning to buck into Macbeth’s mouth, voice becoming higher and more ragged. Macbeth felt fingers digging painfully into his hair, and then Banquo cried out, hips jerking wildly as thick salty semen erupted against the back of his throat. He gulped convulsively managing not to choke as he felt Banquo’s weight sag onto his shoulders. The man’s arms were trembling and Macbeth had to laugh tightly at the blissful expression on his friend’s face as Macbeth staggered to his feet and helped his friend onto the thin straw pallet.
After a long moment, Banquo’s eyes fluttered open, eyes the grey-green of rain drenched moors, and he sat up, reaching out for Macbeth, and thank god because he was painfully hard and he needed touch now.
Banquo’s hands were warm, his grip firm as he slicked the clear fluid from the tip down the shaft, twisting his hand just so, and jerking back up sharply so Macbeth gasped. They were on their knees on the cot, facing each other. Their eyes met for a moment and they shared a smile that had nothing to do with Banquo’s hand on his cock, and everything to do with years of friendship and knowing someone better than yourself.
Macbeth was making little noises in his throat, not real sounds at all, the ghosts of groans and grunts. He arched his hips up, thrusting shamelessly into his friend’s gasp. The cool air was chilling sweat across his brow where his hair was rain soaked and plastered in his eyes. Every sensation was intense. Pleasure spiked with Banquo’s strong, steady strokes, pulling with just enough pressure, and then the world was dissolving and Macbeth let his eyes squeeze shut as Banquo ran a finger along that silky place between his ass and his scrotum, and then cupped his balls, tugging gently and oh god! The other thumb was teasing under the head, pinkie pressing at the base, and how the hell did he do so many things with his hands at once? Andthat, there, right there, harder, now, now, please!
He arched into his best friend’s hand, a cry choking to silence in his throat as he came, pumping pearly liquid onto Banquo’s chest with every jolt through his body, his eyes squeezed shut. And as he shuddered a last time, a wave of exhausted warmth surged through him, loosening his muscles, and easing the pain of battle.